That cold feeling of waiting on a street corner as the day slips away, huddled beneath polyester, puffy coats. Dreading the sunset that the rest of Maine finds enchanting, or majestic. Trekking down to get your meal at 6:00, waiting in line while sad florescent lights tempt you, and the smell of pasta for the millionth time lowers your expectations from the juicy hamburger you had been dreaming of all day. Dawdling in the room while other crawl out, sucking the warmth into your belly as they begin to mop the floors. Back into a night so empty it doesn't even seem real.
Pulling into the left lane is an automatic reaction. See the two or three men standing at the telephone post, sign posed. Two dollars from your wallet, and they say God Bless. God Bless you for these two dollars that once meant everything and now means nothing. God bless you for cringing at the single blast of cold air that comes from lowering the window to give money to a man who will endure that pain all night long. God bless you for going home to dinner at a father and two brothers. God bless you for leaving me on this side walk, homeless and waiting.
I hate it when people accuse me of being an idealistic, or a dreamer, or unrealistic. In the 1960s, when people took to the street in protest of injustice, of hatred and of war, they were labeled crazy. When leaders of hope were murdered for the world to see, they were convinced to come down from their pedestal and see the world clearly, goddamnit, because they were never going to get any where being high-minded, because war is the way of the world, because assassinations happen, people die, and you need to get over yourself and your newfangled ideas because you are never going to change anything. The realists, the pragmatists stamped out the life of a generation, fit them into boxes and sent them to the suburbs, hushed up the veterans, and continued to fight wars, but subtly, in hushed tones that most Americans barely hear. I have big ideas, crazy ideas, ideas that probably won't work, ideas that would be unpopular if I were to voice them. I am young, and I haven't seen a lot of the world. I don't have the experience or anger that comes with years of suffering and hard work. I am innocent, I am enthusiastic, I am naive. Maybe that makes me stupid, or useless, but not enough people still believe in the power of change. It is possible to do it, our country has zigzagged back and forth, peace and war, liberal government and conservative. Bills have been passed and repealed. Politicians concede and are elected. Life goes on. Those who have seen more than I have say that the world is not improving. "Life is not how it used to be," they say. I agree, life is not how it used to be, but it's not getting worse. It's always improving. I have hope. I hope that you don't think that makes me stupid.
I take six classes to fit art into my schedule, not to "appear well rounded" or because I am going to be an artist. I sacrifice my free time because acrylic paint gives me chills, and the silence the strokes my brain as I dash my brush across a piece of canvas, is one that does not exist in any other part of my life. But, frankly, if my father did not work at Waynflete, I wouldn't get my sacred hour a day to envision and create.
It is ironic that we read an essay about education in our country because it is a subject I am incredibly passionate about. For every eye roll inducing "fall fest" and "this week in the upper school" I have been given a trillion opportunities. Yes, school is about 2+2 and instantaneous acceleration, but sadly enough at so many schools the other necessary parts have been done away with.
Oh boy. I don't even want to think of how Europeans, or Africans, or Indians, or Koreans, or Chinese, or any other countrymen besides Americans think of Americans, when I myself am disgusted by them. Perhaps I am getting ahead of myself here: I hate your stereotypical American. Not only do I hate him, but probably more so do I hate the fact that, should I be a tourist just enjoying a nice vacation in, oh let's say Toulouse, there is a good chance that any Toulousain or Toulousaine (yes, I took French-- "bongiorno!" hold up, that can't be right...) who I pass on the street would say "Why isn't that guy wolfing down a Big Mac and Fries right now? Why isn't he chubby, ignorant and loud? Where's his big old map and fanny pack?" Jeez, these stereotypes about people who stereotype other people are getting kind of out of hand. To make a long rant even longer, I think a "big world" problem I have is the way we as Americans act, and thus are received and viewed by the rest of the world (which from the statistics of obesity, petrol consumption, and waste, one might think we Americans know not that there IS a rest of the world).
