GoodmanBrown

This is actually an essay that I wrote yesterday for my English 1302 class. It was due today and I had procrastinated until the last minute. The assignment: relating a song or poem to your own life experience. This is my somewhat rushed attempt, but I would greatly appreciate any comments or advice. Thanks in advance.

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In the 1960’s, critics and fans alike dubbed Bob Dylan as a spokesperson of the generation. His topical and arguably brilliant songwriting valiantly attacked the war, exposed prejudice, and served as an enduring chronicle of the hippie subculture. In the early seventies, his output was decidedly less even. The music seemed less inspired, and the songwriting, even according to die-hard fans, was a far cry from the grandeur of Blonde on Blonde or Highway 61 Revisited; however, Dylan’s marital problems throughout the decade must have finally become intolerable, because in 1975, he released Blood on the Tracks. The album is a painfully personal work of art. Gone are the surreal and cryptic images of his first electric era. The songs are well written but intensely straightforward, encapsulating a myriad of haunting emotions. One particular track, “Idiot Wind”, sets itself apart by being a relentlessly moving train of anger and scorn. While the words may be viewed as a bit condescending, I’ve recently discovered their suitability and accuracy in describing an earlier stage of my life.

Dylan starts the song with a fierce growl, almost yelling the words:
“Someone's got it in for me. They're planting stories in the press! Whoever it is I wish they'd cut it out quick, but when they will, I can only guess!”

Any Dylan fan knows of his introverted nature and sheer disdain for the media. Newspapers and magazines of the time undoubtedly printed many false stories and harrowing presumptions about his personal life. One could argue that by not cooperating with interviewers, he brought it on himself. Whatever the case, it is clear that he is very upset at these certain individuals.

At Highlands Elementary, I was a bit of an enigma. Even at a young age, my hobbies were fairly reclusive. As a shy and emotionally unstable child, I’d lose myself in the stories of Franklin W. Nixon, Jerry Spinelli, Gary Paulson, and a variety of other children’s writers. My weary and withdrawn nature attracted much ridicule from fellow classmates. I know it sounds all too typical, but I was a constant target of insults and cruelty. To make matters worse, I would break down and cry at every biting word. The counselor’s office became a regular habitat. Miss Duke was the kindest woman I had ever met, and there were long stretches of time when I was with her every day, trying to sort out my “insecurity.” Eventually, my parents set up an appointment with a psychologist in Friendswood. I only attended a few sessions, and I honestly can’t remember them being too helpful.

The most frustrating part of the experience, however, was the propaganda. My reputation was firmly established among the school, but even when a new student would arrive and I’d try to befriend him, my feeble attempts were marred by hideous and immature rumors. They would say that I “ate my boogers” or “didn’t shower.” It was incredulously stupid stuff, but I guess it was easier to accept than to question. At the time, it seriously hurt my feelings. I only wanted the approval of my peers, but it was impossible to obtain. You can easily see how, just like Dylan, I wished they would “cut it out quick.”

The next lines in the song continue with the same complaints. They said he shot a man named Gray, and took his wife to Italy, and so on. This was probably an exaggeration on Dylan’s part, but the point is well taken. If you look at the lyrics from the standpoint of a disturbed ten-year old child, they still make perfect sense. He’s been betrayed by friends, he can’t find peace and quiet, and most of all, he has a vengeance. I admit that I had quite a lust for revenge at points. In the chorus, Dylan sings, “Idiot wind, blowing every time you move your mouth.”

I didn’t like my oppressors. How could I? A failure to comprehend was another catalyst for my fury. These imbeciles would gather around and speak to each other, calling me “retarded” and “slow” right in front of my face, as if I couldn’t hear their blatant insults. I couldn’t understand how anyone could lack that much tact, and truthfully, I still don’t. Justified or not, I thought myself superior to this group, and they were indeed “idiots” (not to mention hypocrites).

That was many years ago. I eventually learned to ignore those people, and now I’m a ridiculously contented individual. Nevertheless, more than anything else, Dylan’s words can remind me of that unfortunate time. As he sings at the end of the song though, “I’ve been double-crossed now for the very last time, and now I’m finally free.”