Listening
2012
"Oh please, just one more time! Last one, I promise," I whined.
"You've already ridden three times today," my dad replied.
"But daddy, I really want to."
"I said no! And anyways, I'm too tired."
Inviting and peaceful, the lake water mocked me. Staring longingly at the jet ski tethered to the metal post five feet from our lake house dock, I sighed, "This really sucks!"
An older cousin of mine, Jack, chimed in. "I'll take her Uncle Dan."
"Can I go too?" inquired Ally, another one of my older cousins with us at the lake house.
"I wouldn't recommend it, Ally. The doctor said no high stress activity after your scoliosis surgery. Your dad said you could do whatever you want up here, but as your Uncle I strongly disagree... I can't stop you though." my dad sighed.
"Thanks so much! Don't worry about it. I'll be fine.
"Does that mean I can go too?" I asked.
My dad nodded.
"I don't understand why you like jet skiing so much that you would risk driving with Johnny. Have you seen him drive? The kid's a maniac," my younger cousin, Mick, said.
"Micky, not everything's going to be perfect all the time. The feeling going that fast... it's just indescribable. Anyone who tried would do the sensation injustice. Just because you hate going faster than a mile an hour doesn't mean the rest of us hate it too."
"Whatever. Don't blame me if you get yourself killed."
"C'mon, nothing bad will happen. I promise."
If only I knew just how wrong I could be.
After the jet ski was unhooked, we started, Jack wasting no time revving the engine up to full blast. Like every time at the beginning of a ride, my insides squirmed, and I could already tell this was going to be a trip I'd never forget. The wind zoomed across my face, pulling my face backwards with extreme force. On both sides of me, everything looked like a blur of color dappled across an artist's canvas. My eyes drifted toward the speed gauge to watch the numbers climb higher, fifty-two, fifty-three, fifty-four. Not a drop of water was out of place on the serene lake, until we raced by, sending it into complete chaos.
All of the sudden, Jack spun the wheel so quickly, our vehicle spun out of control for seconds, and finally steadied itself onto a new course. Our shocked faces caused Jack to cackle insanely and I thought about how much better of a ride this was than one with my dad. I must've spoke too soon because the next swerving trick sent Ally and I flying off the vehicle. The impact felt kind of like when your standing innocently on the edge of a pool and your best fried runs by to shove you into the water. Your off-balanced, surprised, and you hit the water in a funny position, but when you surface, you laugh until your sides hurt. Gloppy sand squished between my toes, as I realized I could touch the bottom of the lake and I found that I wasn't too afraid. Johnny stood up on the jet ski, laughed uproariously, and yelled in victory. Sopping wet, we hoisted ourselves back on the jet ski.
As painless as that was, I knew that if we fell again, the chances of getting through unscathed were one in a million. That's why I said, "I think I want to go back now. It's kind of getting out of hand."
"Fine. Just a little more speed, then we'll go back," Johnny yelled over the roar of the engine.
Roaring at top speed, we made our way back home. Looking back at the place where we had fallen I decided it was lucky it wasn't such a bad spill, and I even laughed about it.
In an instant, every lighthearted thought dissipated in my head when I looked forward just in time to spot a huge wave generated from a motor boat looming in our direction and the speed gauge at 59 mph. Terrified, my eyes widened. We crashed so quickly, I didn't even have time to scream.
The water felt like concrete on impact. Any oxygen resting inside my lungs was blasted out and left a gaping hole that filled with lake water. Murky darkness swarmed everywhere, threatening to choke the life out of me and I couldn't help myself from sinking into its unrelinquishing grasp. Rapidly, my arms and legs paddled toward the surface and I reached the top, only to hit the jet ski with a sickening thud. Sinking again, I drearily looked through the water, searching for help, but saw only my shaking hands and mangled hair. In that split-second, I was terrified for my life. Realizing I must get to the surface, I tried to claw my way upward, but my bones yelled in agony and protest. When I thought all hope was lost, I felt a tug that brought me to the waterline.