I knew something was off about him from the moment he spoke to me. His voice was rough and added a strange lilt to his words as he spoke them. It was the second day of the convention, and I’d grown used to strangers in their 20’s coming to talk to me, but this one was different. “Your belt looks great! Did you make that yourself?” “Yes, I did,” I muttered, looking around in vain for any of my friends. Although the hotel lobby was packed, none of the faces were ones I knew. “It’s beautiful!” he said, oblivious to my discomfort. “Can I look closer at it?” “I’d rather you didn’t.” His face fell, and I felt a wave of guilt. I didn’t know why, but I wanted to stay as far away from this man as I could. He stepped closer, and the guilt was replaced with the beginnings of panic. As I took a step back and was about to say something, a familiar voice shouted in my ear. A thin hand gripped my wrist. “There you are! Come on, we have to get to that.. thing. Now!” “Oh.. right!” I stammered. I turned to the stranger. “I’m sorry, I have to be somewhere-” Before I could finish, I was already leaving, my friend walking briskly, me being pulled behind him.
I'm not very engaged in the world of today. Yes I know there are problems, but, and excuse my disposition, I am just detached from them. Yeah there are starving children. And homeless women *and* men out there. Someone's dying probably right now, but I don't know what or how to help. I'll be a bad person for this, but I just don't have any empathy for these people. Neither do most people really. Sure they don't think so, a lot of people will think they're a good person helping the world, when they like a picture on facebook or share another. Some pictures of starving children who need food and water, or pictures of dying people with the caption "one like one prayer!" Really all they're doing is liking a picture, and most times they just go on with their life. A person'll see a picture of a badly maimed person or a cancer patient or wounded soldier or starving child, and think, "how horrible!" Then they'll look at the clock and realize they'll be late for meeting their friends at the mall where they'll just waste their time choosing what clothes to buy or what food to eat. I do the same thing, but I don't lie to myself and say I'm a better person for at least liking a picture of a man with half his skin burnt to a crisp. There's my two cents, and considering the monetary value of two cents, I don't see anyone doing much with it.
People need to look up. Look up from their 9-5 grind to envision a more efficient solution. Look up from their essays and SAT books and emails to appreciate the beauty and ugliness that the world throws at them. Look up from their personal vendettas and delusions of grandeur and woe is me attidudes. Take off the blinders that block everything but some worthless goal and enjoy the journey to that goal, the stepping off the path that is often more fruitful than achieving the goal itself.
I like your thought here, that people should be less fixated on materials and the supposed path to success, and more centered on the intangible parts of life, "actual happiness." Lastly, the end of your paragraph mainly from "enjoy the journey to that goal," to the end, it gets a little corny. If you could word that differently, get into a different metaphor, that might be nice. And describe the feeling of the journey a little more perhaps
The government. Our country's elect, or rather, elected. My hope for the future is for the government to be more efficient in achieving the promises they have made to the people. For those in the government to throw their pride aside and serve this nation. Because of you, government, my mother is not home. You sit, stall, dance around the issues, and I am sitting, waiting, and agitated. She is not here because you, government, failed to do your duty by America. Get your shit together, at least until November.
Afghanistan is still burning, our troops are still dying, and I’m at the movies. I’m captivated by a coherent serious of frames, while our troops scale mountain after mountain, trying to no avail to gain higher ground against an enemy that was born into suffering and pain. Fucked, the professionalism of our army has separated us from their burden. Past wars, wars with the draft were always a topic of discussion. People did not forget the hardships of our men over seas because their hardships could easily have been shared. I watch Denzel and Marky, Marky try to force chemistry to screen, and drool over the prospect of shirtless Paula Patton, as some poor grunts get shot down by an RPG over some long, forgotten mountain pass. The romanticism of war has long died, and Hemingway’s rhetoric is no longer appealing, perhaps this why Afghanistan does not exist during dinner.
