"I think you will like this one," my father told me as we settled into the couch. It was almost certainly past my bedtime, but I didn't care. Watching movies, especially when I was supposed to be sleeping, was how me and my father bonded. As a young entrepreneur in the restaurant industry, time was not something that he had in abundance. Because of this, our movie nights were considered sacred. But I wasn't thinking about any of this as the movie began. All I knew was that my father adored this movie, and he knew that I would enjoy it as well. "Big Fish" is a movie written by John August and directed by Tim Burton. In the film, a young man named William discovers that his father has been diagnosed with cancer and has less than a year to live. The son yearns to get to know his father before it is too late, but every attempt for connection results in frustration. Unlike his son, Edward Bloom lives in stories, and his childhood memories are full of tall tales and engaging narratives. To Edward Bloom, his childhood was larger than life itself, and his son cannot understand it. The movie continues with William searching for the truth about his father by reaching out to Edward's friends and traveling to where he used to live. By the end, William learns that Edward's tall tales are his way of navigating the world. They may not always be factually correct, but they contain more truths than a summary of events. William is finally able to understand his father. Right before Edward dies, he hears his son do the one thing he yearned for his entire life. He hears William tell him a story. I have seen "Big Fish" more often than I can count, but I am amazed every time it appears on screen. I always notice something new each time. I want to become an author after college, and few works of art fully explain the importance of stories in everyday life. "Big Fish" is one of these movies. In one scene, William rifles through hundreds of boxes, yearning for some sense of understanding. In the next, the scene explodes with color and adventure as Edward Bloom narrates yet another tale of his childhood. Fantasy and fact are intertwined in "Big Fish" because fantasy and fact are intertwined in real life. They depend on one another to survive. "Big Fish" is one of those movies that you cannot help but return to. You can't help it. No other movie (at least, no other movie that I have seen) can reveal such complex lessons the more you watch. No other movie can so perfectly depict the power of stories to reveal the truths of everyday life. No other movie can leave you so amazed that all you can do is sit in awe over what you have seen. As I have gotten older, my life has become busier, and the nights spent with my father are few and far between. However, those nights still happen. When it does, we will settle down with blankets and remotes in hand, and "Big Fish" will be the first movie we watch.

"'Well then, if I'm a Namer, what does that mean? What does a Namer do?' The wings drew together, the eyes closed, singly, and in groups until all were shut. Small puffs of mist-like smoke rose, and swirled about him. 'When I was memorizing the names of the stars, part of the purpose was to help them each to be particularly the particular star that each one was supposed to be. That's basically a Namer's job. Maybe you're supposed to make earthlings feel more human,'" (L'Engle 88). "A Wind in the Door" by Madeleine L'Engle is a science fiction novel written in 1973. It is the second book in L'Engle's Time Quintet and focuses on themes such as identity, community, and understanding. The novel opens with Meg and her brother Charles Wallace running into Progo, an angel sent to help save Charles Wallace. Their goal is to save the world through Naming every creature inside of it. Madeline L'Engle uses the concept of Naming to highlight how understanding, compassion, and perspective can make the world a better place. L'Engle accomplishes this in three ways: The contrast between Progo and Charles Wallace, Meg Naming Mr. Jenkins, and the distinction between communication and communion The concept of Naming, or understanding all creatures, is a vital component of L'Engle's novel, connecting all life on both a cosmic and microcosmic level. For example, Progo's job is to Name all the stars. When Meg asks him about how many there are, he responds that he does not know. All that matters is that all the stars are known by Name. This is contrasted with Charles Wallace, who has fallen deathly ill because his organelles are yet to be Named. Charles Wallace's condition has the same sense of urgency as Progo's mission. The death of Charles Wallace has the same gravity as if an entire universe faded from existence. L'Engle goes out of her way to emphasize both Charles Wallace's illness and Progo's mission to show how all life is of equal importance. Focusing on just the "big picture" of current affairs and natural disasters is not only impractical, it is dangerous. Progo has every reason to focus on his task of Naming the stars. After all, isn't the life of the universe more important than the life of a singular nine-year-old? However, not only would this mentality lead to the death of Charles Wallace, but it would also result in the death of trillions of organisms as well. Charles Wallace is more than just a child. He is a universe as large and as important as the cosmos. In contrast to this, L'Engle is also warning about focusing simply on what is in front of the readers. At the opening of the novel, Meg is so focused on her younger brother that she is blind to the