It was my life vest. Dad made me wear one even though I thought it was itchy, bulky, and unnecessary. Man, was I stupid about that.
Too much, too quickly, I took in deep gulps of air, that caused me to cough all over again. Orienting myself, I saw Jack dangling from the jet ski by one arm and Ally, doubled over, clutching her back.
"Is everyone alright?" Jack asked in speech broken up by wheezing.
Ally responded a barely audible yes and I forced myself to nod. As soon as everyone boarded the jet ski, we rode back to the dock, at a slow pace.
Back on the safety of the pier, my dad gave me a dry towel and a hug. Maybe if I had stopped pestering my dad for another ride, none of this would've ever happened.
"You were lucky. It's a good thing nobody was seriously injured," he said. After a pause, he went on, "Don't ever scare me like that again. Next time I say no more riding, that's final, and you better listen."
"I know Dad," I whispered, "I'm sorry."
"You've already ridden three times today," my dad replied.
"But daddy, I really want to."
"I said no! And anyways, I'm too tired."
Inviting and peaceful, the lake water mocked me. Staring longingly at the jet ski tethered to the metal post five feet from our lake house dock, I sighed, "This really sucks!"
An older cousin of mine, Jack, chimed in. "I'll take her Uncle Dan."
"Can I go too?" inquired Ally, another one of my older cousins with us at the lake house.
"I wouldn't recommend it, Ally. The doctor said no high stress activity after your scoliosis surgery. Your dad said you could do whatever you want up here, but as your Uncle I strongly disagree... I can't stop you though." my dad sighed.
"Thanks so much! Don't worry about it. I'll be fine.
"Does that mean I can go too?" I asked.
My dad nodded.
"I don't understand why you like jet skiing so much that you would risk driving with Johnny. Have you seen him drive? The kid's a maniac," my younger cousin, Mick, said.
"Micky, not everything's going to be perfect all the time. The feeling going that fast... it's just indescribable. Anyone who tried would do the sensation injustice. Just because you hate going faster than a mile an hour doesn't mean the rest of us hate it too."
"Whatever. Don't blame me if you get yourself killed."
"C'mon, nothing bad will happen. I promise."
If only I knew just how wrong I could be.
After the jet ski was unhooked, we started, Jack wasting no time revving the engine up to full blast. Like every time at the beginning of a ride, my insides squirmed, and I could already tell this was going to be a trip I'd never forget. The wind zoomed across my face, pulling my face backwards with extreme force. On both sides of me, everything looked like a blur of color dappled across an artist's canvas. My eyes drifted toward the speed gauge to watch the numbers climb higher, fifty-two, fifty-three, fifty-four. Not a drop of water was out of place on the serene lake, until we raced by, sending it into complete chaos.
All of the sudden, Jack spun the wheel so quickly, our vehicle spun out of control for seconds, and finally steadied itself onto a new course. Our shocked faces caused Jack to cackle insanely and I thought about how much better of a ride this was than one with my dad. I must've spoke too soon because the next swerving trick sent Ally and I flying off the vehicle. The impact felt kind of like when your standing innocently on the edge of a pool and your best fried runs by to shove you into the water. Your off-balanced, surprised, and you hit the water in a funny position, but when you surface, you laugh until your sides hurt. Gloppy sand squished between my toes, as I realized I could touch the bottom of the lake and I found that I wasn't too afraid. Johnny stood up on the jet ski, laughed uproariously, and yelled in victory. Sopping wet, we hoisted ourselves back on the jet ski.
As painless as that was, I knew that if we fell again, the chances of getting through unscathed were one in a million. That's why I said, "I think I want to go back now. It's kind of getting out of hand."
"Fine. Just a little more speed, then we'll go back," Johnny yelled over the roar of the engine.
Roaring at top speed, we made our way back home. Looking back at the place where we had fallen I decided it was lucky it wasn't such a bad spill, and I even laughed about it.
