In the novel Until They Bring the Streetcars Back, by Stanley Gordon West, Gretchen Luttermann is a social outcast at the high school, and acts in ways that make her isolated from the rest of her class. She demonstrates a lack of social comprehension and situational understanding that make her seem "crazy" and a "screwball" to her peers. Though she may be smart or comprehensive in her own way, she lacks the communication to show this, and the rest of her class lack the tolerance and understanding to give her a chance to do so. I think that given an opportunity, everyone (including Gretchen) has the ability to show their humanity to the world around them, even though that world so often dehumanizes people based on the first perceptions of them and the things about themselves that they can't change.
“I swear from the bottom of my heart I want to be healed. I want to be like other men, not this outcast” (Forster, 1971).
I think this question would have the same answer no matter when it was asked of me, as I've always felt, in many ways, like an outcast. From a young age in school, I realized that my interests were definitely not the same as many of my peers, and that I valued things that they often didn't. I didn't enjoy the things that they did, and truly only felt comfortable and real when I was completely alone, which led me into a cycle of damaging and self-induced isolation. This realization was only the start of harmful overthinking and inner analysis, and solitude often became a form of coping with the idea of being vastly unlike any of the people around me. Even now this is true, and though I've come to realize (and those that choose to be close to me consequentially have to come to terms with) that this is simply my personality, this understanding is rarely easy to apply and believe. Growing up, I felt that in all social situations I was pretending to be someone that I wasn't, and despite my best efforts to make pointless small talk or assimilate into the ways of others, I still felt like an outcast and a freak at the end of the day. This Breakfast Club reminiscent inner reflection and effort made me ridiculously aware of my actions and words to my peers, and so much of my life has been spent stuck in this mindset involuntarily. I don't think that there is just one day that I feel like an outcast, but an entire part of my life and thinking that affects every day in result. I think that in the eyes of society, I'm far from an outcast: I like pleasing people and get frequently nervous by the idea that others don't like me (which I'm not going to apologize for, because that's just who I am). But there is a constant inner monologue in my mind that thinks very differently, and relentlessly tugs at the realization that I am not like the people around me, and that they know this just as well as I do. In many ways, I can't be real with others, because after so many years of being hyper-aware of my actions and words, I don't know exactly how I would act or feel if I could get out of my own head. I think everyone perceives themselves as an outcast in some way, and I'm not ashamed or particularly caught up on the way that I'm an outcast. It's a part of me, though sometimes a very large and self-destructive part, and affects every aspect of my life and interaction with the world around me. (And that's okay.)
Works Cited
Forster, E. M. Maurice. New York: Norton, 1971. Print.
“I swear from the bottom of my heart I want to be healed. I want to be like other men, not this outcast” (Forster, 1971).
I think this question would have the same answer no matter when it was asked of me, as I've always felt, in many ways, like an outcast. From a young age in school, I realized that my interests were definitely not the same as many of my peers, and that I valued things that they often didn't. I didn't enjoy the things that they did, and truly only felt comfortable and real when I was completely alone, which led me into a cycle of damaging and self-induced isolation. This realization was only the start of harmful overthinking and inner analysis, and solitude often became a form of coping with the idea of being vastly unlike any of the people around me. Even now this is true, and though I've come to realize (and those that choose to be close to me consequentially have to come to terms with) that this is simply my personality, this understanding is rarely easy to apply and believe. Growing up, I felt that in all social situations I was pretending to be someone that I wasn't, and despite my best efforts to make pointless small talk or assimilate into the ways of others, I still felt like an outcast and a freak at the end of the day. This Breakfast Club reminiscent inner reflection and effort made me ridiculously aware of my actions and words to my peers, and so much of my life has been spent stuck in this mindset involuntarily. I don't think that there is just one day that I feel like an outcast, but an entire part of my life and thinking that affects every day in result. I think that in the eyes of society, I'm far from an outcast: I like pleasing people and get frequently nervous by the idea that others don't like me (which I'm not going to apologize for, because that's just who I am). But there is a constant inner monologue in my mind that thinks very differently, and relentlessly tugs at the realization that I am not like the people around me, and that they know this just as well as I do. In many ways, I can't be real with others, because after so many years of being hyper-aware of my actions and words, I don't know exactly how I would act or feel if I could get out of my own head. I think everyone perceives themselves as an outcast in some way, and I'm not ashamed or particularly caught up on the way that I'm an outcast. It's a part of me, though sometimes a very large and self-destructive part, and affects every aspect of my life and interaction with the world around me. (And that's okay.)
Works Cited
Forster, E. M. Maurice. New York: Norton, 1971. Print.