The Importance of Music in the Hunger Games

Throughout the three books, music periodically shows up again and again. What is its significance?

In The Hunger Games, music doesn’t show up that much. It first shows up in the mockingjay pin Madge gives to Katniss, as she examines it on the train. She relates their history and how they are “a slap in the face to the Capitol” (HG 42). She also remembers how the mockingjays always respected her father’s singing when they hunted, and how she never sang after he died.

When talking in the arena with Rue about their lives, she doesn’t share Rue’s deep love of music. “In our world I rank music somewhere between hair ribbons and rainbows in terms of usefulness. At least a rainbow gives you a tip about the weather” (HG 211). I don’t blame Katniss for scoffing. She hasn’t had a chance to develop her identity since she became head of the family when she was just eleven. She weighs the importance of things based on how they’ll help her survive, as shown in her quip about rainbows. Music plays a small but important role in coaxing her out of her hardened shell.

Singing to Rue on her deathbed is the first breakthrough music makes in her toughened exterior. She remembers the happy times she had with her father singing and decides to sing one more time, for a little girl so much like her sister, and sings all the way to the end of the song for her. I would say that singing to Rue pushes Katniss to perform her first great act of rebellion, covering her in flowers. Already the injustice of it, having an innocent twelve-year-old die in her arms, has angered her, but the singing, the reminder of her father, goads her fully into understanding the necessity of a rebellion. That night, Katniss has a dream about Rue singing, though the dream is more about Rue than music.

Music shows up one last time, more subtly, when Peeta tells Katniss the story of how he first noticed her, when she sang the first day of school, and Mr. Mellark told him how the birds fell silent when Katniss’s father sang. She recalls her father singing again and singing on the first day of school, and realizes from these true details that Peeta may actually love her. This idea—a boyfriend, and thus the love triangle—is another aspect that brings out her compassion and makes her kinder.

Music’s role in the first book is largely unimportant. It merely serves as a backdrop to emotional moments, such as understanding the meaning behind a token or helping a young girl die peacefully or realizing the truth of an anecdote. It opens up Katniss’s softer side and her kindness, showing that she is not merely a one-dimensional gritty huntress.

In Catching Fire, music has an even smaller role, marginally appearing in the book. It shows up occasionally through other means: Madge teaching Katniss how to play piano, the canary Mrs. Everdeen received after her friend Maysilee died, and when Katniss imagines “a place like the meadow in the song I sang to Rue as she died.” (354).

It shows up most prominently in a dream she has during the victory tour, a dream “following a mockingjay through the woods. For a long time. It was Rue.. when it sang, it had her voice… We never arrived… But I felt happy.” (CF 85). Having just been to the Capitol and seen her mockingjay everywhere, perhaps this is why Katniss dreamed about one.

Music plays its largest role in Mockingjay. The Hanging Tree, obviously, is a major part of this, but the first instance of music, when Haymitch asks for incidents when Katniss genuinely moved them, comes from Boggs. “When she sang. When the little girl died.” (MJ 75). Haymitch agrees, “Who didn’t get choked up at that?” (MJ 75).

The Hanging Tree is the biggest instance of music in this book. When Katniss and Pollux are in the woods near the remains of District Twelve, she sings the song to the mockingjays. In the memory of when she learnt the song, she reveals that when she was seven “I could memorize almost anything set to music after a round or two.” She couldn’t forget the song, even after her mother outlawed it, and she understood the lyrics as she grew older. The song shows up again and again, when she goes into battle and a comrade wishes to die rather than face torture. It’s a way for her to understand the dynamics and what war does to people, the main theme of the book.

She also recalls the song during the battle in Two, when talking with Haymitch. Her mentor explains that they played the clip of her singing the “Hanging Tree” to Peeta, and he recognized it from hearing Mr. Everdeen sing it years ago. Katniss thinks, “My father. He seem  to be everywhere today… Singing his way into Peeta’s muddled consciousness.” (MJ 211).

At the end of the book, during Katniss’s time in solitary confinement, she begins singing.