In an instant, every lighthearted thought dissipated in my head when I looked forward just in time to spot a huge wave generated from a motor boat looming in our direction and the speed gauge at 59 mph. Terrified, my eyes widened. We crashed so quickly, I didn't even have time to scream.
The water felt like concrete on impact. Any oxygen resting inside my lungs was blasted out and left a gaping hole that filled with lake water. Murky darkness swarmed everywhere, threatening to choke the life out of me and I couldn't help myself from sinking into its unrelinquishing grasp. Rapidly, my arms and legs paddled toward the surface and I reached the top, only to hit the jet ski with a sickening thud. Sinking again, I drearily looked through the water, searching for help, but saw only my shaking hands and mangled hair. In that split-second, I was terrified for my life. Realizing I must get to the surface, I tried to claw my way upward, but my bones yelled in agony and protest. When I thought all hope was lost, I felt a tug that brought me to the waterline.
It was my life vest. Dad made me wear one even though I thought it was itchy, bulky, and unnecessary. Man, was I stupid about that.
Too much, too quickly, I took in deep gulps of air, that caused me to cough all over again. Orienting myself, I saw Jack dangling from the jet ski by one arm and Ally, doubled over, clutching her back.
"Is everyone alright?" Jack asked in speech broken up by wheezing.
Ally responded a barely audible yes and I forced myself to nod. As soon as everyone boarded the jet ski, we rode back to the dock, at a slow pace.
Back on the safety of the pier, my dad gave me a dry towel and a hug. Maybe if I had stopped pestering my dad for another ride, none of this would've ever happened.
"You were lucky. It's a good thing nobody was seriously injured," he said. After a pause, he went on, "Don't ever scare me like that again. Next time I say no more riding, that's final, and you better listen."
"I know Dad," I whispered, "I'm sorry."
LOOKING FOR ANSWERS
2013
John Green's Looking for Alaska*, revolves around the age-old mystery of death. High-schooler Miles "Pudge" Halter makes a terrible decision when he lets his friend Alaska Young drive drunk, resulting in her death. This incident causes grief, guilt, misery, anger and fear, but also throws Pudge spiraling into a realm of endless questions. One of the most perplexing ideas pondered is the concept of eternal life after death.
Humans have been contemplating the existence and the specifics of the afterlife since the beginning of mankind. Many people are convinced in their substantial knowledge of the intricacies of death with the help of religion. Christians believe in a heaven and hell, promising salvation to those who are eternally faithful, much like Islam. Buddhism preaches reincarnation and the ability to eternal piece and breaking the cycle of life and death. Other religions have their own ideas of the afterlife. There are so many different theories because people don't absolutely know, but desperately want to. Pudge reflects people, "... wanted security. They couldn't bear the idea of death being a big, black nothing, couldn't bear the idea of their loved ones not existing, and couldn't even imagine themselves not existing. I finally decided that people believe in the afterlife because they couldn't bear not to" (100). If people choose not to believe in any afterlife, they accept the uncertainty that life ends and may end forever. Religion not only guides people through everyday life, but also provides comfort in answers and people need answers, proven or not, to ease human minds that everyone's inevitable demise isn't the end of the journey.
Even with the abundance of speculation on death, there is still room for doubt. Pudge struggles with any answer provided. Her father reassures Pudge that Alaska is with The Lord now and at rest, but how does he know? How does anyone know? It didn't seem like Alaska was in any way better off. The only fact known to be true is that her body is now a rotting corpse with a crushed heart and lungs and dull, lifeless green eyes, forever stuck buried in the small town in Alabama she desperately wanted to leave. Some say that once others have faith, the possibilities and peace are endless, but when a loved one dies, it's hard not to wonder, even for those extremely devoted, if the loved one ever laugh, smile, move or have anyone lucky enough to witness those actions. Recently, my grandma passed away and I, along with the rest of my family, attended her open-casket wake. The corpse we saw exhibited all of her physical attributes, but none of her love, kindness, or the personality we love. I'm not devout to any religion, and the most frightening part of this ordeal was being faced with the uncertainty that I may never see her again with soul, laughing, smiling, or offering candy from an endlessly stocked drawer that would make every parent cringe. There are too many theories and arguments on what became of my grandmother's strength to know which one is right.
