Wayne High School - Sentry Yearbook (Fort Wayne, IN)

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Glory be to the mask! My protection! My salvation! The source of my person! The fountain of my soul! Amen, The fates of Prometheus and Sisyphus remind me that none save Zeus is free, and I must wear the mask to shield me from His awesome wrath lest I stray from his way onto a path of my own. I must hide from the ubiquitous eyes which seek to know in what direction I travel. Such was the credo of my life. The facial cloak that I wore was given to me early in life. It was pale and lacking in identity. Mine was the responsibility of painting the mask according to the urg- ing of those who pressed around me. I rejected the screen at first but finally acquiesed because everyone else had one, and they all knew the requirements of living under the terrible judgment of the Great Hurler of Thunderbolts. The first shaping of my personality came when I knew deep personal loss. I pulled down the mask to wipe the tears from my eyes, but the chorus around me chanted the wisdom of the Master, Big boys don ' t cry. I quickly took up my brush and oils and painted broadly and heavily over my life ' s shield to show the world that I was strong and brave. Now, I would surely never be pulled down by any predators of the human spirit for showing the least sign of weakness. As I grew older, I began to wonder about Zeus and how he came to have all of His power, so I took off my mask again to ask, Why? The chorus intoned sternly, Because we said so! The response was so frigntening that I care- fully smoothed over every questioning wrinkle in the pigment of my brow lest I be caught again in the dreadful heresy of challenging the will of Zeus. My introduction to manhood brought me into contact with many different peo- ple; but when I moved too closely toward some who were not members of my group, the chorus warned, But they are M •■p

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we cannot refuse to play anymore than we can refuse to breathe. I ' ve worn the masks and played the roles, taunted by the success of others. I ' ve held masks close when I thought I would suffocate, and I ' ve worn masks ill-fitting but pleas- ing to the eye. I do it, I do it, but not much longer in this theatre. Time is a vic- tor, and to go against it means death and stagnation. I will go on playing but on another stage. I have let the curtain fall, I have let it fall and close behind me. I swear I ' ll not lift it again. — Peri Gruber.

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different from us. The Father has not imparted his wisdom to them. I was uneasy with these words, but I turned once again to the fitting and decoration of my mask. I painted it the same color as those worn by the chorus so that there would be no hint of difference. The years passed quickly as my humanity developed according to the order of Zeus. I had no serious conflicts with the chorus yet the weight of my mask seemed heavy and oppressive at times. There were even moments in the darkness of my room away from the accusing eyes of the group when I would raise the cloak from my face and shed a tear of despair. But I accepted my malaise as a part of the human condition and expected to carry this discomfort to my grave. After all, I was now a member of the chorus and needed no other justifi- cation for my life. When death finally approached and I lay on my bed during the last hours, I was greeted by another member of the chorus who had come to console me. I was shocked beyond the physical restraints of my frailty by the appearance of a tear flowing gently down the front of his mask. I dropped my shield and slowly stripped away his disguise so that I could see the true meaning of his eyes. We spoke freely and without regard for the number of my dwindling hours, sharing the fears and frustrations which we had hidden behind our masks for a lifetime. At the hour of my death, I realized that I could have found freedom from the beginning by simply sharing my vulnera- bility with another. I had lived my whole life according to the myth of the mask; yet one instant of truth, the reality of love and engagement in mankind, was worth an eternity. — Charles Sheet? '