A beautiful set he wished
for the sun.
To trickle below
the blessed blue blanket.
To radiate the
Twilight
With a fierce and gentle
Wake.
A grand duel he wished
For the sun.
To permeate the heavens with
Magical knights of
Crimson and
Gold,
Gracefully charging the
Moon's royal court.
With glowing grandeur
And mystical might
She so sweeps across the
Brightly blazing
Battlefield,
Riding a chariot of
Winged radiance.
In a gleam of defiance
Flaming spears
Pierce the
Advancing darkness,
Clashing in a burst of
splendid grace,
Splashing turquoise strife
Across the gaping
Dome of dusk.
With an absent alliance the
Wise waters watched,
Ebbing with apathy
And sighing with a sagacious
Solace...
The once dominating
Colors of the sun's valiant
Army,
Soon dwindled in
Friendly retreat.
The clouds of twilight
Took off the dress of dusk,
Replacing shy lavender with
Fierce and penetrating indigo.
The moon ascended higher,
Reaching her throne amidst
Her faithful soldiers,
Guarding their Queen in
gleaming armor of
Sheer silvery jewels.
A shining victory he wished
for the Moon.
To reign with
Valor
In fullness and
Purity,
In a glowing
Peace,
Basking her
Kingdom in radiant
Harmony.
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
Monday, February 4, 2008
The Therapist
The Therapist
My name is Mel. Short for Melody. I am a therapist, and every morning, as I drive my eight-year-old daughter to school, I muse over the different lives and situations of two of my clients. Dylan is twenty-seven, and is sent to me by his mother, whom he lives with. Ever since he graduated college, with a degree in Spanish, he decided that that was enough, and he doesn’t feel like doing anything else with his life. Then there is Lisa. She is a Peace Corps graduate, and currently teaches English at an inner-city junior high school. Sadly, dissatisfaction permeates her very existence. To both Lisa and Dylan, I offer blatantly different advice. I believe it is more important that each of us gives to the world, that we donate skills and productivity. Dylan refuses to utilize his skills in a productive manner, because it will not offer him personal satisfaction. However, personal satisfaction does not hold the highest value. We must base our life’s meaning on what we contribute to our surroundings, not merely on our own reaction to our existence. This is not to say that happiness holds little value, because personal satisfaction has the potential to lead to greater accomplishments. I am merely claiming that more importance rests in the hands of the impression we leave behind.
It is 8:30 am, and time for Dylan’s appointment. If it were his choosing, he would not meet with me until the afternoon, so he could sleep in and get those unworthy ten hours of sleep. Unfortunately, his mother, Carol, has to drive him, since his license was revoked due to a recent DUI he received. Considering his mother must be at work at nine, his appointment is scheduled for the morning.
As I talk with Dylan, he sits across from me on a floral print couch, gazing with a bored and uninterested stare. I ask him what his plans are for the week.
“You know, the usual. I’ll probably play this new video game that I bought, then maybe go out with my friends, I don’t know.”
I thought to myself, okay, time for the harder questions. “Dylan, if you could live the rest of your life, exactly how it is now, without having to work or contribute anything to your surroundings, would you do so?” His eyes slowly lifted to meet mine, as a pensive glow swept across his face, for a gleaming moment of ephemeral contemplation. He then responded with a confident, solid, “Yes”.
I was somewhat surprised. “But your life consists of playing video games, and spending time with your friends. Do you feel that your life is meaningful?”
Dylan is a well-educated young man, and at times his intelligence really sparkles.
“Right now, I have a college degree in Spanish, I have a very worldly realm of knowledge, and I feel like I have reached the pinnacle of what I hope to achieve.” I was happy to see that his interest in our session escalated. He continued, “I am very happy with my life, and honestly, why should I change if I’m content?” I pondered for a couple moments over this rather insightful question. I replied “Well, I feel that it’s not enough to simply live our life in a way that benefits only our self. Despite the amount of happiness derived from each individual life, the actions of that person are what give that life meaning, not the feelings.” He shrugged apathetically, so I went on. “Dylan, your mother works full-time, pays all the bills, volunteers at the her church, and yet you decided to sit on the sofa and watch T.V, rather than get a job and contribute. You really think your life is meaningful?”
“Yes, my mother chooses to do all of those things you mentioned. She could retire, and then neither of us would have to work. But she loves her job; it makes her happy. She has never pressured me to pursue a career because there is enough family wealth that that would be unnecessary. So, if I’m happy right now, why should I change?”
As I drove home later that day, I thought about Dylan’s session. His life, at this current stage, differs little from that of Albert Camus’ Sisyphus. Every morning, he wakes up, and wastes his day doing activities that will accomplish nothing, and donate not an ounce of meaningfulness to his existence. Yet he is happy with his life, knowing he will become nothing more than who he is now. However, it is not happiness that ensures meaning, but rather it is one’s actions. The resulting feeling is almost entirely unrelated to the degree of meaning in one’s life. The philosopher Richard Taylor claimed that if Sisyphus had a “keen and unappeasable desire to be doing just what he found himself doing, then, although his life would in no way be changed, it would nevertheless have a meaning for him” (Taylor, “The Meaning of Life”, Life, Death, and Meaning, p.26). However, this meaning is less valuable, than that of another person, of equal contentedness, who works in an orphanage in Africa. Each individual may react in an identical fashion to their actions and their life, but it is these actions that determine the amount of meaningfulness within each person’s existence.
