Wouldn’t you like to get away?
Give yourself up to the allure of
Catcher In The Rye
The future’s swathed in Stars and Stripes
Le Pastie De La Bourgeoisie – Belle & Sebastian
It’s been a week since the passing of J.D. Salinger. In my opinion, Salinger was the greatest American author of the 20th Century and I wanted to make sure I had the proper time to process just what his work meant in my life. Reading through other tributes to Salinger, I saw a lot of positive and negative criticism that took their analysis of Salinger’s work to the extreme. With that in mind, I sought to be a little more cautious as I began to carefully replay the situation surrounding my initial introduction to Salinger’s work.
While many young men read Catcher in the Rye in middle school, I did not. I read about the book and found the concept to be intriguing, but I felt that obtaining a copy was more trouble than it was worth. The Baptists had thoroughly scrubbed the school libraries and reading lists of anything they found remotely offensive to their values system, so Catcher was not readily available in Atlanta, Texas. My parents, progressive by Cass County standards, would have surely secured a copy of the book for me had I asked, but I had other pleasures to occupy my time. It wasn’t until I got to college that I got my first taste of Salinger and not a moment too soon.
In the winter of 1999, I had become disillusioned with the philistine mindset of the students at my college. Somehow, somewhere, I knew something more existed than these students so intensely focused on the practical applications of their degree, rather than the analytical skills honed in obtaining a college education. Indeed, it seemed all of my fellow classmates were getting an education with the sole intent of earning a degree that would help them land a good paying job, as opposed to me who found the “knowledge for knowledge’s sake” path to be far more attractive.
I took refuge in the small, but vibrant, Bohemian community in Tyler, Texas, a collection of “enlightened” vagabonds, angel-headed hipsters, punks and, of course, “unlovable” emo kids. I once heard Mike Ness say that he was “punk” when it wasn’t easy being “punk”, well these were the days when it wasn’t easy being an “emo kid.” Now any young suburban kid can throw on some eyeliner, get in touch with his feminine side and consider himself “emo.” Stepping out in East Texas with this crew and you were asking to get your ass kicked by any of the numerous rednecks, douche bags or gangsta wannabes that inhabited the area.
Melancholy and angst drove this group. To them, melancholy was something real; something to grasp and feel, something that would not leave. Angst gave their life meaning, a purpose to strive for and a goal to tackle. As an outward sign of rebellion, these young men and women attacked all principles their parents held as true, hoping to send a message to the bourgeoisie that governed the world they inhabited. Compassion—believe it or not—was the underlying tenant that kept their movement alive. Among the group there was a true sense of comradery and acceptance, an element non-existent in the suburban home. So they wore black, got multiple piercings, listened to The Smiths and The Cure, read Camus and Sartre, watched Felini films and became vegans.
Part of me was enthralled, excited to finally meet people in East Texas with what appeared to be culture, while the other part of me was disgusted at their existential nature. These were the kids my parents, pastor, and Rush Limbaugh had warned me about before entering college—the liberal, intellectual, elitist that sought to undermine the very democratic tenants that had transformed the United States from the bitch of the British empire to the lone, world superpower.
Without a doubt, the most unique aspect about this clique was their tattoos. “Fat Tony” had the Coca-Cola emblem tattooed on his right arm and gave some explanation that it was anti-corporate, anti-globalization, but he lost me on it. There was “Hollis” with a Morrissey portrait tattooed on his forearm. “Hasid” featured the state of Texas tattooed across his left tricep, with the words “…is the reason!” stenciled in cursive across the state. Texas is the reason! Texas is the reason for what? (I later learned it was the name of a band, a band I still enjoy to this day.)
But the most intriguing tattoo of all was sported by this heavily tatted, Henry Rollins look alike, named Tully who considered himself a “reformed punk.” Tully’s entire left arm was covered in tatts; his right arm contained only one–three simple words in cursive font, “shine your shoes.” I later learned that this tatt was a reference to Franny & Zooey. Although Tully never shared what exactly the phrase meant to him, the entire book would soon play a very big role in my life, but first, like most Salinger novices, I began with Catcher.
Any guy in his teens or twentys who has ever felt the slightest bit of alienation can relate to Holden Caulfield. Any young American, jaded by the materialism of their middle-class lifestyle, finds comfort in this character who chooses to question authority on all fronts. He was the ultimate rebel, the original “punk”. While the beats and hippies refused to cut their hair to conform with society, Salinger took it a step further and said “Fuck the hippies, even they are a tad bit phony. I’m neither cutting my hair, nor growing it out. I’m just going to be me.”