“I begin to sing. At the window, in the shower, in my sleep. Hour after hour of ballads, love songs, mountain airs. All the sogns my father taught me before he died, for certainly there has been very little music in my life since. What’s amazing is how clearly I remember them. The tunes, the lyrics. My voice, at first rough and breaking on the high notes, warms up into something splendid. A voice that would make the mockingjays fall silent and then tumble over themelves to join in. Days pass, weeks. I watch the snow fall on the ledge outside my window. And in all that time, mine is the only voice I hear.”

Katniss’s singing is a stark contrast to her time between Prim’s death and her talk with Snow, when she loses her voice. In a way during this time, she heals through singing and recalling her father, just time spent alone, hearing only her voice. Music shows up one last time in the epilogue, recalling the lullaby as she watches her children playing.

So what does music represent to Katniss? It’s a way for her to heal, it’s a way she can make meaning of the world. It’s a way for her to remember the best part of Prim, “an ability to look into the confusing mess of life and see things for what they are.” 

The Highwayman: Narrative Adaptation

At the end of sixth grade, I wrote an adaptation of the poem by Alfred Noyes, The Highwayman. It's a truly beautiful poem, and I recommend you read it. Below is my adaptation.

The Highwayman
Adaptation of the poem by Alfred Noyes

 Chapter 1

Crreeakkk… Soft, gentle hands opened the highest casement of the fine old inn. The moon, as ghostly as Spanish galleons at night, splashed moonlight onto the pale face of Bess Hammond, daughter of Connecticut’s most famous landlord.

Behind the tall, slender girl of sixteen stood a mahogany dresser with a finely cooked dinner, and next to it was a traditional bed, the sheets freshly washed. Downstairs, many servants were working their hardest to keep the inn tidy, comfortable, and luxurious.

Her father’s inn, a popular stop for travelers journeying through the hills of Connecticut, was the only home she had ever known. She had never traveled more than a mile from it. She was safe here, with a happy life, a nice home, and a loving father. Who could ask for more?

Being sheltered, pampered, and comforted was not what Bess wanted. She didn’t want this, being cocooned up and never being allowed to explore. Everything in her life was always controlled. Every day was the same: posing as a graceful beautiful maiden, in the hope a handsome young man who visited would marry her. Nothing the slightest bit disturbing ever reached her ears. Anything she owned had once been her mother’s.

Even the love knot she had been braiding her hair with had once been her mother’s. She tore it from her silky long black hair and hurled it to the ground. She thrust her head into the night, breathing the fresh air, her eyes hungrily absorbing the dark hills. She whispered out to the moon and the stars, “I want to be free! I want to explore…”

As Bess spilled her desires to the night, below in the stables Tim, the ostler, yanked his grubby shirt out of the horse’s mouth. His hair was as moldy as the hay he stuffed into the horses’ mouths. After he finished brushing their coats, he leaned against the stable-wicket.

He’d been orphaned since he was five years old. He lived on the streets until he was twenty-five, when he found a job at William Hammond’s famous inn. Old Will said that Tim’s stable personality was required for working in a stable with horses that had to be guided with a firm, unexcitable hand. Indeed, little stirred the ostler other than the landlord’s daughter.

Now, at age sixty, his thoughts strayed to Old Will’s daughter, Bess. He loved her willful, playful personality, her beautiful black eyes and red lips, and her soft dresses. The wind suddenly blasted his face in a surge of shadows, making him wince. As it howled among the clumps of trees that dotted the hills, he thought, “If only I could win Hammond’s daughter…”

But how could he? He was a man of sixty years, and an ugly one too, he thought, while she was a gorgeous girl of only sixteen years.  And as well as being almost four times her age, she had no interest in him, being interested in other men—

Tim leapt up, bumping against one of the horses. Who did Bess love? Surely if he removed that man, she would marry him. She had no interest in him, but if the one she loved disappeared, she would have to marry him. He had heard her father recently: “Bess, soon you will have to be wed. You are nearing that time.”

Bess could not marry any of the servants—they were all below her in social status. But Tim was at her same social status; his parents had been famous innkeepers themselves before they died of pneumonia and lost the family fortune. He had not heard of anyone she was engaged to, but if that man was removed, she’d have to turn to him.

Yes, it would all work out. He would remove her lover and marry her. A disgusting smile crept onto his face like a fox.

It was a windy and bitter evening. The ominous sky, the freezing atmosphere, and harsh gusts of God’s breath ensured no travelers were on the road; this weather was too much for even the toughest. But of course, there are always exceptions.