Out of curiosity, I have posed the question of afterlife to the self-proclaimed non religious friends I have. Many of the responses could be summarized by a quick, carefree grin and the simple, yet painful, words "I don't know." They are people content in their ignorance. It is now merely just a facet of some people's existence to push disturbing questions to the depths of their mind and foolishly pretend that everything will be alright. Another common excuse is that the dead live on in memories of the living. My memories of my grandma are clear now, but as author John Steinbeck wisely wrote, "the memory is at best a faulty, warpy reservoir." I fear that far too many of my recollections of her will end up drowning in my reservoir. Pudge decides he is content not knowing exactly what happens after realizing he can't possibly find out facts that aren't separated from massive amounts of opinion.
Death presents itself on many occasions as a depressing surprise, leaving some with unfinished business. Pudge desperately yearns to know if Alaska forgives him, like many others who need something of those who cannot be contacted. No one positively knows if the dead can forgive the living, and even if they can, the spirits still cannot set the living's mind at ease by making them aware of the forgiveness. Despite this conundrum, Pudge decides that Alaska has forgiven him to spare himself from more guilt. If people cannot find a way to convince themselves that all is happy, the dead are happy, and there will always be a way to be happy, eternally, they open themselves up to a whole slew of negative emotions. And it would be so much nicer to avoid all that mess, wouldn't it?
I choose not to have a conclusion because there isn't one. There is not tidy sentence that wraps up the answer to the question I have started with, and there never will be. Regrettably, people must find some way to be content with their unavoidable ignorance, or else suffer the consequences of the realization of glass-like human fragility.
*Highly recommended book. It shares perfect, enchanting lessons on death, forgiveness, love, and life.
2013
John Green's Looking for Alaska*, revolves around the age-old mystery of death. High-schooler Miles "Pudge" Halter makes a terrible decision when he lets his friend Alaska Young drive drunk, resulting in her death. This incident causes grief, guilt, misery, anger and fear, but also throws Pudge spiraling into a realm of endless questions. One of the most perplexing ideas pondered is the concept of eternal life after death.
Humans have been contemplating the existence and the specifics of the afterlife since the beginning of mankind. Many people are convinced in their substantial knowledge of the intricacies of death with the help of religion. Christians believe in a heaven and hell, promising salvation to those who are eternally faithful, much like Islam. Buddhism preaches reincarnation and the ability to eternal piece and breaking the cycle of life and death. Other religions have their own ideas of the afterlife. There are so many different theories because people don't absolutely know, but desperately want to. Pudge reflects people, "... wanted security. They couldn't bear the idea of death being a big, black nothing, couldn't bear the idea of their loved ones not existing, and couldn't even imagine themselves not existing. I finally decided that people believe in the afterlife because they couldn't bear not to" (100). If people choose not to believe in any afterlife, they accept the uncertainty that life ends and may end forever. Religion not only guides people through everyday life, but also provides comfort in answers and people need answers, proven or not, to ease human minds that everyone's inevitable demise isn't the end of the journey.
Even with the abundance of speculation on death, there is still room for doubt. Pudge struggles with any answer provided. Her father reassures Pudge that Alaska is with The Lord now and at rest, but how does he know? How does anyone know? It didn't seem like Alaska was in any way better off. The only fact known to be true is that her body is now a rotting corpse with a crushed heart and lungs and dull, lifeless green eyes, forever stuck buried in the small town in Alabama she desperately wanted to leave. Some say that once others have faith, the possibilities and peace are endless, but when a loved one dies, it's hard not to wonder, even for those extremely devoted, if the loved one ever laugh, smile, move or have anyone lucky enough to witness those actions. Recently, my grandma passed away and I, along with the rest of my family, attended her open-casket wake. The corpse we saw exhibited all of her physical attributes, but none of her love, kindness, or the personality we love. I'm not devout to any religion, and the most frightening part of this ordeal was being faced with the uncertainty that I may never see her again with soul, laughing, smiling, or offering candy from an endlessly stocked drawer that would make every parent cringe. There are too many theories and arguments on what became of my grandmother's strength to know which one is right.
