During my sophomore year of college I did what I had determined I would not: I changed majors. I went in as an elementary education major and within three semesters I was overwhelmed and had cold feet—frostbite cold. So I changed. I don’t like change. I like predictable, routine, and familiar.
I gave up a program that was becoming predictable, routine, and familiar because my gut was uneasy. To officially change majors, I had to get permission from the heads of two departments, the old and the new. I knew one but not the other. I walked with leaden footsteps into their offices, expecting them to ask me to defend my position and decision. But neither professor asked for a defense. Each simply checked my progress and GPA and signed on the dotted lines. It was far easier than I expected, though morbidly uncomfortable.
Frankenstein is erroneously assumed to be a big green monster with a pin through his neck. Some know the truth that Frankenstein is, in fact, the doctor who made the monster. What those also likely know is how morbid and harrowing a read Mary Shelley’s 1818 Frankenstein is.
The big green monster—unnamed and really a translucent yellow—came to life by Dr. Victor Frankenstein. This being is the doctor’s life work, his ambition and grand accomplishment. But Frankenstein is quickly struck with terror by his creation. This terror seizes him for a long time. He falls ill and can’t shake the haunting images of his creature’s first moments of life. His recovery ebbs and flows. You think enough time has passed when another encounter with the beast sets him back. Frankenstein’s realization of what he had done leads to bitter and dismal lives for doctor and monster. Continue reading