In the middle of my fourth grade year, my father received a job offer in a new city, forcing my family to leave the quiet farm-town neighborhoods of Bakersfield, California, and venture south to cosmopolitan Orange County. My new school was an overwhelming tide of unfamiliar faces, dress codes, and unwritten rules. Being a natural athlete, my only hope to win some measure of peer acceptance was to prove myself on the basketball courts and football field. Every male classmate had their eyes on me, scrutinizing my every step, all for the singular purpose of determining if I could help recreate the 1984 Los Angeles Lakers between 10:30 and 10:45 every morning at recess.
As human creatures, we are naturally suited to be in community—arranging the boundaries of interpersonal associations across a variety of criteria: race, gender, creed, class, economics, or the ability to catch a football. Such divisions create the perhaps-necessary designations of “insider” and “outsider,” with the former appropriately holding the crucial markers fit for inclusion and the latter attempting to earn or prove those same characteristics.
Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein is a terrifying examination of the oft-fuzzy borders of human community, where the creator and the creature both experience a dizzying degree of alienation. Continue reading Building the Perfect Monster