Out of curiosity, I have posed the question of afterlife to the self-proclaimed non religious friends I have. Many of the responses could be summarized by a quick, carefree grin and the simple, yet painful, words "I don't know." They are people content in their ignorance. It is now merely just a facet of some people's existence to push disturbing questions to the depths of their mind and foolishly pretend that everything will be alright. Another common excuse is that the dead live on in memories of the living. My memories of my grandma are clear now, but as author John Steinbeck wisely wrote, "the memory is at best a faulty, warpy reservoir." I fear that far too many of my recollections of her will end up drowning in my reservoir. Pudge decides he is content not knowing exactly what happens after realizing he can't possibly find out facts that aren't separated from massive amounts of opinion.
Death presents itself on many occasions as a depressing surprise, leaving some with unfinished business. Pudge desperately yearns to know if Alaska forgives him, like many others who need something of those who cannot be contacted. No one positively knows if the dead can forgive the living, and even if they can, the spirits still cannot set the living's mind at ease by making them aware of the forgiveness. Despite this conundrum, Pudge decides that Alaska has forgiven him to spare himself from more guilt. If people cannot find a way to convince themselves that all is happy, the dead are happy, and there will always be a way to be happy, eternally, they open themselves up to a whole slew of negative emotions. And it would be so much nicer to avoid all that mess, wouldn't it?
I choose not to have a conclusion because there isn't one. There is not tidy sentence that wraps up the answer to the question I have started with, and there never will be. Regrettably, people must find some way to be content with their unavoidable ignorance, or else suffer the consequences of the realization of glass-like human fragility.
*Highly recommended book. It shares perfect, enchanting lessons on death, forgiveness, love, and life.
THE BEAST CALLED INDUSTRY
2014
Americans constantly entangle themselves with consumerism in order to obtain status at the expense of traditional values. Steinbeck feels admiration for the truckers he comes across, some of the only people unfazed by an ever-expanding manufacturing-based economy, preying on materialistic consumers. Steinbeck states, "He is not to be dazzled with trimmings or fins or doodads and his is not required by his status to buy a new model every year or so to maintain social face" (55). The idea that only materials can provide self-worth and importance is poisoning time-honored beliefs, one of the unfortunate victims of this epidemic ravaging the country. Unlike the average American, the drivers seemed to be immune to the newfound principle that more money fed to the beast called industry means a higher position in the social hierarchy, encompassing pride and prestige. Steinbeck's friend laments of the disappearing classic American Identity due to the greedy consumption of unnecessary mass-produced goods. He wistfully remarks, "'There used to be a thing or a commodity we put great store by. It was called the People... I don't mean the square-eyed toothpaste-and-hair-dye people or the new-car-or-bust people, or the success-and-coronary people'" (169). The honorable, hard-working, every-day American way of life has succumbed to a commercialistic society that lives off of false self-worth gained through materials. People constantly fear losing their needless possessions, causing them lose sight of important objectives of life, like being independent, patriotic, and free-thinking, virtues the new America severely lacks. All across America, Steinbeck finds people are overly-focused on spending money in hopes of gaining a twisted form of pride and respect, a discovery that warrants concern.