forces behind Charles Wallace's condition. She cannot even see Progo or understand why Charles Wallace is sick. It takes a confrontation with these outside forces for her to fully understand how the disease within the universe is related to the disease within her brother. Without this understanding, both the world and her brother would be lost. Through the parallels between Progo and Charles Wallace, L'Engle is not only narrating an engaging story, but she is also advising readers on how to view the problems within their lives. There is great evil within the homes, the countries, and the continent of the readers, but exclusively addressing one aspect of the problem only manages the symptoms of a fallen world. It does not cure the disease. L'Engle acknowledges that not one person can cure all aspects of society (Meg's job is to Name humans while Progo's task is to Name the stars. Neither one can do the job of the other) but this understanding of how the "bigger picture" relates to immediate problems allows for the disease itself to be cured, not just the symptoms. Secondly, Madeline L'Engle uses the concept of Naming to highlight compassion through Meg's interaction with Mr. Jenkins. One of the most prominent motifs within "A Wind in the Door" is Meg's interactions with Mr. Jenkins, her high school principal and nemesis. The novel opens with Meg expressing concern for Charles Wallace because he would have Mr. Jenkins as his principal. Mr. Jenkins had repeatedly gone out of his way to belittle and condescend to Meg, and she could only imagine what he would do to Charles Wallace if given the opportunity. It is this hostile relationship between Meg and Mr. Jenkins that lays the groundwork for their transformation. After first interacting with Progo, Meg is tasked with undergoing three trials, each of which will involve Naming. It is then when Meg comes face to face with three Mr. Jenkins. One is openly hostile, one is benevolent, and the third appears to be indifferent. Meg's first task is to Name the correct Mr. Jenkins. If she fails, all will be lost. Meg groans in frustration and begs for any other task. How can she possibly Name someone who had hated her for so long? However, she finally agrees, and after great difficulty, she Names the one whom she has despised for years. To truly Name Mr. Jenkins, Meg has to look past how she has imagined him as well as the way that Mr. Jenkins views himself. The first Mr. Jenkins is rude and antagonistic, insulting Meg and her family. While this may be how Meg believed that Mr. Jenkins would act, she quickly learns that it is not him. The second Mr. Jenkins kind, asks Meg if she is okay and appears to be concerned with her and Charles Wallace. Meg knows that this one is not him, but it is important to note that this is how Mr. Jenkins views himself. He is the principal of Meg's school, guiding children towards the enlightenment that comes with adulthood. Where Meg sees a demon, Mr. Jenkins sees an angel. But the reality is something in between. The true Mr. Jenkins, the one that Meg finally decides to Name, is somewhere in between. He does not insult Meg, but he impatiently checks his watch until it is time to leave. He does not ask about Meg's family, but he appears confused and lost about all that is happening. Mr. Jenkins, Meg comes to realize, is not an angel or a demon. He is a human, just like herself. L'Engle uses this scene to show that understanding requires effort. Just like with everything, there are always three perspectives on a human being. To truly know someone, you must not only look past your own opinions of them, you must look past how they view themself. Similarly, true self-awareness requires an outside perspective. Mr. Jenkins could not Name himself. Even if that was possible, he was trapped by his pride and inflated sense of self-importance. It took Meg to lead him to his truest version of himself. This applies to more than just the story. To achieve a true understanding of themselves, they must have the humility to listen to others. Finally, Madeline L'Engle uses the concept of Naming to distinguish between the two concepts of communication and communion. At the end of the book, Charles Wallace is lying on his deathbed, and Progo, Meg, and her friend Calvin travel into Charles Wallace's mitochondria. However, the world on the minuscule is much different from what they are used to. It is dark, and they quickly find that they cannot move or speak. Meg tries to talk to Calvin but finds herself incapable of speech, even with Calvin right next to her. However, Calvin comes to realize that communication does not exist in this new world. Communion does. To reach Meg, Calvin must direct all of his energy towards understanding her. It requires pure selflessness and compassion, looking back to every moment he spent with her, every aspect of her life that she shared with him until he can see her, truly see her, for who she is. It is from this state of compassion and empathy that Calvin discovers that he can reach her, and it is with this empathy in mind that Calvin and Meg can save Charles Wallace. When Madeline L'Engle wrote this scene, she was doing little to hide her religious beliefs. Communion, the word Calvin uses to understand what is happening at the end of the book, is a common practice within the Christian Church, and it is through this word that L'Engle not only addresses her Christian readers but also reveals what is required to fully understand those around them. For L'Engle, communion was about more than the consumption of bread and wine. It is about