Peter this a really really really good blog post. I like the reference to Hemingway, it is very effective in creating the nostalgic feeling of the essay for the reader. The line "Afghanistan does not exist during dinner" is perfect: very powerful and profound, but it is also not cliched and doesn't make the reader want to roll their eyes (which can sometimes happen when going for this dramatic of an ending). If there is anything that I would criticize, its the use of "Marky" instead of just saying Mark. It kind of feels like you break the tone of the essay there.
That cold feeling of waiting on a street corner as the day slips away, huddled beneath polyester, puffy coats. Dreading the sunset that the rest of Maine finds enchanting, or majestic. Trekking down to get your meal at 6:00, waiting in line while sad florescent lights tempt you, and the smell of pasta for the millionth time lowers your expectations from the juicy hamburger you had been dreaming of all day. Dawdling in the room while other crawl out, sucking the warmth into your belly as they begin to mop the floors. Back into a night so empty it doesn't even seem real.
ReplyDeletePulling into the left lane is an automatic reaction. See the two or three men standing at the telephone post, sign posed. Two dollars from your wallet, and they say God Bless. God Bless you for these two dollars that once meant everything and now means nothing. God bless you for cringing at the single blast of cold air that comes from lowering the window to give money to a man who will endure that pain all night long. God bless you for going home to dinner at a father and two brothers. God bless you for leaving me on this side walk, homeless and waiting.
I hate it when people accuse me of being an idealistic, or a dreamer, or unrealistic.
ReplyDeleteIn the 1960s, when people took to the street in protest of injustice, of hatred and of war, they were labeled crazy. When leaders of hope were murdered for the world to see, they were convinced to come down from their pedestal and see the world clearly, goddamnit, because they were never going to get any where being high-minded, because war is the way of the world, because assassinations happen, people die, and you need to get over yourself and your newfangled ideas because you are never going to change anything. The realists, the pragmatists stamped out the life of a generation, fit them into boxes and sent them to the suburbs, hushed up the veterans, and continued to fight wars, but subtly, in hushed tones that most Americans barely hear.
I have big ideas, crazy ideas, ideas that probably won't work, ideas that would be unpopular if I were to voice them. I am young, and I haven't seen a lot of the world. I don't have the experience or anger that comes with years of suffering and hard work. I am innocent, I am enthusiastic, I am naive. Maybe that makes me stupid, or useless, but not enough people still believe in the power of change. It is possible to do it, our country has zigzagged back and forth, peace and war, liberal government and conservative. Bills have been passed and repealed. Politicians concede and are elected. Life goes on. Those who have seen more than I have say that the world is not improving. "Life is not how it used to be," they say. I agree, life is not how it used to be, but it's not getting worse. It's always improving. I have hope. I hope that you don't think that makes me stupid.
I take six classes to fit art into my schedule, not to "appear well rounded" or because I am going to be an artist. I sacrifice my free time because acrylic paint gives me chills, and the silence the strokes my brain as I dash my brush across a piece of canvas, is one that does not exist in any other part of my life. But, frankly, if my father did not work at Waynflete, I wouldn't get my sacred hour a day to envision and create.
ReplyDeleteIt is ironic that we read an essay about education in our country because it is a subject I am incredibly passionate about. For every eye roll inducing "fall fest" and "this week in the upper school" I have been given a trillion opportunities. Yes, school is about 2+2 and instantaneous acceleration, but sadly enough at so many schools the other necessary parts have been done away with.
Oh boy. I don't even want to think of how Europeans, or Africans, or Indians, or Koreans, or Chinese, or any other countrymen besides Americans think of Americans, when I myself am disgusted by them. Perhaps I am getting ahead of myself here: I hate your stereotypical American. Not only do I hate him, but probably more so do I hate the fact that, should I be a tourist just enjoying a nice vacation in, oh let's say Toulouse, there is a good chance that any Toulousain or Toulousaine (yes, I took French-- "bongiorno!" hold up, that can't be right...) who I pass on the street would say "Why isn't that guy wolfing down a Big Mac and Fries right now? Why isn't he chubby, ignorant and loud? Where's his big old map and fanny pack?" Jeez, these stereotypes about people who stereotype other people are getting kind of out of hand. To make a long rant even longer, I think a "big world" problem I have is the way we as Americans act, and thus are received and viewed by the rest of the world (which from the statistics of obesity, petrol consumption, and waste, one might think we Americans know not that there IS a rest of the world).