However, I am not claiming that we must all sacrifice our happiness, and move to a third world country to teach AIDS awareness. I am stating rather that if it is within our ability to help less fortunate people without ourselves having to suffer or sacrifice an equal amount, then it is our duty to participate in the quelling of other’s misfortunes. In his piece titled “Famine, Affluence, and Morality”, Peter Singer claims that if it is within our power to prevent something bad from happening without sacrificing anything of comparable importance, we ought morally to do it. It is our moral duty to help others. Dylan has a degree in Spanish, thus he has the ability and potential to volunteer, or teach, or find a meaningful job in which he contributes to society. Instead, he fulfills only his own needs and desires, and chooses to become someone who donates nearly nothing to the world in which he lives. This is morally selfish. He is wasting his potential to help others, to improve his surroundings, and he chooses to deprive those in need of his skills.
Readers, once again, I beg of you not to gather that I believe everyone needs to be morally perfect, and help others all the time. With Dylan’s background, it is not imperative that he gets a job helping others. It is merely imperative that he gets a job that contributes one way or another to the world, and as of now, that is not the case. For those of us who are able to donate money to tsunami victims, or to stopping the genocide in Darfur, it is important that we do what we can. However, our own lives are of equal importance, and as long as we are contributing to society, and not wasting our potential, we are living, in that particular sense, a moral life. Thus, a moral life is synonymous with a meaningful life.
Some may argue, however, that this reasoning is completely skewed. For example, despite the meaninglessness in Dylan’s life, it is possible to claim that he is not in fact immoral. Dylan is not a murderer, a robber, or a rapist, and he does not in any way invoke harm onto others. However, the action of not invoking harm isn’t what makes us moral, it is the lethargic existence of not invoking good that makes us immoral. We must not measure our morality on the actions from which we refrain, but rather what we are willing to do and contribute to society. Dylan does not donate his skills in any way, and it is this that makes his life meaningless, and immoral.
Driving past the mall, I notice the teens and the pre-teens strutting with an all-knowing glow toward the line to buy tickets for a movie. I silently smirk to myself, thinking how wonderful it was to be young; not having to contemplate on the degree of morality by which we live our lives, or worry about the victims of Katrina, or the child soldiers in Uganda. Only with young age comes an excusable worldly blindness. Once we reach the age that provides us with the capability of knowing and caring about world issues, it is our duty to act in ways where this knowledge and passion are exemplified.
I noticed that The Matrix was playing. This brings me to Nozick’s experience machine, that operates in a way that once one is plugged in, the participant will experience anything he desires. However, these experiences are mere illusions, created by “super duper neuropsychologists” (Nozick, Ethics, p. 228) who lead your brain into believing and feeling like you are truly immersed and active in whatever experience you wish to have. “Would you plug in? What else can matter to us, other than how are lives feel from the inside?” (Nozick, Ethics, p.228).
Life is about so much more than simply how we react to our own existence. One who chooses to live life in an experience machine chooses to completely isolate himself, and contribute nothing to the rest of the world. Although the machine may produce the sensation of accomplishment and contribution, the fact that it is an illusion, and nothing tangible and productive results illustrates the sheer selfishness of the participant. He is the only one benefiting form his existence.
It is Friday afternoon, and I can feel the weekend dangling in front of me like a piñata. Every time I reach for it, it’s pulled high above me; but once it’s hit, it’s definitely worth the wait. Five o’clock approaches, and I hear the bell on the doorknob clang as Lisa hurriedly walks in. I smiled warmly at her to take a seat on the floral sofa.
“How are you this week Lisa?”
“I’m doing alright. My students performed a King Arthur play last weekend, which went really well. Oh, and since it’s the holidays I volunteered at the soup kitchen, and on Christmas eve we will be putting on a feast for the homeless.”
Again, I smiled. “And how is Lisa. I see that you are doing well, as in acting well, but how is your mind? How are you feeling?”
“Well, I feel like I am living in a mascot costume, to be perfectly honest. Everyday I wear a big smile plastered across my face as I try to make everyone happy, but once I am home and strip down to nakedness, I feel lonely and unsatisfied.”
“That is a problem. Lisa, you must recognize that you are living a life with so much meaning and value. You are important to so many people, and you have touched the lives of countless strangers with your volunteer work and generous heart. It is time you realize that who you are deserves happiness.”
Lisa blinked as she stared at the floor. “I just don’t think that what I am doing everyday is what I really want. I know that it is meaningful and valuable, but I want to find a new meaning.”
“Then perhaps you ought to find a new career path.” I said this, knowing it would terrify her to pieces, because starting new is so frightening. I told her the words of a philosopher I once read by the name of David Schmidtz: “What you really want is a purpose you can embrace as your own, but also one that will be recognizable as a real purpose independently of the fact that you embraced it as such” (David Schmidtz, “The Meaning of Life”, Life Death and Meaning, p. 94). What truly gives life meaning must come from your actions, but in order to reach ultimate satisfaction, your reaction must as well be content.
“If you do not wish to start anew, I suggest finding hobbies that give you enjoyment. While it is important that you continue living in such a giving way, it is now time that you find internal satisfaction. You are already leading an existence full of generosity as you constantly contribute to the lives of those around you, but now you must fulfill your own needs, since you have already fulfilled the needs of others.”