2014
Americans constantly entangle themselves with consumerism in order to obtain status at the expense of traditional values. Steinbeck feels admiration for the truckers he comes across, some of the only people unfazed by an ever-expanding manufacturing-based economy, preying on materialistic consumers. Steinbeck states, "He is not to be dazzled with trimmings or fins or doodads and his is not required by his status to buy a new model every year or so to maintain social face" (55). The idea that only materials can provide self-worth and importance is poisoning time-honored beliefs, one of the unfortunate victims of this epidemic ravaging the country. Unlike the average American, the drivers seemed to be immune to the newfound principle that more money fed to the beast called industry means a higher position in the social hierarchy, encompassing pride and prestige. Steinbeck's friend laments of the disappearing classic American Identity due to the greedy consumption of unnecessary mass-produced goods. He wistfully remarks, "'There used to be a thing or a commodity we put great store by. It was called the People... I don't mean the square-eyed toothpaste-and-hair-dye people or the new-car-or-bust people, or the success-and-coronary people'" (169). The honorable, hard-working, every-day American way of life has succumbed to a commercialistic society that lives off of false self-worth gained through materials. People constantly fear losing their needless possessions, causing them lose sight of important objectives of life, like being independent, patriotic, and free-thinking, virtues the new America severely lacks. All across America, Steinbeck finds people are overly-focused on spending money in hopes of gaining a twisted form of pride and respect, a discovery that warrants concern.
THE SOLIDITY OF CHARACTER
2014
Just how much of our beliefs, character, and personality influenced by others? What is left that is solely our own?
Do I only exist as I do because the things around me exist as they do? And do those around me only exist as they do because the things around them exist as they do? And so on infinitely? We define ourselves as ME. I. MYSELF. We only ever define others in relation to ourselves. My brother. A stranger (to me). My friend. My mom. But in reality, aren't we only defined as ourselves because of those people?
That whirlwind of identity crisis questions began when I started thinking about how implicit bias originates mostly from other people and our surroundings. That notion led me to wonder just how much of our genuine character is derived from other people and our surroundings.
My close friend created a detailed project* about the banning of To Kill a Mockingbird because she was so absolutely thrown by how it was possible that the holy grail of morality she coveted could be construed in a negative way. We've been taught in a school run by authority figures who adore the novel. Like it or not, teacher's wisdom, styles, and habits rubs off on his/her students. I even have a teacher so infatuated with Harper Lee's work that she named her dog after Boo Radley, one of the characters! All throughout the teaching of the book, we constantly hear how wonderful and ethical Atticus is. Naturally, we adopt that opinion. As mentioned before, the book isn't loved universally. My friend found that, in some places, To Kill a Mockingbird is banned because it promotes white supremacy. Some African-American children felt that the book did not condemn racism at all but rather portrayed the black characters as little, helpless damsels that needed white heroes to swoop in and save the day. We've had so much positive enforcement of the book that we never stopped to wonder if it was as great as it was made out to be. If I were black and grew up in a family who despised Harper Lee's teachings, would I still love To Kill a Mockingbird?
In To Kill a Mockingbird, Atticus's children learn to be understanding as a result of his impeccable moral teachings. Calpurnia, the Finch's black housekeeper, is an example of a strong and kind African American, ridding the children from having any idea that blacks are somehow lesser people. The other children in the town lacked both influences, and, in turn, teased Atticus's kids, following their parents who ridicule Atticus. The children of Maycomb are a perfect example of character molded strictly by others' influence.
If I were born into a poor family in remote Africa would I still be a vegetarian with the luxury to turn away food? If I were born in Alabama would I view the civil war as the War of Northern Aggression? If I were born in Germany, how would I view World War II?
Would I still be the same person had I not been born to this exact place and time? Probably not. Although, to some degree, I have some strange hope that my character and my personality would stay the same. I cannot help but wonder how my morals would hold if I were born into a family involved in organized crime. There are those television shows, movies, and books about a son or daughter that turns his/her back on the "thug life" they were born into and go on to live a life as an unlikely epitome of ethics. Still, mobs are also called crime families, most often because it is a family business. Brothers rule as [drug] lords together taking the throne from their elderly father. In the kingdom, wives and sisters happily or begrudgingly support, but support nonetheless. If I were a part of that "family", would I have the good sense to leave? If I were born into a family like the Ewells, would I be social? Or would I be ostracized into assuming the life of an unhappy hermit? Can we really blame those who have?