The nimble hooves of the magnificent white steed soared inches off the road. Experienced hands guided the reins. The owner of these hands was the lone rider on the path. He looked like a gentleman: a French-cocked hat, britches of fine deerskin, a claret velvet coat, and his prized horse. But this highwayman was no refined nobleman.

Tonight, of course, he had not been able to commit any crimes because of the bleak weather. Still, he loved riding at night, feeling the cool air, alert. He was a very famous criminal, and he had committed most of his crimes in France. And when he sneaked onto a boat to the New World, his fame only increased. He would gladly do anything that would increase his fame; he had a weakness for universal attention.

Ahead he saw the old inn. He had heard of a “miraculous beauty of a girl” at the Hammond inn, which was, obviously, Bess. Bess, having been sheltered all her life, did not know anything about the highwayman. But she would soon know, as her head sticking out of the window looked like a pin on the road of silky moonlight to the highwayman.

He came to a halt outside the inn. Peering up, he saw Bess’s hair trailing out of the window. The highwayman watched her gaze out of the casement. Tapping his rapier on the wall and whistling, he got her attention. She looked down, absentmindedly plaiting her hair with the love knot again.

Suddenly, Tim, still leaning against the gate, leapt up. Why was his heart suddenly pounding? He saw shadows in front of the inn. He scurried around and his heart seemed to leap into his throat. Tim knew about the highwayman, and he scrutinized him.

The highwayman gave the landlord’s daughter a smile that Tim recognized as very superficial and forced but Bess did not. “My dear, my dear. How do you do? May I introduce myself? I come from an English noble family in Paris. While our riches are vast, we have received little attention.”

In fact, the highwayman had come from a famous but near fortuneless French family where every member, including the women, became road robbers at age twelve.

The highwayman swiftly stood on the back of his horse, and, taken by a sudden impulse, said, “I have heard of this inn’s hospitality. But everyone I know who stayed at your home said that your breathtaking beauty was what made their lives worth living. May I take the liberty of assuming the same opinion?”

The landlord’s daughter hoped it was dark enough to hide her blushing face. The highwayman raised his right hand. Her right hand slipped forward. The highwayman kissed her hand and whispered, “My bonny sweetheart, I’m after a prize tonight, but it shall take me a long time to coax its owners to give my rightful payment. If I do not return by dawn, I shall come by the moonlight. I’ll come to thee by the moonlight, though hell should bar the way.”

Bess shook her head. “Sir—I do not mean to be impertinent, but it has always been my heart’s desire to find my own way, to to care for myself. I have a duty to honor what is in my heart; therefore I must refuse your offer.”

“But, my sweetheart—why, we could be together! Once I claim my prize, I could take you with me, and let you explore the world to your heart’s desire!”

The highwayman’s confidence made the landlord’s daughter nod. Tim smiled. He could see right through the highwayman’s plans, while ignorant Bess could not. He watched greedily as Bess’s hand grasped the highwayman’s.

Her other hand loosened the love knot, and her hair tumbled through the casement, the perfume with it. The highwayman could feel his face burn like a brand. He quickly turned his head, took his hand from hers and repeated, “Remember: I’ll come to thee by the moonlight, though hell should bar the way. Now I must be off.”

Bess nodded quickly. She leaned out as far as safety would allow and dropped her love knot, as a parting gift. The highwayman’s face turned even redder. He slipped it into his pocket and trotted off into the night.

In the shadows, Tim still stood, watching the robber leave, probably to commit a crime. That same sly smile, filthier than the entire being of the highwayman, crept onto his face.

Chapter 2

All through the night and the next day, Bess sat at her window, refusing to eat, as though fasting for her lover. Finally as the sun began to dip lower into the sky, she stood up, her legs stiff. She descended the stairs to ask Tim if he could look after the highwayman’s horse for the night when he came, only to find that the ostler was gone, along with one of the horses. Perhaps he was out hunting in the hills.

When he returned an hour later, he had no catch with him but he was smiling devilishly. Bess had already resumed gazing down the path. At sunset, she heard marching. Was it him? She jerked her head out to see a redcoat troop marching out of the tawny sunset. Why were King George’s men coming here?