Life’s meaning is derived from what we contribute to the world and the impression we leave on those we encountered. Memories are the sole possessors of possible immortality, and to create meaning in our life, we must use the assistance of them by leaving an impact that will be remembered by those we meet, and passed on to those we miss. One cannot leave this impression through isolation of existence, and despite the contentedness one may discover within oneself, it is actions and the tangible imprint left behind that truly give life meaning. Internal satisfaction is valuable as well, and it is the combination of both that brings the ultimate meaningfulness.
My name is Mel. Short for Melody. I am a therapist, and every morning, as I drive my eight-year-old daughter to school, I muse over the different lives and situations of two of my clients. Dylan is twenty-seven, and is sent to me by his mother, whom he lives with. Ever since he graduated college, with a degree in Spanish, he decided that that was enough, and he doesn’t feel like doing anything else with his life. Then there is Lisa. She is a Peace Corps graduate, and currently teaches English at an inner-city junior high school. Sadly, dissatisfaction permeates her very existence. To both Lisa and Dylan, I offer blatantly different advice. I believe it is more important that each of us gives to the world, that we donate skills and productivity. Dylan refuses to utilize his skills in a productive manner, because it will not offer him personal satisfaction. However, personal satisfaction does not hold the highest value. We must base our life’s meaning on what we contribute to our surroundings, not merely on our own reaction to our existence. This is not to say that happiness holds little value, because personal satisfaction has the potential to lead to greater accomplishments. I am merely claiming that more importance rests in the hands of the impression we leave behind.
It is 8:30 am, and time for Dylan’s appointment. If it were his choosing, he would not meet with me until the afternoon, so he could sleep in and get those unworthy ten hours of sleep. Unfortunately, his mother, Carol, has to drive him, since his license was revoked due to a recent DUI he received. Considering his mother must be at work at nine, his appointment is scheduled for the morning.
As I talk with Dylan, he sits across from me on a floral print couch, gazing with a bored and uninterested stare. I ask him what his plans are for the week.
“You know, the usual. I’ll probably play this new video game that I bought, then maybe go out with my friends, I don’t know.”
I thought to myself, okay, time for the harder questions. “Dylan, if you could live the rest of your life, exactly how it is now, without having to work or contribute anything to your surroundings, would you do so?” His eyes slowly lifted to meet mine, as a pensive glow swept across his face, for a gleaming moment of ephemeral contemplation. He then responded with a confident, solid, “Yes”.
I was somewhat surprised. “But your life consists of playing video games, and spending time with your friends. Do you feel that your life is meaningful?”
Dylan is a well-educated young man, and at times his intelligence really sparkles.
“Right now, I have a college degree in Spanish, I have a very worldly realm of knowledge, and I feel like I have reached the pinnacle of what I hope to achieve.” I was happy to see that his interest in our session escalated. He continued, “I am very happy with my life, and honestly, why should I change if I’m content?” I pondered for a couple moments over this rather insightful question. I replied “Well, I feel that it’s not enough to simply live our life in a way that benefits only our self. Despite the amount of happiness derived from each individual life, the actions of that person are what give that life meaning, not the feelings.” He shrugged apathetically, so I went on. “Dylan, your mother works full-time, pays all the bills, volunteers at the her church, and yet you decided to sit on the sofa and watch T.V, rather than get a job and contribute. You really think your life is meaningful?”
“Yes, my mother chooses to do all of those things you mentioned. She could retire, and then neither of us would have to work. But she loves her job; it makes her happy. She has never pressured me to pursue a career because there is enough family wealth that that would be unnecessary. So, if I’m happy right now, why should I change?”
As I drove home later that day, I thought about Dylan’s session. His life, at this current stage, differs little from that of Albert Camus’ Sisyphus. Every morning, he wakes up, and wastes his day doing activities that will accomplish nothing, and donate not an ounce of meaningfulness to his existence. Yet he is happy with his life, knowing he will become nothing more than who he is now. However, it is not happiness that ensures meaning, but rather it is one’s actions. The resulting feeling is almost entirely unrelated to the degree of meaning in one’s life. The philosopher Richard Taylor claimed that if Sisyphus had a “keen and unappeasable desire to be doing just what he found himself doing, then, although his life would in no way be changed, it would nevertheless have a meaning for him” (Taylor, “The Meaning of Life”, Life, Death, and Meaning, p.26). However, this meaning is less valuable, than that of another person, of equal contentedness, who works in an orphanage in Africa. Each individual may react in an identical fashion to their actions and their life, but it is these actions that determine the amount of meaningfulness within each person’s existence.
However, I am not claiming that we must all sacrifice our happiness, and move to a third world country to teach AIDS awareness. I am stating rather that if it is within our ability to help less fortunate people without ourselves having to suffer or sacrifice an equal amount, then it is our duty to participate in the quelling of other’s misfortunes. In his piece titled “Famine, Affluence, and Morality”, Peter Singer claims that if it is within our power to prevent something bad from happening without sacrificing anything of comparable importance, we ought morally to do it. It is our moral duty to help others. Dylan has a degree in Spanish, thus he has the ability and potential to volunteer, or teach, or find a meaningful job in which he contributes to society. Instead, he fulfills only his own needs and desires, and chooses to become someone who donates nearly nothing to the world in which he lives. This is morally selfish. He is wasting his potential to help others, to improve his surroundings, and he chooses to deprive those in need of his skills.
Readers, once again, I beg of you not to gather that I believe everyone needs to be morally perfect, and help others all the time. With Dylan’s background, it is not imperative that he gets a job helping others. It is merely imperative that he gets a job that contributes one way or another to the world, and as of now, that is not the case. For those of us who are able to donate money to tsunami victims, or to stopping the genocide in Darfur, it is important that we do what we can. However, our own lives are of equal importance, and as long as we are contributing to society, and not wasting our potential, we are living, in that particular sense, a moral life. Thus, a moral life is synonymous with a meaningful life.