In this writing I have posed many questions, but no answers to them. I do not have any answers. It befuddles me and angers me and saddens me. And yet, I think it makes me treasure the person I am becoming even more, to know that I seem to be turning out alright even though so much was left up to chance and unanswered questions. However, somewhere in the back of my mind, the unsettling answerless still lingers. . . .
*link to the close friend's project: https://sites.google.com/a/mbusdapps.org/kep1/
link to my project: sites.google.com/a/mbusdapps.org/jr-p7/
2014
Just how much of our beliefs, character, and personality influenced by others? What is left that is solely our own?
Do I only exist as I do because the things around me exist as they do? And do those around me only exist as they do because the things around them exist as they do? And so on infinitely? We define ourselves as ME. I. MYSELF. We only ever define others in relation to ourselves. My brother. A stranger (to me). My friend. My mom. But in reality, aren't we only defined as ourselves because of those people?
That whirlwind of identity crisis questions began when I started thinking about how implicit bias originates mostly from other people and our surroundings. That notion led me to wonder just how much of our genuine character is derived from other people and our surroundings.
My close friend created a detailed project* about the banning of To Kill a Mockingbird because she was so absolutely thrown by how it was possible that the holy grail of morality she coveted could be construed in a negative way. We've been taught in a school run by authority figures who adore the novel. Like it or not, teacher's wisdom, styles, and habits rubs off on his/her students. I even have a teacher so infatuated with Harper Lee's work that she named her dog after Boo Radley, one of the characters! All throughout the teaching of the book, we constantly hear how wonderful and ethical Atticus is. Naturally, we adopt that opinion. As mentioned before, the book isn't loved universally. My friend found that, in some places, To Kill a Mockingbird is banned because it promotes white supremacy. Some African-American children felt that the book did not condemn racism at all but rather portrayed the black characters as little, helpless damsels that needed white heroes to swoop in and save the day. We've had so much positive enforcement of the book that we never stopped to wonder if it was as great as it was made out to be. If I were black and grew up in a family who despised Harper Lee's teachings, would I still love To Kill a Mockingbird?
In To Kill a Mockingbird, Atticus's children learn to be understanding as a result of his impeccable moral teachings. Calpurnia, the Finch's black housekeeper, is an example of a strong and kind African American, ridding the children from having any idea that blacks are somehow lesser people. The other children in the town lacked both influences, and, in turn, teased Atticus's kids, following their parents who ridicule Atticus. The children of Maycomb are a perfect example of character molded strictly by others' influence.
If I were born into a poor family in remote Africa would I still be a vegetarian with the luxury to turn away food? If I were born in Alabama would I view the civil war as the War of Northern Aggression? If I were born in Germany, how would I view World War II?
Would I still be the same person had I not been born to this exact place and time? Probably not. Although, to some degree, I have some strange hope that my character and my personality would stay the same. I cannot help but wonder how my morals would hold if I were born into a family involved in organized crime. There are those television shows, movies, and books about a son or daughter that turns his/her back on the "thug life" they were born into and go on to live a life as an unlikely epitome of ethics. Still, mobs are also called crime families, most often because it is a family business. Brothers rule as [drug] lords together taking the throne from their elderly father. In the kingdom, wives and sisters happily or begrudgingly support, but support nonetheless. If I were a part of that "family", would I have the good sense to leave? If I were born into a family like the Ewells, would I be social? Or would I be ostracized into assuming the life of an unhappy hermit? Can we really blame those who have?
In this writing I have posed many questions, but no answers to them. I do not have any answers. It befuddles me and angers me and saddens me. And yet, I think it makes me treasure the person I am becoming even more, to know that I seem to be turning out alright even though so much was left up to chance and unanswered questions. However, somewhere in the back of my mind, the unsettling answerless still lingers. . . .
*link to the close friend's project: https://sites.google.com/a/mbusdapps.org/kep1/
link to my project: sites.google.com/a/mbusdapps.org/jr-p7/