“With the first frosts, the butterflies, who had summed themselves in the new light through the summer, took flight… Precious little appeared beyond the satisfaction of holy living. At first it seemed as if a chance to try holy dying also was to be of-fered them” (Alcott 6).
After reading that passage from Louisa May Alcott’s “Transcendental Wild Oats,” I thought a lot about to what extent people could be devoted to a lost cause. Even though I cannot personally identify with Alcott’s character “Abel Lamb,” I still wanted him to come to his senses and remember his obligations to his family instead of slowly fading from existence. I wondered if readers generally regarded him as a foolish hypocrite and a quitter. From the details that Alcott gives the reader, it’s clear that Abel is in a state of despair upon learning that the utopian community he wanted to create has failed. After its collapse, Abel wallows in his own misery and does not accept consolation from his family (which is somewhat indicative of his transcendental beliefs). I found it interesting that God was the catalyst that made him come to his senses. While I do not doubt the power of spirituality, I do think it is a little absurd to believe God cares about the death of a transcendentalist (or anyone for that matter). While I was pleased with Abel’s ultimate decision, I still found his logic to be a bit flawed (perhaps Alcott would agree)
To put Alcott’s narrative in perspective, I tried to think of an instance in which I was forced to give up or set aside a dream that I thought I needed to see fulfilled. While I haven’t been forced to give up a dream because it was killing me, I was able to think of at least one example. When I was ten years old, I started learning how to fence (with weapons, not putting up deer fences, etc.). I became very devoted to the sport and consistently tried to improve during every lesson. Even at a young age, the pressure I felt while I was fencing was enormous. Usually, I would fence kids older, taller, and skinnier than I was. There were even times, in general competitions, where I had to fence adults that perhaps had some sick fascination with slashing down young-teens and making them feel submissive. By comparison, I was average height and had a broader chest and little more muscle, which made me an easy target to hit. I battled (literally) through these adversities and tried to be the smarter, faster fencer. I sacrificed a lot for that sport: welts covered my arms, chest and legs, my knuckles were constantly bandaged and bleeding, I have a scar on my left had from an errant lunge, I’ve been electrocuted by faulty electronic machines (which keep track of the scoring in official competitions), and I’ve been stabbed below the belt one too many times. I was constantly scrutinized by Russian and Ukrainian trainers that could barely speak any English, but whose disapproval was enough to make me want to quit altogether. I was lucky to have one friend who fenced with me for a couple of years. I mostly could never connect with the other fencers at my club or at school; I just found them to be very narcissistic.
So why did I keep fencing for as long as I did? Basically, because it was fun to win against arrogant jerks and my parents thought a good fencing record would help me get into a good college. I found that the former was no longer fun when I started becoming arrogant myself. As for the college recruitment, I never could deal with the intense pressure of large competitions in order to rank significantly high. In short, I couldn’t simply fence for the fun of it any more. In my opinion, no one (in their right mind) fences because it’s enjoyable and relieves stress. Instead, I picked up the fun (but even more brutal sport) of hockey instead because it’s mainly a team sport and I didn’t have to feel like all eyes were scrutinizing me when I played. Also, instead of taking my anger out on someone with a flimsy blade, I could just run into them really hard. I do miss fencing from time to time, but I did realize that it was making me into a person I didn’t want to be.
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