They quickly entered the inn. She heard clattering, a glass breaking, and some scuffling, but what made her scream was her father’s enraged yell. “What is this, I ask? Why are you causing bedlam for no reason?”

She rushed to the banister and saw two soldiers holding her father back as the rest of the troop began climbing the stairs.

The soldiers dragged her to her room and tied her to the foot of her bed with a musket under her arm. The sharp bedpost made her wince as she struggled to free herself. They sniggered and kissed her, snickering, “Now keep good watch, ‘my bonny sweetheart!’”

My bonny sweetheart?

They slammed her door shut. She heard some more banging downstairs and then some heavy, slow footsteps. Her father entered the room and dragged her dresser in front of it. Bess began crying. “Oh, Father, this is all my fault. If only I had sent him away…”

And she began telling him the truth: that she loved the highwayman, that he had assured her he’d return, and that the redcoats were going to use her to capture him. “But how did they know…” she wondered.

Then it struck her. Remembering his disgusting filthy sly smile, she said “It was Tim, Father. After tea, he left for an hour to tell them. But why is he so malicious?”

William Hammond seemed older than ever. “My daughter, your lover is a very famous highwayman. He has committed so many crimes that these soldiers would immediately be inside the king’s inner circle if they were to capture him. But I know you love him, so—”

Just then, the door crashed open, the dresser breaking. The soldiers began dragging her father out. Bess began twisting against the knots as the soldiers forced her father downstairs and slammed her door shut. For hours she struggled and writhed her hands. Just as the clock struck midnight and one figure touched the musket, her father banged open her door again. His face was heavily scratched, but the silence from downstairs suggested he had knocked out the soldiers.

His face grew whiter than the moonlight when he saw Bess’s finger. He shook his head but Bess seemed resigned to the truth. “It is the only way, Father,” she whispered.

Then, in the frosty silence, she heard it. Tot-a-lot, tot-a-lot, tot-a-lot went the hooves against the cobbles. Tears filled her father’s eyes. For a moment, the world held its breath. Then she heard the footsteps of the soldiers coming upstairs, conscious again.

Bess thought frantically, trying to decide her last words. Then she said to her father somberly, “He’s coming.” Pause. “I love you, Father.” And then she whispered, “Tell him I loved him too.”

Her father tried to grasp her hand. The soldiers marched in like a firing squad. Bess scrutinized their pitiless faces, filled with greed for glory. Two held his arms tightly while another grabbed him in a headlock. His father shook his head, telling her not to do it, silently; but Bess had nothing to tell him. All she knew that the highwayman was not going to fall prey to a bunch of merciless cads. The last soldier slammed the door.

The landlord’s daughter felt dizzy in the last minutes of her short life. Pictures flew through her head: the last glimpse of her mother, when Bess when just a few months old, the highwayman’s beautiful hat, her father, the love knot—

The love knot. For some reason Bess felt as though the bedpost poking into her back was slicing her heart. Why? The love knot was meaningless, only a good-bye gift to her lover. And then she knew. It was all he’d ever have of her,

Bess thought about how she had longed only days ago to know how it felt to be free. Now she knew. And as she drew one last deep breath, she knew she preferred this infinitely to being safe, sheltered, and cocooned up forever.

Her finger moved in the moonlight.

Bess’s musket seemed to shatter the world. Her father thought he would fall too as his daughter gave her life for her lover.

Outside, the tot-a-lotting had stopped. The highwayman stopped and looked at the inn cautiously. The loud shot he had just heard sounded ominously like a musket. Behind him was a heavy bag of gold for Bess. Should he go in and see what had happened, or wait until dawn to help Bess?

The inn was silent in the night. The highwayman turned sharply, making his steed whine softly. A creak of the horse stables gate gave him a moment’s warning. It wasn’t safe to remain, he thought, and without a second thought he tugged the reins and off he went, galloping to the west. As he rode through the night, Tim crept out, warily feeling the ground.

The shot worried him. Had they killed Hammond? Was Bess all right? Or had the soldiers fired at each other in a rage? The highwayman didn’t seem to know either. Tim crept into the house and heard William sobbing. Hammond seemed fine except for a few bruises, but what was wrong? He didn’t wait to find out. He hurried to his bedroom, hopped into bed, and blew out the candle.

