World, Hold on...One day you will have to answer to the children of the sky.
So the past few days I have just been in finals mode. But the intensity of studying and the pressures of getting good grades somehow lead me to access the deepest recesses of my thoughts. Why have we, as humans, been created so cyclically? We all start life, live it, then end it. The cycle of life. Why are our emotions, too, so cyclic? We are mad, then we get sad, then we feel guilty (or some variation of this). Why are our relations so cyclic? We love, then we hate, then we forget. I don't know, this cycling, although seemingly predictable, doesnt satisfy my innate desire to connect the end to the beginning. Instead of forgetting at the end or dying at the end, why not continue and re-circumference our beginnings? Why is there only one beginning, why must we only get one chance. What is the importance of a first impression, and how can we never rid of the intial emotion or impression that we perceived of some one or some thing?
Among other thoughts, why are some of us more amibitious than others? I watched Precious last weekend and the reason why this thought comes up is because the mother was yelling at her daughter (who had been pregnant twice and stuck in middle school as a teen) that she was only good for welfare. No education will help her. Shit education, shit life. That's the cycle. And I cant help but think, even if education cant get her nowhere, why does the daughter's ambition matter to her? Anyway, my thoughts on the movie are somewhat critical. I did not particularly gain any insight from the movie; I felt like CRASH or Freedomland captured a truer essence of what racial tensions are like. However, I did appreciate Gaby's acting, she had moved me. And it wasnt on the typical scenes, either. It mostly came whenever she wrote in her journals and struggled to read. When I was a tutor for Kumon learning center, I remember yearning to teach the little children how to read. It is one of the most powerful, rewarding experiences you can ever endure--to teach a child how to read. I encourage anyone who has ever interacted with a child, even if they are your baby cousin, to at least sit there for a minute or 10 minutes and spend time teaching them the ABC's. When your life is ending, what will you have to say about who you helped? You may have fundraised for a cause, or fed a homeless guy on the street..but there is no everlasting gift better than teaching a child (or anyone for that matter) how to read.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Slaves dont deserve pity. and afterthoughts on Haiti
I cant describe what is going on in my head right now.
Today was the second part lecture in my Global Studies class that examined the history behind Colonialism and its brutal effects. I wondered: if people never knew the context, stories, or histories behind other people, they would probably not feel the right to judge others. I wondered: history is a pile of gossip, a bunch of negative things that accumulate on one person's tablet of deeds. Of course, that's only one side of it. Then you look at history from a different p.o.v. and you see the positives, the mistakes we can learn from, yada yada yada. But first, let's imagine.
If I had a child and I raised him/her to be completely stripped of information before entering school, this child would be almost the same as any other 4 year old in any other preschool: just wanting to eat, nap, and do the occasional play-do ball. But, the child learns math, English, science, and....history. The child learns: blacks from Africa used to be slaves. Natives in America were taken over by whites. Southeast Asians had to be civilized. All "minorities" had to assimilate.
Then I wondered. If I never gave a child the history behind people. If I never fed him the context of who they used to be. If I kept him blank until college. And he learned history in college.
Why college?
Because in young age, we are all too naive. Too naive to understand that we are being FED information, literally, by the spoon. Too naive to judge the soundness of knowledge, the accuracy of facts, the validity of "true" statements. So, in college, hopefully, then, we would have acquired the skill set to manage our own judgments.
If I had a child and I had stripped him of history, he would have no right to feel superior over anyone. He would not admire nor pity anyone. He would simply accept another as a human, the basic lines of similarity. He would see the obvious instead of the details.
Because sometimes I think: we are only nice to certain people because we know their history. And we are only nice because subconsciously we feel that they had been done wrong. Someone wronged them, so we pity--but which party do we pity? The slaves or the colonialists? Far too often: the slaves. The slaves dont need sympathy, they dont need pity. THEY NEED THE RECOGNITION THAT THEY ARE JUST AS HUMAN, not a
It's never,
On a more depressing note, I do not know what to do about this Haiti situation. A second earthquake hit and I feel trembles that I have not done anything to help. Pray for Haiti, if you can do nothing else.
And I leave with a quote to summarize my disposition:
Today was the second part lecture in my Global Studies class that examined the history behind Colonialism and its brutal effects. I wondered: if people never knew the context, stories, or histories behind other people, they would probably not feel the right to judge others. I wondered: history is a pile of gossip, a bunch of negative things that accumulate on one person's tablet of deeds. Of course, that's only one side of it. Then you look at history from a different p.o.v. and you see the positives, the mistakes we can learn from, yada yada yada. But first, let's imagine.
If I had a child and I raised him/her to be completely stripped of information before entering school, this child would be almost the same as any other 4 year old in any other preschool: just wanting to eat, nap, and do the occasional play-do ball. But, the child learns math, English, science, and....history. The child learns: blacks from Africa used to be slaves. Natives in America were taken over by whites. Southeast Asians had to be civilized. All "minorities" had to assimilate.