Some may argue, however, that this reasoning is completely skewed. For example, despite the meaninglessness in Dylan’s life, it is possible to claim that he is not in fact immoral. Dylan is not a murderer, a robber, or a rapist, and he does not in any way invoke harm onto others. However, the action of not invoking harm isn’t what makes us moral, it is the lethargic existence of not invoking good that makes us immoral. We must not measure our morality on the actions from which we refrain, but rather what we are willing to do and contribute to society. Dylan does not donate his skills in any way, and it is this that makes his life meaningless, and immoral.
Driving past the mall, I notice the teens and the pre-teens strutting with an all-knowing glow toward the line to buy tickets for a movie. I silently smirk to myself, thinking how wonderful it was to be young; not having to contemplate on the degree of morality by which we live our lives, or worry about the victims of Katrina, or the child soldiers in Uganda. Only with young age comes an excusable worldly blindness. Once we reach the age that provides us with the capability of knowing and caring about world issues, it is our duty to act in ways where this knowledge and passion are exemplified.
I noticed that The Matrix was playing. This brings me to Nozick’s experience machine, that operates in a way that once one is plugged in, the participant will experience anything he desires. However, these experiences are mere illusions, created by “super duper neuropsychologists” (Nozick, Ethics, p. 228) who lead your brain into believing and feeling like you are truly immersed and active in whatever experience you wish to have. “Would you plug in? What else can matter to us, other than how are lives feel from the inside?” (Nozick, Ethics, p.228).
Life is about so much more than simply how we react to our own existence. One who chooses to live life in an experience machine chooses to completely isolate himself, and contribute nothing to the rest of the world. Although the machine may produce the sensation of accomplishment and contribution, the fact that it is an illusion, and nothing tangible and productive results illustrates the sheer selfishness of the participant. He is the only one benefiting form his existence.
It is Friday afternoon, and I can feel the weekend dangling in front of me like a piñata. Every time I reach for it, it’s pulled high above me; but once it’s hit, it’s definitely worth the wait. Five o’clock approaches, and I hear the bell on the doorknob clang as Lisa hurriedly walks in. I smiled warmly at her to take a seat on the floral sofa.
“How are you this week Lisa?”
“I’m doing alright. My students performed a King Arthur play last weekend, which went really well. Oh, and since it’s the holidays I volunteered at the soup kitchen, and on Christmas eve we will be putting on a feast for the homeless.”
Again, I smiled. “And how is Lisa. I see that you are doing well, as in acting well, but how is your mind? How are you feeling?”
“Well, I feel like I am living in a mascot costume, to be perfectly honest. Everyday I wear a big smile plastered across my face as I try to make everyone happy, but once I am home and strip down to nakedness, I feel lonely and unsatisfied.”
“That is a problem. Lisa, you must recognize that you are living a life with so much meaning and value. You are important to so many people, and you have touched the lives of countless strangers with your volunteer work and generous heart. It is time you realize that who you are deserves happiness.”
Lisa blinked as she stared at the floor. “I just don’t think that what I am doing everyday is what I really want. I know that it is meaningful and valuable, but I want to find a new meaning.”
“Then perhaps you ought to find a new career path.” I said this, knowing it would terrify her to pieces, because starting new is so frightening. I told her the words of a philosopher I once read by the name of David Schmidtz: “What you really want is a purpose you can embrace as your own, but also one that will be recognizable as a real purpose independently of the fact that you embraced it as such” (David Schmidtz, “The Meaning of Life”, Life Death and Meaning, p. 94). What truly gives life meaning must come from your actions, but in order to reach ultimate satisfaction, your reaction must as well be content.
“If you do not wish to start anew, I suggest finding hobbies that give you enjoyment. While it is important that you continue living in such a giving way, it is now time that you find internal satisfaction. You are already leading an existence full of generosity as you constantly contribute to the lives of those around you, but now you must fulfill your own needs, since you have already fulfilled the needs of others.”
Life’s meaning is derived from what we contribute to the world and the impression we leave on those we encountered. Memories are the sole possessors of possible immortality, and to create meaning in our life, we must use the assistance of them by leaving an impact that will be remembered by those we meet, and passed on to those we miss. One cannot leave this impression through isolation of existence, and despite the contentedness one may discover within oneself, it is actions and the tangible imprint left behind that truly give life meaning. Internal satisfaction is valuable as well, and it is the combination of both that brings the ultimate meaningfulness.
Thursday, January 17, 2008
While I was in Israel this past summer, I met two girls who I became really close to. One of them, Roxy, goes to Brown University in Rhode Island, and the other Katie, goes to Ohio State. THE Ohio State. Recently, as in four days ago, Roxy and I went to Ohio to visit Katie, who is already back in school. Just for a little background, Ohio State is the largest school in the country, accommodating nearly sixty thousand students. Wow, just a tad bigger than I'm used to, considering my school has a whopping four thousand students.
Anyway, we all had a really good time together, but the most memorable part was definitely my bus ride back to the airport. My flight was at 9:15 Monday morning, and Katie had a class, so she wasn't able to drive me. We looked up the bus schedule on the internet, and figured out if I caught the number 2, and then transferred to the 92, I would make it to the airport in no more than thirty minutes. Perfect. I would catch the 7:30 bus, and hopefully, make it by 8:00 with plenty of time for screw-ups. Well, not plenty, but enough.