Chapter 3

The soldiers lay unconscious, drunk at the landlord’s feet. With the help of the servants he dragged the soldiers outside the inn and left them in the horse stables. Serves them right, he thought viciously. First they steal the ale without paying, then they kill my daughter. Letting them wake up in filthy horse stables was too kind.

About an hour before dawn, the soldiers awoke, disgusted at their sleeping conditions. They tried to enter the inn but the door was firmly locked. So were the casements and the back door. King George’s men did not want to linger; they set off back to the capital to report they had failed.

When the highwayman came at dawn and knocked on the old inn door, he saw Lord Hammond. He recoiled and winced as the landlord’s heavily bruised face came into view. The highwayman asked, “Lord Hammond—where is your daughter…”

The ugly story almost told itself to the highwayman. His face grew gray as he realized that Bess had sacrificed herself to warn him. A boiling vat of hatred began stewing in his heart, the steam of poisonous vengeance rising to his throat. His trembling fingers found their way to his pocket, where he took out the love knot.

He held it out to Lord Hammond. “Before I left the inn, your daughter gave me this, as a parting gift. I admit I may have committed heinous acts, but all my sins shall be washed away by what I am about to do…”

The highwayman turned, mounting his horse. Lord Hammond shook his head. “No. I beg you, please stay. Bess wouldn’t have wanted you to avenge her death so soon. Let them drop their caution…”

The highwayman paid no attention. His loath for the soldiers who had drove the woman he had loved to death churned in his stomach, making him think irrationally. Not bothering to listen to Lord Hammond’s protests, he jabbed his boot into his horse and off he went, guiding by jerking his legs than by the reins. One hand held his rapier to the lightening sky; the other clutched the love knot to his heart. “Faithful, faster!”

The horse, Faithful, who was indeed loyal to his master, pounded his hooves along the path as he had never before. William clambered onto a horse of his own, but he quickly fell behind. The highwayman, miles ahead, could see the tiny collection of evil devilish dots on the horizon.

As he galloped closer and closer, they heard his insane shrieking and turned. The soldiers could not believe their luck. Eagerly they raised their muskets and pistols and swords, ready to take another life. “Already done sniveling over your pathetic woman? Ready to fight us? Come here, coward. We’ll make it quick! Or are you ready to die?” they callously snickered.

Their jeering only enraged him further. His sword whistled through the air and cleanly cut a musket in two, but many more pointed at him like holes of doom. The highwayman shoved the love knot into his breast pocket, as his rapier became an arc of destruction.

Faithful tried to trample the soldiers, but sadly, the highwayman and his horse were no match for the well-trained soldiers. Five bullets streaked through the air. Three hit the highwayman; two hit his horse.

His hand jerked wildly, one trying to pry the bullets out of Faithful’s leg, the other trying to pull out the bullets out of himself. His hand raked his chest and his collarbone, but he and his horse toppled to the ground, blood trickling out.

The love-knot fell out, lying in his blood.

William Hammond abruptly stopped when he saw them. He fell to his knees, tears trickling down. The love knot, which so many years ago had belonged to his wife, who died after giving birth to Bess, was drenched in the highwayman’s blood. He pressed it to his lips, closing his eyes.

Chapter 4

Tears dotted the earthy soil as William finished arranging Bess and the highwayman. He looked at her lover. I never even knew his name…

Bess’s wound remained untreated; he had simply laid a cloth over it. He had done the same with the highwayman’s wound. Bess’s fingers were latticed with the highwayman’s. Behind William stood Faithful, neighing and looking melancholy. William led the horse to the stables, where Tim cowered.

The ostler trembled as Old Will looked terrible, his pain glaring out from behind his bruises. Old Will choked out the words, “Two words. That’s all, you contemptuous scoundrel. Two words: You’re fired. No severance, no apologies. You killed my daughter and her lover. OUT!”

Tim didn’t hesitate. He’d wrestled men larger than Old Will before, but this one’s suffering seemed to make him larger than the entire inn. The sixty-year-old man agilely ducked Hammond’s swinging arm, cleared Faithful, and skirted around the massive heap of horse dung, horse hay, and horse brushes.

Tim felt terrible for what he had done. He’d been a selfish coward, and there was nothing he could do about it. He’d sold Bess and the highwayman to the soldiers, hoping for glory even though he knew King George’s men were unreliable gits who never kept their word.

