My All-American Kazoo: A Biographical Sketch

It is nearly impossible to paraphrase the complete essence of a writer in an inanimate object, but if I could be anything, I would be a kazoo.

I am loud, brash, colorful; I sing with glee whether you want me to or not. I may appear frivolous, but I represent all that is pure in the world: pure joy, pure fury, pure life. And my art inspires this purity- a rare commodity at Harvard- in others.

I'm a great judge of character. The clean of heart feel their souls overflow with joy when I sing my song- the song of the kazoo. Those of malicious intent swell with hatred and nuisance for their aural enemy like the masts of a sinking ship in the middle of a tropical storm.

To make a long story short, my kazoo means a lot to me.

The aforementioned description wouldn't sound so ridiculous, of course, if the darn thing weren't called a kazoo. No one ever mocks anyone for their attachments to their trumpets or their rabbit's foot keychains or the necklace charm their lover gave them. But this only makes my love for it stronger-my contrarian nature makes me see it as a mark of resilience. More than a neat trinket that makes some fun noises, the kazoo to me becomes what the opera becomes to Fitzcarraldo, an art whose beauty is only visible to me and thus defines, in many ways, who I am. To explain why, I believe a backstory is in order, and while you may laugh in amusement or concern for my state of mental health by the end of it, I am certain you, too, have a senseless bauble for which you have unconditional love and simply choose to keep this romance on the DL.

I had always had a yellow kazoo when I was younger. It was a prize I had won at Discovery Zone, the trendy hangout joint those in 6- to 10-year-old demographic that had any sort of respectable reputation. I played it often, but it was soon replaced by an actual instrument- a flute, which I very much appreciated playing and, later I found, those around me appreciated very much more listening too. But the yearning for something more- something freer, stuck to the back of my mind for years as I continued my kazoo-free existence.

In the meantime, my life had changed dramatically: I had not only graduated elementary school, but I had finished more than half of a Harvard education. I picked up the guitar in addition to the flute, but was too busy writing to give either hobby the time of day. And I had joined a comedy show that, I later found out, was open to buying their correspondents props if they happened to be funny enough.

The latter brought occasion for my emotional reunion with my instrument of choice. As a correspondent on the student-produced news comedy show On Harvard Time, I had made the bold decision to write my first comedy piece (bold because, for those of us that like to dabble in comedy as a pastime, submitting work to be edited by comedic geniuses who intend to make a career out of making people laugh can be... intimidating). And I had a stroke of genius after penning the segment, where I was to rant somewhat incoherently about the rise of Raul Castro to power in Cuba (shame I didn't have a similar stroke of genius while writing the actual piece). In the margins I wrote some stage directions: "Frances should be wearing a straw hat and playing a kazoo in this segment." I sincerely doubted that the powers-that-be would bother reading that direction.

Fast forward about three days, and there I am, standing in from of communist bastion Revolution Books on Mass Ave., in a straw hat and playing my sexy kazoo to the camera. This one was significantly more high-tech than the toy of my youth- it was metal, with attractive red and blue decals and a shower of yellow stars. It had a bold, rebellious sound, and I instantly knew that it was meant for me. It currently accompanies me in my avatar picture.

The kazoo didn't make it into the segment, but in the short time that we have spent together, it has seen many things and met many people. It was gracefully complimented by fringe presidential candidate Mike Gravel. It quivered with the excitement of a flower about to be given to a loved one, sitting in my pocket while I shook the hand of Karl Rove. It sang along to the smooth sounds of Wu-Tang and has tempted the lips of many a campus celebrity to be played. And, like all symbols of decadence, it has gotten me into its share of scuffles.

When I was but a kitten, many of my elementary school classmates thought it was the funniest joke in the world to play to take my things and, as I was shorter, toss them to each other over my head, so as for me to not reach them. Or worse, they would just disappear my items into their pockets and run away. My favorite globe pencil sharpener, my Little Mermaid salmon-colored crayon. I never lost an item in this fashion; I was ok with physically attacking my bullies until the teacher inevitably took my side (my superior grades demanded it of her) and retrieved my item, sending my nemesis to detention. Needless to say this behavior ceased around me sometime around eighth grade, but a few friends thought the old joke would be hilarious with my kazoo. I nearly lost my Harvard career and, more importantly, one of the most important friendships in my lifetime in a senseless pseudo-imbroglio in Currier Dining Hall. Oops.

So it's given me scars as well as beauty marks, and it's currently being babysat by it's crazy uncle Leo, so I'm sure it's having a great vacation. We meet again at the end of the month. I'm sure my All-American Kazoo loves me just as much as before, even if I do think I'm voting for Obama now.