Stranger Than Fiction
Recently, after shrugging off years of picking myself apart in the mirror in true adolescent fashion, I’ve enjoyed looking at myself in the mirror. No, I’m not a complete narcissist, admiring my cloudy eyes, faded freckles, or a crooked smile in great admiration. I see stolen eyes, a constellation of lapis lazuli irises from my mother, and amber flecks from my father. I see the matching spray of fawn freckles that align with my two sisters. I see the grin that’s a reflection of my late grandfather’s ludic and warm laughter.
Human nature is odd, truly. We do odd things, like clap when planes land or send beautiful objects such as flowers to express sympathy or put slices of pineapple on pizza. Yet, it’s truly wonderful to look at complete strangers around you and realize that they purloined their laugh from their best friend or that they crinkle their nose when they laugh because their first love told them it was cute. We are all mosaics of those who are closest to us and those who we’ve had the pleasure to know on an intimate level.
And for some, we’ve never met the pieces of our jigsaw puzzles -- at least, they’re not tangible, but rather figments of our imagination. These are the fictional characters that grasp onto our hearts tightly, people that have affected us in farcical aspects. For me, alongside my family, fictional characters reside in the larger pieces of my puzzle.
In my eyes, I see fire, gifted to me by the female leads in “the classics,” Harry Potter and Percy Jackson, igniting a reverberant passion of fantasy and realism for years to come. In addition to fueling my perpetual love for reading, characters such as Hermione Granger and Annabeth Chase showed me the importance of education and independence. During the school year, I read book after book, studied as minutes melted into hours pretending I was Hermione studying for a Potions final in the Hogwarts library. When a boy gave me a hard time in second grade during kickball matches (not that I’m still holding a grudge against him), I’d dust the dirt off of my freshly-skinned knees and would deliver a droll retort, reminiscent of the ones Annabeth would levy towards ancient monsters.
As I matured (somewhat), as did my taste in fiction -- more pieces were added to my mosaic persona. From Fitzgerald, the incredible romanticization of the little tragedies surrounding me and a deep fear of drowning. In The Great Gatsby, I stole the ability to become totally and completely moonstruck from Gatsby, keen observational tactics from Nick Carraway, and a scorching wit from Jordan Baker. From Salinger, token teenage angst, a fine-tuned, jaded perspective on the human condition, and a desire for a red hunting hat. From Wallace, a deep appreciation for excess intellect and intricate compassion. From Austen, alongside a love for taking spontaneous walks in the afternoon, a sense of determination and a refined sense of humor. From Lee, an adventurous streak and an undying sense of curiosity from Scout Finch. From Alcott, an obsession with the written word, and ferocious independence from Jo March.
Reading was my first love and, to this day, I continue to cultivate a relationship with it. With this, my menagerie of fictional friends grows. After every book I devour in a matter of days, I find myself collecting fragments of imagined personalities and melding them into my own. It’s odd, this phenomenon I face and one I’m sure some of you reading this are not unfamiliar with. Growing up in a “thank you cards are an essential” household, I feel indebted to these characters. Nonetheless, they are ghosts, people I peel off pages to laugh along with, perform spells with, curse humanity of with, fall in love with, experience overwhelming sorrow with, and cry with.
I do rereads of my favorite books, grabbing dusty covers off of my shelf. When I once again delved into the wizarding world about a year ago, I found myself noticing new aspects of characters. When I was first introduced to Hermione at the age of six, her bushy hair was laughable and her personality was, for lack of a better term, shrill. Yet, I grew alongside her and noticed new aspects with every return to the familiar pages and words. She isn’t shrill, she is self-assured and determined, careful of every action and word she utilizes in the space around her. Lame as it may sound, she continues to be my biggest influence and closest confidant.
Sometimes when I’m involved in conversations with strangers or even ones with my closest friends, I wonder if they notice the similar remark from Annabeth Chase, a twinge of pessimism from Holden Caulfield, or quiet kindness from Beth March. I am a reflection of my most intimate fictional friends and continue to collect new traits as my book collection grows. The only thing left to do is wonder how I can repay these invisible characters for the person I am before you. I think I’ll resort to continuing to meet new friends hidden between pages.