He kept running along the road, though he did not know why. He was not scared of Old Will, the bodies, or never finding a job. His self-contempt at his sins forced him to keep running. He wandered as aimlessly as Leto, mother of Apollo and Artemis, had. Tim did not know where he was going, and he was sure he would never would.

Miles behind him, William finished patting the graves. He stood over the two graves, below which two lovers who had gladly given their lives for each other lay. He bowed his head and led Faithful away to the stable. Connecticut’s most famous landlord stood in a filthy, mucky horse stable, he thought as he tended the white steed and strode back to the graves.

William bowed his head, but he could not think of any words to say. Nothing could express his grief; therefore, he remained silent. His only gesture of a good-bye was taking the love-knot, caressing it for a moment, and letting it fall onto the dirt.

He turned, his heart aching. All the servants stood in the house, mourning, but they did not know the real story. They knew nothing of the highwayman. Lord Hammond had only told them that King George’s soldiers had come at sunset last night, tied Bess up, and shot her for no apparent reason. They did not know Bess’s real determination and selflessness. They did not know the highwayman’s desire to avenge her death. They did not know what a selfish rogue Tim was. And worst of all, they did not know that the love-knot that lay on the graves outside meant so much more than a never-fulfilled engagement.

Voting Rights Are Fine

http://www.mercurynews.com/opinion/ci_20891749/mercury-news-editorial-coordinated-nationwide-effort-could-prevent

This editorial appeared today in the Mercury News, and it really annoyed me.

Let’s start, shall we? The article begins right away with a clear Democratic bias, portraying the laws requiring photo IDs to vote as “a coordinated effort” making it sound like Republicans are all cold and calculating, conspiring to eliminate opposing voters. It’s clear the editorial is trying to rally voters against these measures, encouraging them to speak out.

Requiring photo IDs to vote is logical, because having a photo ID is required to drive a car or use a credit card, two very basic activities in today’s society. To me, it seems fair that it is also required for voting. And there are programs specifically for poorer people to get IDs. As to the claim that the “stand your ground” and these laws are responding to nonexistent threats, voter impersonation is very real. It’s hard to track and “numerous studies” cannot always track it.

“In Texas, for example, a concealed handgun license can be used as identification at the polls, but a student ID can't.”

Just being enrolled in a school is not enough to guarantee that you’re a legal citizen or not an impersonator. The checks regarding a concealed handgun license are very deep, ensuring that you are a safe individual and have no bad backgrounds. Therefore, this makes sense. You think about it. Which of these is more likely to be a citizen who can vote—someone enrolled in college or someone who can be trusted to hide a .38 ruger on their person?

The whole bit about Florida is complete and utter nonsense. I don’t mean the part about Rick Scott, whom it seems, tried to make a conscious effort to protect voter integrity. If it had errors, it does not necessarily mean that it was an attempt to limit Democratic voters.

Voter registration drives can often be an opportunity to register illegally, because the event may or may not be well organized enough to prevent this. Florida was trying to preserve voter integrity. It was not Draconian.

Plenty of commenters have called out the Mercury News for this editorial, and in the comments, I found this little gem.

If you are legally entitled to vote, and find requiring ID, or doing a little prior planning to get the ID if you don't have it already have it, presents insurmountable barriers to voting . . . well, I'd like to see documentation of why and how it did so…

Horrible, politically incorrect thought: if you're incapable of fulfilling the minimal requirements of registering in time and presenting valid ID, you're just demonstrated your inability to understand the issues at a level sufficient to cast a valid vote. And possibly to walk and chew gum at the same time.

--Commentator Dana Crom

And this bit in a reader’s letter:

In Third World countries where people acquire the right to vote, people walk for miles in inclement weather and stand in line for hours to vote: here people complain about just having to prove who they are.

-Edgar Darwin from Santa Cruz

Amen to both of you. 

About the Retreat of the Ruminations

Since I was little, I always loved to ramble. Talking was and still is one of my favorite things. So I started this blog as a little retreat for my ruminations. Now in middle school, my ruminations center on, in no particular order: law, news articles, Harry Potter, literary analysis, Hunger Games, Indian mythology, fanfiction.

Every week I’ll try to post a little bit, about current events or literary analysis. This could always change, of course.