I devoured the book and felt an instant connection with Caulfield, but felt a bit underwhelmed. Two of my favorite movies at the time, Rushmore and SLC Punk, featured similar story lines and protagonists undoubtedly shaped in the image of Caulfield, which numbed the shock factor I imagine comes with being introduced to that type of figure in your early teens. Nevertheless, I recognized the importance of the book in the cultural landscape of America and I found it more appealing than the shit assigned in my Victorian Lit. class, so I decided to dig deeper into Salinger’s work. I picked up Nine Stories and Raise High the Roofbeam and even Salinger:a biography, by Paul Alexander, but for some reason I looked past Franny.
In spite of my new friends, I wrestled with a crippling sense of forlornness. I quit attending classes, stopped associating with my friends and withdrew into my own Salinger like shell of isolation.
At the age of 16, I mapped out my life. Faced with confronting the existential dread surrounding addressing one’s future, I took shelter in the comforting shell of the evangelical movement of the Christian church and made plans, based on these surroundings, which extended far beyond high school & college. I sought ordination as a pastor in the United Methodist Church, a vocational path that, if followed through, would lead me through retirement and beyond. With this career path in mind, I passed on accepting offers to several universities and decided instead to enroll at a small college known for preparing students for ministry in the Methodist church.
Upon enrolling in college, I began to break free from this comforting shell, confronting the questions I previously avoided and decided I needed a new map, as my destination had changed. At the end of two years college, I had a healthy G.P.A. and was well on my way to graduating early. Nonetheless, I understood I had to change course.
Alone, without a map, I continued to wrestle with questions of faith and spirituality, questioning everything. Life experiences created a much different reality than the fantasy world presented by the evangelical church. Still, their overly legalistic code of piety hovered over my life like a ghost, haunting me constantly.
Indeed, the evangelical church created a snow globe of reality—you know those glass globes with a scenery and snow that when shaken gives the illusion of a snowfall. You are trapped in an area where only certain thoughts and philosophies are allowed; things may seem normal on the physical level, but to the sharpened mind of the enlightened soul one can tell there is a limit to the horizons. Every now and then ideas and information “fall” down like manna from heaven. Again the enlightened person recognizes these ideas as recycled fabricated propaganda; pieced together in such a way to fool the blind mind of the realist and to trap the mind even further. Not until one breaks through this glass can he or she experience true freedom.
The church forms that glass—rather the Baptists do. You can call yourself Presbyterian, Episcopalian, Methodist, Lutheran—it doesn’t really matter—in East Texas you’re only really a Baptist and the Baptist will run your life. Sure you can attend church where you choose, but the Puritan mindset, the “fire and brimstone” theology, permeates everywhere. Next to the high school football stadiums the Baptist churches are usually the most expensive structures in town. It goes without saying that the church will have a heavy influence on anyone who grows up in the area. It certainly had left an indelible mark on my life.
While I believed in God, I found the emotion filled version peddled by the locals to be incompatible with what I knew to be true, yet I felt in order to be true to the Christian faith, to be truly spiritual, I would have to sacrifice what I knew to be true and accept what I saw as fantasy.
In the midst of all this, a friend suggested I pick up Franny & Zooey, so one January night in 2001, at approximately 11:30 PM, I sat down with the book thinking of reading a few pages before heading to bed. I read through the night, pausing only for a few necessary breaks, and finishing the book at around 4:45 a.m. I felt as if someone had opened my brain and created dialogue based on the contents.
Perhaps, the similarities between the story lines in the book and the events in my own life were purely anecdotal. However, this did not prevent the book from touching me on a deeply personal level, unlike any other book.
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Jesus knew — knew — that we’re carrying the Kingdom of Heaven around with us, inside, where we’re all too goddam stupid and sentimental and unimaginative to look? You have to be a son of God to know that kind of stuff,” it was as if Salinger, or some higher being, were addressing me personally, urging me to stop focusing on the insignificant details of my spiritual journey, to stop using it as an excuse to move on past this comfort zone in my life, to ultimately face reality and grow up, to break free from the fucking snow globe created by religion and to live life to the fullest. I credit the book for serving as the impetus for change in my life, without it, the Fat Lady only knows where my life might be.
Thank you J.D. Salinger!
Jesus knew — knew — that we’re carrying the Kingdom of Heaven around with us, inside, where we’re all too goddam stupid and sentimental and unimaginative to look? You have to be a son of God to know that kind of stuff.