Early Monday morning, I got out of the twin bed I had been sharing with Roxy, gave her hug, and walked with Katie to the bus stop. As she waited with me on the bench, snow gently whirling around our blowing hair and visible breath, we reminisced over Israel and how incredibly amazing that trip had been.
"Hahahaha remember having to climb Masada at sunrise, and then literally passing out at the top from being so tired?"
"Oh my G-d yes! We like stayed up til two in the morning, and then woke up at four!"
"And then of course the camel ride. ARABIAN NIIIIGGGGGHHHHTTTSSS!!!!!!"
"Oh man!" said Katie. "This is like the only bus we have waited for together where we won't be able to sit next to each other!"
"That's sad. Aww and I won't be able to sleep on this one either!"
We hugged each other, and made a vow to meet up again in the summer.
I boarded the bus in my discombobulated style, with my huge suitcase, my backpack, my purse, and my $1.50 to give to the bus driver. I found a seat near the front, so I could have the bus driver tell me where to get off in order to catch the 92. As the bus trekked along High street, I gazed out the huge revealing windows, and every time I succeeded in fully immersing myself in a daydream, I would have to catch my suitcase with my feet as it kept rolling across the isle, attempting to maul the little old lady sitting opposite me.
"You goin' to the airport?"
I yanked my thoughts from memories of Israel.
"Yeah! Are you?" I said excitedly, hoping for a travel companion in this foreign city.
"No," said the girl. "But I've taken the bus there before." She had a blond bob haircut, and wore a red beret with an orange scarf. "You know you have like 45 minutes on this bus before you transfer, right?"
Hold on. according to the internet, I should only have like fifteen minutes on this bus, and it had already been at least ten.
"Really?" I said disbelievingly. I thought to myself she doesn't know what she's talking about. The internet wouldn't be wrong. Or...maybe Katie read it wrong? Oh jeez.
"Yep," said the girl. "And make sure to be really really careful when you transfer. It's like the worst part of Columbus. You will probably be the only white person around, so I'm just warning you. When I did it, I was pretty scared. It's like the most ghetto area. I mean, you should be okay, the druggies probably aren't out on a Monday morning...but....I don't know, just be really careful." She was going on and on about how dangerous it was for a girl in that neighborhood, especially a white girl. Crap, that made me a wee bit nervous. When she got off the bus her departing words were "Good luck".
Several stops later, I was still on the first bus. It was almost eight o'clock, and I should have been at the airport precisely four minutes ago.
"Excuse me sir," I said to the driver, "How much longer until James street?"
"Oh you have at least another twenty to thirty minutes" he said apathetically.
Crud muffin fudgsickle. This wasn't good.
As I stared out the window, trying to figure out what to do, I noticed that all of the nice restaurants and shops had turned into liquor stores and bored up buildings. The determined college students carrying backpacks were now replaced by homeless people carrying Santa Clause style trash bags full of recyclables.
By the time we reached the next stop, there were exactly four white people (excluding myself) left on the bus, all of whom got off, and were replaced by several black people. I though to myself Mikayla, come on. That shouldn't be a factor in making you afraid. Race shouldn't even matter. Oh but it did. I stood out. I was this white girl with a nice fur jacket, black boots, and a GIGANTIC suitcase. Plus I had a backpack, a purse, and a plane to catch.
Suddenly, I decided to make an executive decision to get off the bus at the next stop, no matter where it was, because at this rate, there was no way I was going to catch my flight by taking the bus. I had no idea where I was, but the more I thought about continuing on the bus, the less I liked the idea. I couldn't help but giggle silently as I pictured myself waiting at some bus stop in the middle of one of the poorest areas in Columbus with several bags, and not knowing where on earth I was. What a predicament.
As the bus putted to a halt, I grabbed all my stuff, and departed. Where the f*** am I? I dragged my suitcase to the nearest open liquor store, and went inside.
There was an Indian man working behind the counter. He gave me a warm smile as I entered.
"Hi." I said happily. I don't really know why, but for some bizarre reason, throughout this whole ordeal, I seemed to stay really positive, and the Indian man's smile infected me with even more "look on the bright sidenss".
"Hello. lksdfjHOWsdlfkjARElsdkfjYOUlskdfjTHISlskdfjMORNING?" He spoke with the thickest accent I had ever heard in my entire life! Somehow I was able to determine what he was saying, but he might as well been speaking spanish, that's how hard it was for me to understand him. Okay, I'm probably getting carried away...
Anyway, this man ended up making this whole bus trip worthwhile. He offered me free coffee, gave me a place to sit, and best of all, he kept me company, as I waited for the cab that I had called.
"Thank you so much for being so nice to me! I really appreciate it."
"Well, you know I am Indian, and I believe that you should always be nice to everybody and help anyone who needs helping. And you should not be on these streets alone! It is not very safe for a young woman."
"You know," I said. "I really like Indian people. Every single Indian person that I have met has always been really nice to me. I hope to go to India someday, maybe even this summer."
"Yes, we Indians believe that being nice is very important. India is a beautiful place."