Then I wondered. If I never gave a child the history behind people. If I never fed him the context of who they used to be. If I kept him blank until college. And he learned history in college.
Why college?
Because in young age, we are all too naive. Too naive to understand that we are being FED information, literally, by the spoon. Too naive to judge the soundness of knowledge, the accuracy of facts, the validity of "true" statements. So, in college, hopefully, then, we would have acquired the skill set to manage our own judgments.
If I had a child and I had stripped him of history, he would have no right to feel superior over anyone. He would not admire nor pity anyone. He would simply accept another as a human, the basic lines of similarity. He would see the obvious instead of the details.
Because sometimes I think: we are only nice to certain people because we know their history. And we are only nice because subconsciously we feel that they had been done wrong. Someone wronged them, so we pity--but which party do we pity? The slaves or the colonialists? Far too often: the slaves. The slaves dont need sympathy, they dont need pity. THEY NEED THE RECOGNITION THAT THEY ARE JUST AS HUMAN, not a
"Im only your friend because I am a good person and I am only a good person because I know that my ancestors screwed up and I only know they screwed up because I read it in the books and I only read it in the books because I was being educated on history and so now that I know your history I feel sorry for you and I will be your friend."
It's never,
"Hi I wanna be your friend because you and me are the same, we are both human, and we are actually at the same level regardless of our differences. Where did that 98% genome sequence come from?! Holla!
On a more depressing note, I do not know what to do about this Haiti situation. A second earthquake hit and I feel trembles that I have not done anything to help. Pray for Haiti, if you can do nothing else.
And I leave with a quote to summarize my disposition:
The Prophet Muhammad said, "When any one of you sees any injustice, let them change it with their hand. If you are not able to do so, then change it with your tongue; and if you are not able to do so, then change it with your heart, though that is the weakest (kind of) faith."
Sunday, December 13, 2009
I have one leg, No arms, and I am 60
So last night I was out with the fam to watch an Indian movie, Paa, about a child affected by a condition known as Progeria. It is a disease that rapidly ages a child and makes him physically more mature than mentally.
Needless to say, it was an emotional movie. But for some reason I did not feel the need to cry--this child is perfectly happy in his world. If I cry, it would be out of pity. That I am more fortunate than he is. But that is not true--in the movie, the child became a politician's favorite student and was able to see the President's house. Had it not been for the condition to separate him from the crowd, the politician would not have been curious about the child and would not have taken him to do such a prestigious activity.
After leaving the movie theater, my (distant) grandma grabbed her plastic handrest (cane) and dashed, relatively, outside the theater. I realized she did this because she did not want us to feel held up due to her slow walking disposition. I took her hand and walked her out.
Surprisingly, another elderly lady was dashing off, similarly, with her four-wheeled walker. She zoomed away to the exit as (what seemed to be) her daughter held the double doors open. This was a white woman who, after her handicap mother passed through the doors, gave me a look.
We both presumably just watched the same movie.
She had this look on her face: I know we are two completely different people. And normally I am not this nice. I truly see you as a different race, I do not view you positively. But your grandma and my mother are one and the same. They both need me to hold this door open for them. So I am.
I thanked her. My grandma in her cute English said Thank You. Thank you very much, thank you.
We are Different, yet the Same!
I somehow landed watching TLC tonight because of a special on Progeria-affected children. Then afterwards, Born Without Arms. Now, its about Shiloh, a mermaid girl with only one leg.
So what really sets us apart? A genetic code?
Needless to say, it was an emotional movie. But for some reason I did not feel the need to cry--this child is perfectly happy in his world. If I cry, it would be out of pity. That I am more fortunate than he is. But that is not true--in the movie, the child became a politician's favorite student and was able to see the President's house. Had it not been for the condition to separate him from the crowd, the politician would not have been curious about the child and would not have taken him to do such a prestigious activity.
After leaving the movie theater, my (distant) grandma grabbed her plastic handrest (cane) and dashed, relatively, outside the theater. I realized she did this because she did not want us to feel held up due to her slow walking disposition. I took her hand and walked her out.
Surprisingly, another elderly lady was dashing off, similarly, with her four-wheeled walker. She zoomed away to the exit as (what seemed to be) her daughter held the double doors open. This was a white woman who, after her handicap mother passed through the doors, gave me a look.
We both presumably just watched the same movie.
She had this look on her face: I know we are two completely different people. And normally I am not this nice. I truly see you as a different race, I do not view you positively. But your grandma and my mother are one and the same. They both need me to hold this door open for them. So I am.
I thanked her. My grandma in her cute English said Thank You. Thank you very much, thank you.
We are Different, yet the Same!
I somehow landed watching TLC tonight because of a special on Progeria-affected children. Then afterwards, Born Without Arms. Now, its about Shiloh, a mermaid girl with only one leg.
So what really sets us apart? A genetic code?
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