As one of the most recognizable bildungsromans in American literature, J.D. Salinger’s best-known work, The Catcher in the Rye, is renown for its potential to impact readers. It was at age fourteen, in my final year of the hormone-riddled human zoo known as middle school, that I began reading this book. I immediately identified with its protagonist, Holden Caulfield, and became enthralled with Salinger’s dry rendition of adolescence as told through one of fiction’s most revered voices. Within hours, I had voraciously pored over every word in a frenzy of literary zeal. Although I could nearly recite the book in its entirety, I did not truly understand its meaning, and it was not until very recently that I did.
To say that adolescence is a difficult time would earn the speaker an award for understatement. The dynamics of sexual maturation, shifting social interactions, and rapidly morphing schemas result in a crucible of psychosocial development, and through this tribulation, according to psychologist Erik Erikson, one develops a personal identity (1963). Following the onset of puberty, I underwent an inane amount of ideological shifts: I delved into religion before becoming atheist, I became vegetarian before resuming the consumption of fish and poultry, and I changed political affiliation more times than I care to count. This internal struggle to find a sense of self culminated to the point of causing a nihilistic crisis that began during my freshman year of high school. I saw little point of putting effort into academics or extracurriculars, and, as is inherent of teenagers, I sought no consolation through others. In fact, I was incredibly misanthropic; I assumed any kindness shown towards me was a deprecating joke or a Tartuffe-esque facade. It was my whole-hearted belief that everybody was false – one might even say “phony” – with the exception being me, of course.
Although I read The Catcher in the Rye prior to this dismal period, I largely accredit my appreciation of the themes of this novel as engendering its termination. My mother, an effusive concoction of strong opinions and stronger will, has a penchant for debate, and I, having inherited half her genetic code, cannot help but reciprocate. Although I cannot recall how it began, one particular argument, which occurred during the summer between my sophomore and junior years, was about The Catcher in the Rye and, specifically, whether or not Holden Caulfield is a hypocrite. Following my reading, I had become, through peer discussion, superficially aware of this theme. Using whatever textual examples I could recall, I affirmed Holden’s hypocrisy, and the argument promptly ended with my mother’s reluctant agreement and withdrawal; however, I lingered. My thoughts kept returning to the vehemence with which my mother defended Holden’s character on account of his relatability and unforgettable voice, and I wistfully recalled how I also readily identified with him. To make sense of this, I read the book again. The epiphany that followed was the split of an intellectual atom. The phrase, which I uttered aloud, “I am Holden Caulfield,” triggered a cataract of reflection and internal revolution from which I emerged with a factorially increased comprehension of myself. It all lined up: supposititious isolation, immaculate cynicism, and rampant exceptionalism; in short, like Holden, I was the hypocrite I falsely perceived.
The catalyzation of development provided by my delayed understanding of J.D. Salinger’s masterpiece and subsequent realization of a harsh truth gave me the strength to complete Erikson’s gauntlet and gain adulthood. It is my belief that the transition into adulthood is completed with the formation of a stable identity. However, stable does not mean static; rather, the pinnacle of maturity is the ability to morph one’s own identity at will. Once I realized that hypocrisy was part of my identity, I focused on self-amerlioration rather than succumbation, and this abnegation of puerile misanthropy provided my premier into adulthood, for I finally gained control.