As I sat in the chair, he bustled around making coffee for the both of us. I thought back to my junior year, when my family made the drive from Davis to Eureka. On the way, we stopped in Berkeley, just to take a quick tour of the campus. As we drove through town, we noticed an Indian bangle shop, and my mom and I really wanted to take a peek. It was a good hour before we left that store. The Indian owners were so kind and warm. They told me, having just met me, that if I ever ended up at Berkeley, they would be my second family; my home away from home. I will never forget the kindness and generosity they bestowed upon me, and these same qualities were clearly reflected in this liquor store owner.
As my cab pulled up outside, I pulled myself out of that store, away from this extraordinary caring and giving man. I was tempted to ask for his address, so I could keep in contact with him. That might have frieked him out though. But I mean, seriously, how many people do you meet like that? Probably a lot more than you think, actually. My taxi driver was the exact same way. Just as nice as the liquor store owner.
I love how this bad situation created such good memories.
Anyway, we all had a really good time together, but the most memorable part was definitely my bus ride back to the airport. My flight was at 9:15 Monday morning, and Katie had a class, so she wasn't able to drive me. We looked up the bus schedule on the internet, and figured out if I caught the number 2, and then transferred to the 92, I would make it to the airport in no more than thirty minutes. Perfect. I would catch the 7:30 bus, and hopefully, make it by 8:00 with plenty of time for screw-ups. Well, not plenty, but enough.
Early Monday morning, I got out of the twin bed I had been sharing with Roxy, gave her hug, and walked with Katie to the bus stop. As she waited with me on the bench, snow gently whirling around our blowing hair and visible breath, we reminisced over Israel and how incredibly amazing that trip had been.
"Hahahaha remember having to climb Masada at sunrise, and then literally passing out at the top from being so tired?"
"Oh my G-d yes! We like stayed up til two in the morning, and then woke up at four!"
"And then of course the camel ride. ARABIAN NIIIIGGGGGHHHHTTTSSS!!!!!!"
"Oh man!" said Katie. "This is like the only bus we have waited for together where we won't be able to sit next to each other!"
"That's sad. Aww and I won't be able to sleep on this one either!"
We hugged each other, and made a vow to meet up again in the summer.
I boarded the bus in my discombobulated style, with my huge suitcase, my backpack, my purse, and my $1.50 to give to the bus driver. I found a seat near the front, so I could have the bus driver tell me where to get off in order to catch the 92. As the bus trekked along High street, I gazed out the huge revealing windows, and every time I succeeded in fully immersing myself in a daydream, I would have to catch my suitcase with my feet as it kept rolling across the isle, attempting to maul the little old lady sitting opposite me.
"You goin' to the airport?"
I yanked my thoughts from memories of Israel.
"Yeah! Are you?" I said excitedly, hoping for a travel companion in this foreign city.
"No," said the girl. "But I've taken the bus there before." She had a blond bob haircut, and wore a red beret with an orange scarf. "You know you have like 45 minutes on this bus before you transfer, right?"
Hold on. according to the internet, I should only have like fifteen minutes on this bus, and it had already been at least ten.
"Really?" I said disbelievingly. I thought to myself she doesn't know what she's talking about. The internet wouldn't be wrong. Or...maybe Katie read it wrong? Oh jeez.
"Yep," said the girl. "And make sure to be really really careful when you transfer. It's like the worst part of Columbus. You will probably be the only white person around, so I'm just warning you. When I did it, I was pretty scared. It's like the most ghetto area. I mean, you should be okay, the druggies probably aren't out on a Monday morning...but....I don't know, just be really careful." She was going on and on about how dangerous it was for a girl in that neighborhood, especially a white girl. Crap, that made me a wee bit nervous. When she got off the bus her departing words were "Good luck".
Several stops later, I was still on the first bus. It was almost eight o'clock, and I should have been at the airport precisely four minutes ago.
"Excuse me sir," I said to the driver, "How much longer until James street?"
"Oh you have at least another twenty to thirty minutes" he said apathetically.
Crud muffin fudgsickle. This wasn't good.
As I stared out the window, trying to figure out what to do, I noticed that all of the nice restaurants and shops had turned into liquor stores and bored up buildings. The determined college students carrying backpacks were now replaced by homeless people carrying Santa Clause style trash bags full of recyclables.
By the time we reached the next stop, there were exactly four white people (excluding myself) left on the bus, all of whom got off, and were replaced by several black people. I though to myself Mikayla, come on. That shouldn't be a factor in making you afraid. Race shouldn't even matter. Oh but it did. I stood out. I was this white girl with a nice fur jacket, black boots, and a GIGANTIC suitcase. Plus I had a backpack, a purse, and a plane to catch.
Suddenly, I decided to make an executive decision to get off the bus at the next stop, no matter where it was, because at this rate, there was no way I was going to catch my flight by taking the bus. I had no idea where I was, but the more I thought about continuing on the bus, the less I liked the idea. I couldn't help but giggle silently as I pictured myself waiting at some bus stop in the middle of one of the poorest areas in Columbus with several bags, and not knowing where on earth I was. What a predicament.
As the bus putted to a halt, I grabbed all my stuff, and departed. Where the f*** am I? I dragged my suitcase to the nearest open liquor store, and went inside.
There was an Indian man working behind the counter. He gave me a warm smile as I entered.
"Hi." I said happily. I don't really know why, but for some bizarre reason, throughout this whole ordeal, I seemed to stay really positive, and the Indian man's smile infected me with even more "look on the bright sidenss".
"Hello. lksdfjHOWsdlfkjARElsdkfjYOUlskdfjTHISlskdfjMORNING?" He spoke with the thickest accent I had ever heard in my entire life! Somehow I was able to determine what he was saying, but he might as well been speaking spanish, that's how hard it was for me to understand him. Okay, I'm probably getting carried away...