being connected to fellow worshipers and the one they worship. It was about community. L'Engle uses the word communion to show that this state of being should go beyond the church. To truly know someone and to recognize their gifts and uniqueness, you must begin with selflessness. You must begin with community. You must begin with communion. That is the first step towards defeating the darkness in the world. When reading "A Wind in the Door" I cannot help but think of T.S. Elliot's "The Love Song of Alfred J. Prufrock." This is a poem about a man who feels at lost in the world, untethered from himself and the world around him. As close as I may become to understanding himself, he distracts himself with a party, a tangent, or a story. He has accepted the fact that he is Unnamed. "A Wind in the Door" is a refutation of this acceptance. It reaches out to the Prufrocks, the Gatsbys, and the Mr. Jenkins of the world. It calls out to those who have accepted that they will never be understood, that the meaninglessness in the world is much too vast to fathom. "A Wind in the Door" reaches out and whispers, "That is not true." L'Engle used her book to champion empathy through her use of Naming. Time and time again she pushes her characters to truly see each other, to understand how every life matters, to look past their biases and assumptions of others, and to reach out with nothing but pure, selfless intentions. All the while, L'Engle is directing readers to do the same, assuring them that the evil they see in the world can be defeated and that they have the power to change things. They, too, can know every star by Name, and perhaps they can be Named as well.

Like every child, my world was one of milestones. Losing my last tooth, my last day of elementary school, all of this worked together to make me who I am today. But where many people remember these events with joy, for me, these are memories of anxiety. I grit my teeth, close my eyes, and try to ignore the looming presence of my future. I look at my bedroom walls, the stuffed animals around me, and feel dread as I ponder what is to come. Someday, I will grow up, and all of this will be gone. I was told that I could change the world. I was also told, “Never change,” by my parents as they smiled upon me. These two ideas formed the foundation of my existence, and I knew that both were impossible. While opportunities appeared to be endless for a moment, I knew that I would one day have a job, a family, and my world would be limited by what would benefit them. I was also aware that I was growing up, and no matter how much I tried, I would inevitably be much different from the pigtailed little girl who made her parents proud. I was bound to disappoint them and everyone else who had believed in me. I looked upon this paradox of uncertainty and inevitability and laughed the laugh of a coward. In an attempt to control the uncontrollable, I picked up a pen, ordered a planner, and got to work. I scheduled my days, my months, and over time, I felt a sense of relief. I would still grow up, but I could control what that process would look like. I felt confident in my palace of paper. I felt at ease within my delirium. I whispered these lies to myself every night like prayers on a deathbed. As long as I told myself that they were true, I could fool myself into believing them. However, no palace is perfectly defended, and the unpredictability of life would snatch my pen and rip my plans to shreds. Plans were cancelled, responsibilities were added, and I would be there, heart racing, chest beating, until my pen hit paper once more. Adulthood was coming ever so much closer, and no matter how much I tried to ignore it, I was reminded of what was to come. It was all I could do to keep writing, keep planning, keep achieving, until the world was in order once more. This was how I spent my life. I believed that I could control my future, but whenever I reached a milestone, reality would tear away the illusion. I would face the march of the inevitable, and I would spend the night in anguish. Then I would repeat the cycle once more. Middle school flew by, then highschool, and then it was the summer before senior year. My school takes all highschoolers on a three day retreat, and on the last night, seniors are allowed to stay up and swim. Everyone was laughing and smiling, and so was I. I knew my future was near, but that day I paid it no mind. Then came the waterslide. My parents had volunteered on the retreat, and I convinced them to go down with me. Before we knew it, we were rocketed through the air and thrusted into the water, and as I stood, I couldn’t help but cry. For the first time in years, I realized that my future was just around the corner, that I was no longer the pigtailed little girl that I yearned to be. I was someone else entirely, someone who even I didn’t recognize. I had no choice but to acknowledge this reality. In Thomas C. Forrester’s How to Read Literature Like a Professor, there is a chapter dedicated to baptism. In it, Forrester explains that whenever water is mentioned in literature, it represents transformation, a revival of spirit. As I stood in the water, hugging my mother and crying into her shoulder, I couldn’t help but think that water represented baptism in real life, too. I could no longer ignore the uncertainty of my future, but I could make friends with it. Childhood is fast, wild, and imaginative, and the impact of the water will always be there. But when I plunge into my future, not only will I be okay, but my parents will be there to jump in with me.