Name the Narrator

She ran her hands through her long curly hair, always a natural auburn. The gesture wasn’t one of desperation nor did it signal worry. Not at all. Not now. Not any longer. That was all in the past. Despite years of having considered it then walking away from the idea, it had finally happened. She’d finally done it. 

She’d resigned, was leaving her faculty position (Professor of English Literature) after sixteen years of navigating very choppy waters. She wasn’t going to relive that period because at long last she could say she was going on to (much) bigger and (much) better things. And people. There is something quite unique to higher education, and it ain’t pretty. It’s even less pretty to those who to try sail those waters who might have come from a couple of rungs too low on the totem pole.

(That might be a mixed metaphor. Correct me if I’m wrong.)

She had been slow and deliberate, not acting in haste, taking the wounds that appeared from time to time (some people on campus were armed) in stride, looking away when they bled, dissimulating. Her own weapon was the seventy hour work weeks she put in. The hours were her knives; she’d held them in her hand and said back off!

Now that was over and done with. The darts or knives in the back were over. The abuse that should never be practiced, perhaps even more so among folks with PhDs who should be able to think. The stuff of memories or nightmares. Stuff nobody believes, or wants to. Lots of stuff. PTSD stuff.

She’d dropped off her office and building keys as quickly and invisibly as possible. She knew when there was the least traffic in the main office of the department. It had been fun letting the whole set of metal pieces that opened doors to a combined funhouse and chamber of horrors. (She didn’t think that was an exaggeration.) She savored the brief clunk on the bare part of the administrative assistant’s desk and practically skipped out the west door of Little Hall. 

“Which it was,” she thought, “metaphorically speaking. Quite the hole in the ground.”

(A small place for tiny souls that made minds irrelevant despite being an institution of higher education. A box with diplomas rattling around inside. But it was all in the past, starting today.) She wasn’t aware she was thinking that. 

Swinging her keys, she headed toward her car, two lots over.The sense of freedom she felt was overwhelming. That, and finally feeling safe. She had shut it all out, put walls around her memories. She had survived, whole or not. Appearance-wise, she seemed to have succeeded. Actors on a Small Stage, all of them. Only she would no longer have to see them act out their unstable fantasies.

By the time she reached her car, the song “I’m Free” was going through her mind. It was hard to hum along to or sing, but the words, especially the first two that echo throughout the lyrics, always drill their way into listeners’ heads and resurface when provoked. Words of joy and opening out, anticipation. Words that never refer to what remains on board, what must not be seen or heard or spoken if freedom is to be obtained. Simple and philosophical, definitely psychological.

I'm free-I'm free

And freedom tastes of reality

I'm free-I'm free

And I'm waiting for you to follow me

The song. Always there, in bursts she could never sing. She didn’t know all the lyrics, even. The first two words were enough to allow it to appear. 

She didn’t recall much about the song. It had been popular before her time, but one always listens to oldies but goodies and learns to sing along. She never thought about the lyrics to this song and even got some words mixed up. It was too happy-sounding to pay attention to what it was about. You just sang along to it and felt the joy of freedom without getting swallowed up by the plight of Tommy, the character who sang it originally.

Then up comes the image of Tommy, poor, poor Tommy, who suffered so much to finally be, or feel, free. For those unfamiliar with the rock concert, Tommy watches his father murder his mother’s lover. His parents (! !) cover the murder up and threaten to harm the boy if he tells. The boy responds by not responding, not hearing or seeing or speaking. He becomes the famous pinball wizard, and survives. When a male member of his family abuses Tommy, the trauma is advanced. Given a mirror to see himself and his condition, he advances in his recovery. When another relative smashes the mirror, his suffering is ended.

“I’m free!” He sings out.

Yet Tommy could never stop suffering, not completely. Nobody could forget those things, and we all have our own things and stuff. We are what we have been and done. We live in the skin with which we were born, with our baby brain and our grown-up brain. We are never completely free of ourselves, are we? The question is, are we trying to numb ourselves nevertheless, until numbing no longer works and we burst open like an AR-15? Blast our pasts to bits, destroy what we remember because none of it’s good?

Being free seems a lot more complicated than a two-word phrase in a song.

After hearing that song, can anybody ever believe they are free? Believe in freedom? Tommy boy could well have been singing out in desperation and resignation. A pyrrhic victory, if not a pyrrhic song. But the tunes from the rock opera, are some of the happiest-sounding and at the same time are the most wretched in concept. Tommy survives, scarred.

Do we believe the joy or the gloom? I don’t know anymore. She wasn’t sure either, but the lines from the song refused to be silenced. She suddenly felt like Poe’s maelstrom had descended on her:

I’m free. I’m free-ee-ee-ee-ee!

Like free motion sewing, like freehand drawing, or like freelancing and freeloading or maybe freewheeling. Like a free lunch or having free rein or getting a free ride to who knows where.

Free as a bird. Nice for some, but I hate flying and have to take valium to get on a plane.

Free as the air. A fine idea, but I’m desperately afraid of heights. Not only that, some air is very smoggy and that goes against the idea of freedom. Free air should be clean, breathable. Some places don’t have that luxury.

Free as a butterfly. Yes, it’s true butterflies can be beautiful, but they make me cringe . I just shrink when I see one. It may have beautifully-colored wings, but its beetle like legs remind me of cockroaches. I inherited my mother’s disgust at the mere mention of cockroaches. 

Free as the breeze. If I lived in the south, that would be a pleasant thought. Here in the north, just thinking about a breeze makes me shiver. It’s worse if it’s a breeze blowing in off the lake when you’re up to camp.

Free as the open road. Since I have spatial dyslexia and get lost easily, most open roads cause me a lot of anxiety. The anxiety occurs less frequently with google maps, but I really am the person who can’t locate the four cardinal points even after living in a place for sixteen years.

No! Those are all frees I don’t want! 

What……?

All right, they’re freedoms I don’t want! I’ve think I’ve just explained why. Reality isn’t just in the words we speak or sing. Words can hide or lie.

I'm free-I'm free

And I'm waiting for you to follow me

Oh dear. She was afraid of that. She was sensing a battle, although those days were behhind her now. Not long behind, true, but behind. Soon to be forgotten, even.

Free-for-all. It had to happen. Parting may be sweet sorrow, but it can also be sweet. She only wanted sweet from now on.

And freedom tastes of reality, according to Tommy.

Her reality did not taste like freedom, though. Not yet, anyway. She wonders if the song is responsible for her state of mind. She wanted to sing I’m free but was singing. Tommy’s freedom has ruined things for me. She did not want to follow him, just as the opera showed: his followers abandoned him. She wanted to drive home and get on with the rest of her life. 

That had been the whole point of her resignation. To find a reality that tasted like freedom.