Anyway, this man ended up making this whole bus trip worthwhile. He offered me free coffee, gave me a place to sit, and best of all, he kept me company, as I waited for the cab that I had called.
"Thank you so much for being so nice to me! I really appreciate it."
"Well, you know I am Indian, and I believe that you should always be nice to everybody and help anyone who needs helping. And you should not be on these streets alone! It is not very safe for a young woman."
"You know," I said. "I really like Indian people. Every single Indian person that I have met has always been really nice to me. I hope to go to India someday, maybe even this summer."
"Yes, we Indians believe that being nice is very important. India is a beautiful place."
As I sat in the chair, he bustled around making coffee for the both of us. I thought back to my junior year, when my family made the drive from Davis to Eureka. On the way, we stopped in Berkeley, just to take a quick tour of the campus. As we drove through town, we noticed an Indian bangle shop, and my mom and I really wanted to take a peek. It was a good hour before we left that store. The Indian owners were so kind and warm. They told me, having just met me, that if I ever ended up at Berkeley, they would be my second family; my home away from home. I will never forget the kindness and generosity they bestowed upon me, and these same qualities were clearly reflected in this liquor store owner.
As my cab pulled up outside, I pulled myself out of that store, away from this extraordinary caring and giving man. I was tempted to ask for his address, so I could keep in contact with him. That might have frieked him out though. But I mean, seriously, how many people do you meet like that? Probably a lot more than you think, actually. My taxi driver was the exact same way. Just as nice as the liquor store owner.
I love how this bad situation created such good memories.
Sunday, December 2, 2007
Fire and Ice
"I'm totally getting a hot cocoa," I said, glancing out at the trees struggling against the mighty breath of the wind. "Seriously though, it's FREEZING out!"
Hannah and Giulia giggled at my amazement with the weather. As we paid for our comforting cocoa we found seats near the huge fireplace. I looked at the glowing wood, nostalgically musing over my experience with such majestically hot flames.
Every summer solstice, the Waldorf school held a bonfire. I played at the beach all day, thrashing around in the white water, or daring to swim out past the breaking point. After hours of being in the ocean, I ran back to shore, lips blue, and fingers wrinkled. I could see the six month old Christmas trees that people had saved especially for St. John's bonfire. As dusk seeped through the sky, and the sun began to trickle below the sea, magnificent colors of lilac and pink permeated above us. At this point the pallets and the trees were piled into the pit. Fierce flames burst and crackled as my mom handed me a tofu pup to roast on an unwound hanger.
After all the kids had finished eagerly eating their fire cooked food, we sprinted over to the
lifeguard tower to play hide and seek. "Ready or not, hear I come!"
Finally, time for s'mores! Running back over to the fire, as fast as possible I gathered the ingredients necessary to cook my marshmallow over the dwindling flames, slowly fading into embers. The crimson beauty swam before my mesmerized eyes, as my marshmallow slowly took light. Under the trance of the magical fire, I failed to notice my suffering marshmallow, engulfed in a blinding array of orange and gold. "Ah!" I blew and blew until my scorched dessert was rescued. I glanced around as all my friends toasted their marshmallows with patient diligence, glazing them to a perfect golden brown crisp. I scowed down at my own; black and unrecognizable. Oh well, I was used to eating burnt s'mores. It happened every time. I always wanted a perfectly toasted marshmallow, but somehow, every time I crouched on the sand, and held the hanger over the fire, the bright liveliness of the flames always distracted me from my goal...
Sitting in front of the grand fireplace in the cafeteria, I found myself again, pensively staring into the flames, lost in memories of my childhood. Suddenly someone startled me out of my thoughts, yelling "Snow! Snow! It's Snowing!"
No frieking way. SNOW??? At this, I sprinted away from the fire to go peak out the window. I felt like I was in a post card. Little white flakes bustled about the air, then gracefully settled on the glistening green grass. I smiled to myself, as I gazed out at the stormy sky. How different I felt. Fire had always meant, summertime, the beach, s'mores, and tofu pups. Now, in my new home in the north-west, fire meant winter, hot cocoa, and, although it's still hard for me to believe-snow.
Hannah and Giulia giggled at my amazement with the weather. As we paid for our comforting cocoa we found seats near the huge fireplace. I looked at the glowing wood, nostalgically musing over my experience with such majestically hot flames.
Every summer solstice, the Waldorf school held a bonfire. I played at the beach all day, thrashing around in the white water, or daring to swim out past the breaking point. After hours of being in the ocean, I ran back to shore, lips blue, and fingers wrinkled. I could see the six month old Christmas trees that people had saved especially for St. John's bonfire. As dusk seeped through the sky, and the sun began to trickle below the sea, magnificent colors of lilac and pink permeated above us. At this point the pallets and the trees were piled into the pit. Fierce flames burst and crackled as my mom handed me a tofu pup to roast on an unwound hanger.
After all the kids had finished eagerly eating their fire cooked food, we sprinted over to the
lifeguard tower to play hide and seek. "Ready or not, hear I come!"
