Personal Narrative-Hazel Brown

The mirror on the bedroom wall examines the public perception of her private life. Looking only at its reflection, the audience cannot tell the room is in a mess; the rosebush and the dirt trail are not apparent to the audience. In the mirror, only the back of woman’s head is evident. Her face and her emotions are hidden from the mirror. It appears as if she is doing an ordinary task; she could very well be sitting on the bed, reading a book. She turns her back to the mirror and denies it a true reflection.

The bell tolls. I stumble downstairs in a drear. I can’t stand it, I can’t stand this heaviness, this heaviness in the air. I could scream. My feet begin to thud, thudding down the stairs. I shove the front doors open. To hell with the repercussions. I run. I run like I have never run before. I let it all drip away. The fog thickens around me, clouding my vision, tripping me up. It’s the fog of me, the fog I’m releasing. My toes sink in the grass, squelching and sinking. I’m light as air now. It’s like I’m painting, but not painting in my head, I’m painting on canvas. I’m building sculptures. I’m shaping sand.

My fingers fly. Adrenaline surges through my veins. My movements are jerky. The elephantine orchestra lumbers behind me. My fingers get snarled. I stumble. Heat swarms my face. Suddenly, I am plunged into an icy river, into another memory—I am practicing; sweat trickles down my back in rivulets, and there is dried blood underneath my stubbed nails.

Almost everyone has a moment in their life when the world ceases to turn, when the clouds still and the very breath of the soul stands frozen. Revelation, realization and inspiration all collide in an epiphany of tumultuous truth. A split second when one’s life is displayed, not as the guise so artfully rendered day in and day out, but in brutal, Technicolor honesty. The lies that bind so tightly unravel and leave you bare, at least to yourself. Some call it insight, I just call it ugly. Because that is all I saw when the mirror shattered my soul, leaving me metaphorically bleeding and bereft. There was no warm person asleep inside of me waiting to wake up, no golden intent I could draw on for comfort, or even a spirit guide caught beneath

Grealy, the author of “Mirrors” starts her essay with memories of her childhood. As a child, her self-hatred started after needing half of her jaw removed results in her looking different from the majority of kids. She emphasizes that she enjoyed Halloween as a child because a mask could hide her abnormal face. Grealy only felt normal as “she breathed in the condensed, plastic-scented air under the mask” (Grealy). Her childhood was spent in grief and self-hatred knowing “no one would ever love her” (Grealy).

A mirror. Dust particles and grease covered the surface; my reflection could not be seen. I wanted to see how the mirror perceived me. Is it how I see myself? Or is it how others discern me? Rapidly, Katherine swept the filth of the mirror and I just looked straight ahead, mesmerised. Part of me concealed in the dark and the other half illuminated. In the reflecting surface, I saw a dishevelled and feeble figure. She stood there in a rusty brown skirt covered in bobbles and pilling and an oversized lilac cardigan. Her wrinkly hands which smelt of guilt had shook inconsistently causing me to shake

The shocking, cold feel I felt was like ice inside veins and my body exposed to a winter snowstorm… the numbing feeling hurt. I can’t move …echoing through out… but no one here all I see is a beautiful electric blue and a moon more silvery then silver itself … gasping…waiting for help please! But no one will… yelling to myself Move! Move! Move!

I sigh, staring at the light flooding in from the cracks and crevices in the ceiling. The light gave a gentle hue of gold, making the room I’m sitting in seem cozy. One question lingers in my mind, how long have I’ve been here, sitting on this old, rigid wooden stool, in the middle of this room? I get up from the stool, twiddling my thumbs and trying not to vomit from the knots forming in my stomach. I walk over to the shattered mirror that stands to my left. I stare at my reflection, but I don’t see myself. I see some girl, with long silky blonde hair that flows to her shoulder, she stands there with her long and scrawny frame. However, where her face should look gentle and beautiful is a face etched with terror. That girl was trembling and twiddling her thumbs, that girl was me.

Have you ever meet that one girl who is good at pretty much everything the one who is always the teacher's favorite no matter what. Well that’s me.

I faced everyone’s judgmental glares and glances with a heavy heart. I couldn’t spend time with the people who genuinely cared because of the treatment they would receive being associated with me. The mirror became my new confidante. Each time I gazed into its glazed eyes, I was absolutely disgusted at what I saw. I would pick myself apart every single time I was in the bathroom. Some days ended in tears, others in clenched fists of anger. How could this vile body be allowed to walk around and let people see

As I stood motionless in front of the vast mirror, I am entranced by its resemblance to an undisturbed lake. The comparison created a unique elegance about it that one would notice with just a glance. Studying the details of the mirror from the frame to what it captured on the inside, I suddenly spotted a young woman. She had not been there when I began to admire the mirrors imperfect beauty. This intrigued my curiosity as I began to examine the mystery person. By just looking at her I could tell she had a special type of confidence wrapped around her, the type a person can only find when they embrace what makes them who they are. Her skin tone held a hint of gold that complemented her thick dark hair, which ran to her waist in harmonizing curls and waves. The one thing I could not decipher is her ethnicity; anyone who quickly gazed at her would think she was maybe Hispanic or possibly Hawaiian. As I looked deeper into her facial features, I saw through common perception and see that she has a lot more to her than most realize. With every new detail she became more familiar, and was certain I had seen glimpses of her my whole life. In that moment when our eyes met, the mystery about her in the beginning turned into enlightenment. The person reflected within her bright brown eyes was me.

I awake to the chill of a heavy water drop. My eyes slowly open. I’m lying down my eyes facing the ceiling, another water droplet falls to my cheek I whip it away and gradually get to my feet. I don’t know how I got here, or even remember what exactly happen. The only thing I remember is, is –

Mirrors reflect the innermost part of the soul. A mirror can show you at your most beautiful and your most unpleasant times. Sylvia Plath’s poem “Mirrors”, conveys a message that is much deeper than the words printed on the page. The denotation of “Mirrors” provides the reader a basic reading of the poem, whereas the connotation gives a deeper meaning to the work. Plath’s word usage conveys two meanings to “Mirrors”, allowing the reader to better personalize the work.

Running through the fair ground, I come across the only attraction that won’t scare the living bejesus out of me, the warped mirror maze. I navigate the various distortions of myself; too tall, too thin, too fat, not me. It’s overwhelming. Where to go, who am I? This is a cruel trick, funny, but cruel. Enough time spent in the maze and I forget who I am. Maybe my head is three times wider than my torso. I can’t remember. After three hours stuck in the maze I learn that each mirror distorts the person in a different way. As I grew older I saw that there are many types of mirrors, and the more magnificent the mirror, the grander the effect it has on the object of its reflection. Cultural reflection is vital to the health of a community, the vision of others validates the image of ourselves.

The mirror is a two-stanza captivating and a highly personalized poem that was authored by Sylvia Plath in the 1960s as an exploration of the uncertain self. A mirror explains its existence and the owners’ existence that is growing with the mirror witnessing. Moreover, the mirror is artistically endowed with human traits and can tell the monotony it endures facing the wall most of the times; a wall which has become part of it, “I have looked at it so long, I think it is part of my heart” [Plath line 7-8].