Rogers Hall School - Splinters Yearbook (Lowell, MA)

Page 14 text:

HATE Hate is an overworked word in our day and age. There are people who hate everything, people who hate moderately, and those who claim they don't hate anything. VVhen a person uses this word flippantly or casu- ally, he is usually unaware of the deep meaning these four letters have be- hind them, and will always have behind them. A few years ago I claimed I hated everybody and everything, making life miserable and unhappy for everyone who lived around me and my bitter shell. Nothing seemed to go right, as a result of my selfish attitude, which had started the surge of meaningless hate. At long last I was awakened from this fate of hating things, by a very dear and wise person, a Commander. I talked with him for hours on this destructive subject and learned what hate really was. During the war with Germany this manis brother had been put in a concentration camp, and was, of course, badly treated. A feeling against Hitler and his Nazi government grew so intense that he felt he had the power to stamp across the ocean and tear Hitler and his army apart with bare hands. This he told me was the feeling of real hate, something no one should ever experience, for if he does, the event will always be remem- bered with a vividness one would not desire. He related this example of hate to another. XVhile saying good-night to his small son he had denied him some toyg consequently, his son looked up and said, I hate you. Naturally the Commander knew his son did not realize what he was saying, nevertheless, that word had seared across his heart like a knife. It was then that I became aware of how my attitude must have affect- ed the people around me. An awareness that once discovered, I did not like. Tearing down the shell and taking a bright view of life isn't an easy job, but the more you thing about the true meaning of hate, the more you want to encounter the word love. You look around and see other people in that obscure pit you have finally crawled out of, and that simple, small, yet so meaningful word goes spinning around in your head to such a de- gree you never want to see or hear it again. However odd it may seem, hate is sometimes closely related to the word love. You may love someone dearly, and yet hate him at the same time. Love in this case is usually deep and lasting, but the people involved do not want to realize this, therefore, they dig out each otherfs faults so in- tensely that they claim they have sufficient reasons to hate. In other words hate and love are two members of a constant and vicious circle. As long as life continues 'hate' will exist, equipped with its poisoning claws, ready to sting all in some shape, manner, or form. , ELISA SLEEPER, '60

Page 16 text:

THE CONICAL HAT The scene? The First Annual Boston Jazz Festival, 1959. Awaiting the next performance is the most enthusiastic crowd in the festival's short history-l know, for I attended the two nights before this. Quiet! You pop- corn-eaters can't possibly hear the announcer. There. And now the cool jazz of Mister Thelonious Monk-Thelonious . . . He's just as you might picture him. Dark complexion, conical yellow hat Qappears to be bambooj, short tan, smock, and tight trousers of the same hue, accent the musician some men have called ugly. He's sitting at the piano, the lights dim to an icy blue, and the Monk's long and ungainly shadow is cast on the white backdrop. His goatee seems enormous now. With the baggy sleeves of his smock pushed high, Thelonious' trained fingers glide swiftly over the keyboard, and the sad melodious notes of Saint James' Infirmary Bluesi' flow forth somewhat like the patter of spring rain on winter's snow. He's nodding-nodding to some of the great- est accompanists in the world. Cool notes issue from the sax, a muted blare lingers in the trombone, and now the regular thumping of the base emerges from the background along with the snaring of drums. The music is not Dixieland, nor is it Chicago or West Coast Jazz, The- lonious employs his own style apart from that of any other group of mu- sicians. He embodies the sadness of the moderns, the spirit of old New Orleans' artists, and the perfection of the Boston Symphony Orchestra in every selection. Tonight if you could have heard and seen it, you would understand. DIANE E. DUBRULE, '60 LA REPONSE VVhy is there Blue sky, Green grass, Black earth. Man, , Woman, Child, Tall mountain, Flat plain, Deep river. Life - Death Love - Hate, Beauty - Ugliness. Good - Bad 2' God. CAROLYN ROCKWELL, '61