Finally, time for s'mores! Running back over to the fire, as fast as possible I gathered the ingredients necessary to cook my marshmallow over the dwindling flames, slowly fading into embers. The crimson beauty swam before my mesmerized eyes, as my marshmallow slowly took light. Under the trance of the magical fire, I failed to notice my suffering marshmallow, engulfed in a blinding array of orange and gold. "Ah!" I blew and blew until my scorched dessert was rescued. I glanced around as all my friends toasted their marshmallows with patient diligence, glazing them to a perfect golden brown crisp. I scowed down at my own; black and unrecognizable. Oh well, I was used to eating burnt s'mores. It happened every time. I always wanted a perfectly toasted marshmallow, but somehow, every time I crouched on the sand, and held the hanger over the fire, the bright liveliness of the flames always distracted me from my goal...
Sitting in front of the grand fireplace in the cafeteria, I found myself again, pensively staring into the flames, lost in memories of my childhood. Suddenly someone startled me out of my thoughts, yelling "Snow! Snow! It's Snowing!"
No frieking way. SNOW??? At this, I sprinted away from the fire to go peak out the window. I felt like I was in a post card. Little white flakes bustled about the air, then gracefully settled on the glistening green grass. I smiled to myself, as I gazed out at the stormy sky. How different I felt. Fire had always meant, summertime, the beach, s'mores, and tofu pups. Now, in my new home in the north-west, fire meant winter, hot cocoa, and, although it's still hard for me to believe-snow.
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Cross Currents
Last year in my English class we watched the movie Crash. We had to do an "open" project on it, which basically meant we could do whatever we wanted. Some people composed a diary of a certain character, others analyzed specific aspects of the film, others made a film of their own addressing the issues identified in Crash. I chose to write a poem, and present it in front of the class. Here at UPS, there is a magazine/book called "Cross Currents", where students can submit anything from essays, to short stories, to poems. Today is the last day to submit work, and I had been thinking of submitting my poem that I wrote for English last year, but for some reason I couldn't muster up the pluck. Finally, about two hours ago, I decided to just do it. I submitted my poem...Here it is for you guys to read and critique; all comments positive or critical are very welcome!! Thanks! Oh yeah, I couldn't think of a title that wouldn't give away the entire meaning of the poem, so, as of now, it is "titleless".
She coats with malice
The ignorant mind.
Compels it to dash
To twist to thrust
Into harsh convictions
Mounted on unstable stilts
Of fallacies and hatred.
She gazes on the world
Through a pane
Obscured by splotches
Of premature thought
And shallow visions of certainty.
Gaping through calloused
Eyes,
Hardened by influences of
Song and sight.
She gawks at the novelty of
Diverseness in color and
Diverseness in sound.
With ease she crashes
Between
The comfortable conclusions
That have founded
Her cruel identity.
With uncanny stealth and
Frightening furtiveness
She dwells within
Our unknowing minds
So disillusions
To her
Prevalent existence.
Her name be that of
Racisim.
She coats with malice
The ignorant mind.
Compels it to dash
To twist to thrust
Into harsh convictions
Mounted on unstable stilts
Of fallacies and hatred.
She gazes on the world
Through a pane
Obscured by splotches
Of premature thought
And shallow visions of certainty.
Gaping through calloused
Eyes,
Hardened by influences of
Song and sight.
She gawks at the novelty of
Diverseness in color and
Diverseness in sound.
With ease she crashes
Between
The comfortable conclusions
That have founded
Her cruel identity.
With uncanny stealth and
Frightening furtiveness
She dwells within
Our unknowing minds
So disillusions
To her
Prevalent existence.
Her name be that of
Racisim.
Monday, October 22, 2007
Independence
This week I have Monday and Tuesday off for my fall break, so I bought a ticket to visit Ben. I feel so independent buying and booking my own ticket, and taking the public bus to and from the airport...
Independence has become an extremely common feeling for me. The novelty of not calling my parents and telling them where I am and what I'm doing every weekend is not accompanied by a sense of relief, but more a feeling of acceptance. During high school, my parents were always very understanding and lenient, which I am extremely grateful for. As I watch many of my peers struggle with their new freedom, I feel comfortable with my personal ability to make intelligent and practical decisions. Since I have been at college, I have had a friend taken to the hospital for alcohol poisoning, I have seen a friend drop out due to slipping grades. Along with these cases, I have witnessed several other people display poor decision-making skills, due to independence thrust too suddenly upon them. I am so thankful for the perfect preparation I received from my parents in readying me for my recent freedoms. Mom and Papa taught me to be pragmatic and responsible, they showed me how to make the right choices, and these skills have thus far kept me out of trouble, and guided me on the path to what I hope will be success. I would like to thank my parents for providing me with these skills, and tell them not to worry about me. I will be smart, keep my grades up, not party too hard, and call them often...
Independence has become an extremely common feeling for me. The novelty of not calling my parents and telling them where I am and what I'm doing every weekend is not accompanied by a sense of relief, but more a feeling of acceptance. During high school, my parents were always very understanding and lenient, which I am extremely grateful for. As I watch many of my peers struggle with their new freedom, I feel comfortable with my personal ability to make intelligent and practical decisions. Since I have been at college, I have had a friend taken to the hospital for alcohol poisoning, I have seen a friend drop out due to slipping grades. Along with these cases, I have witnessed several other people display poor decision-making skills, due to independence thrust too suddenly upon them. I am so thankful for the perfect preparation I received from my parents in readying me for my recent freedoms. Mom and Papa taught me to be pragmatic and responsible, they showed me how to make the right choices, and these skills have thus far kept me out of trouble, and guided me on the path to what I hope will be success. I would like to thank my parents for providing me with these skills, and tell them not to worry about me. I will be smart, keep my grades up, not party too hard, and call them often...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
