I have an unusual need to connect with people when they're crying. It's in my blood to make people feel better, often at the expense of my own happiness; but at times, that doesn't matter to me, as pleasing others tends to have the effect of making me feel better about the world. There is a disconnect when it's a fictional character. There's nothing I can do to make them feel better, and as such, I end up echoing that sadness.
I caught (500) Days of Summer on TV, interspersed with loud, abrasive commercials and pointless comments from people with the vaguest claim on the term "celebrity". A discussion took place, about the sentient qualities of Zooey Deschanel's bangs, fodder destroying whatever connection I had with the film. Despite that, there's a scene that eats away at me, when Tom and Summer go to see The Graduate and as Bookends is playing, the viewer sees Summer's face, crying as the film ends. There's something about that scene that depletes me of all mindlessness, as if that moment speaks directly to me. Am I really that sensitive when seeing others cry? Is it the creeping looks of disinterest on Dustin Hoffman and Katharine Ross' faces as they realize what they've done? Or is it the combined efforts of Paul Simon and Art Garfunkel producing such a tender song?
I like to believe that it's a combination of all three elements that play with my emotions like such feelings are malleable clay. In time, I've discovered that Simon and Garfunkel have a strange sway over my emotions. It's the cliche, I know, you sit down and listen to a folky artist and have a trivial connection with them. My connection with Simon and Garfunkel has never been trivial; there's something about their music that cuts through whatever mask I wear to coat my identity.
Strangely enough, I wasn't introduced to Simon and Garfunkel by my dad. It was my band teacher who was searching for a song for us to play in our final concert, our Spring Concert. He would try many a different composition with us, relying on pop culture or his personal favorites. That year, he told us that we had two choices: either a Grease compilation or Bridge Over Troubled Water. The students were silent, and I'm certain their thoughts were exactly as mine were. What was Bridge Over Troubled Water? We had never heard of it before. To determine which one we would play, he would have us sight read the piece and then try to perform it. We didn't have time to practice both and then decide. It had to be immediate.
We pieced together this Bridge Over Troubled Water, in our first rehearsal of it. Once a few of the students recognized what it was, they began to make fun of it. I was still in the dark, intrigued by this selection. At home, I practiced. Always in the bathroom, as the bathroom often has the same sound qualities as an auditorium. What I was able to piece together, practicing with my clarinet, was a compelling, wistful tune. I could have sworn I had seen an album with that title among my dad's albums.
It became a feverish search, through his collection. Finding that Simon and Garfunkel album, sticking it in my walkman with that substantial click of connection. Bridge Over Troubled Water was the very first song. As it started, all thoughts fled from my mind. It was like the beginning of a story told over the fire. There's a certain sound that plunges into your being and usurps your emotions. Rather than being sad due to experience or connection with the lyrics, you feel a universal sadness. As I listened to that song, it felt like I had lost everything. And after it was over, I had this moment of catharsis. That crying over that song had relieved me of my quota for the month, a package of loneliness and feelings of insecurity.
When I came back to class, I couldn't understand the other students. They didn't understand, they didn't have that connection. And as such, I was the only student who raised her hand for Bridge Over Troubled Water over the Grease selections. I went to see my teacher afterwards, asking him if we could possibly still play it. "I know," he replied to me with hushing gestures. "I know, but there's nothing I can do about it."
Over the years, I became more familiar with the album Bridge Over Troubled Water. To this day, I'll break out singing, "Half of the time, we're gone but we don't know where and we don't know where." And when Bridge Over Troubled Water starts up, there is this feeling in me that knows how cliched and corny it is. It doesn't stop that reverberating string in me when the song reaches that incredible climax.
If there's anything Simon and Garfunkel have taught me, it's that there is such a thing as universal sadness. And perhaps this is why I wish to make crying people feel better again. With a universal sadness comes the possibility for a universal connection.