ReplyDeleteI knew something was off about him from the moment he spoke to me. His voice was rough and added a strange lilt to his words as he spoke them. It was the second day of the convention, and I’d grown used to strangers in their 20’s coming to talk to me, but this one was different.
ReplyDelete“Your belt looks great! Did you make that yourself?”
“Yes, I did,” I muttered, looking around in vain for any of my friends. Although the hotel lobby was packed, none of the faces were ones I knew.
“It’s beautiful!” he said, oblivious to my discomfort. “Can I look closer at it?”
“I’d rather you didn’t.”
His face fell, and I felt a wave of guilt. I didn’t know why, but I wanted to stay as far away from this man as I could. He stepped closer, and the guilt was replaced with the beginnings of panic. As I took a step back and was about to say something, a familiar voice shouted in my ear. A thin hand gripped my wrist.
“There you are! Come on, we have to get to that.. thing. Now!”
“Oh.. right!” I stammered. I turned to the stranger. “I’m sorry, I have to be somewhere-”
Before I could finish, I was already leaving, my friend walking briskly, me being pulled behind him.
I'm not very engaged in the world of today. Yes I know there are problems, but, and excuse my disposition, I am just detached from them. Yeah there are starving children. And homeless women *and* men out there. Someone's dying probably right now, but I don't know what or how to help. I'll be a bad person for this, but I just don't have any empathy for these people. Neither do most people really. Sure they don't think so, a lot of people will think they're a good person helping the world, when they like a picture on facebook or share another. Some pictures of starving children who need food and water, or pictures of dying people with the caption "one like one prayer!" Really all they're doing is liking a picture, and most times they just go on with their life. A person'll see a picture of a badly maimed person or a cancer patient or wounded soldier or starving child, and think, "how horrible!" Then they'll look at the clock and realize they'll be late for meeting their friends at the mall where they'll just waste their time choosing what clothes to buy or what food to eat. I do the same thing, but I don't lie to myself and say I'm a better person for at least liking a picture of a man with half his skin burnt to a crisp. There's my two cents, and considering the monetary value of two cents, I don't see anyone doing much with it.
ReplyDeletePeople need to look up. Look up from their 9-5 grind to envision a more efficient solution. Look up from their essays and SAT books and emails to appreciate the beauty and ugliness that the world throws at them. Look up from their personal vendettas and delusions of grandeur and woe is me attidudes. Take off the blinders that block everything but some worthless goal and enjoy the journey to that goal, the stepping off the path that is often more fruitful than achieving the goal itself.
ReplyDeleteI like your thought here, that people should be less fixated on materials and the supposed path to success, and more centered on the intangible parts of life, "actual happiness." Lastly, the end of your paragraph mainly from "enjoy the journey to that goal," to the end, it gets a little corny. If you could word that differently, get into a different metaphor, that might be nice. And describe the feeling of the journey a little more perhaps
DeleteThe government. Our country's elect, or rather, elected. My hope for the future is for the government to be more efficient in achieving the promises they have made to the people. For those in the government to throw their pride aside and serve this nation. Because of you, government, my mother is not home. You sit, stall, dance around the issues, and I am sitting, waiting, and agitated. She is not here because you, government, failed to do your duty by America. Get your shit together, at least until November.
ReplyDeleteAfghanistan is still burning, our troops are still dying, and I’m at the movies. I’m captivated by a coherent serious of frames, while our troops scale mountain after mountain, trying to no avail to gain higher ground against an enemy that was born into suffering and pain. Fucked, the professionalism of our army has separated us from their burden. Past wars, wars with the draft were always a topic of discussion. People did not forget the hardships of our men over seas because their hardships could easily have been shared. I watch Denzel and Marky, Marky try to force chemistry to screen, and drool over the prospect of shirtless Paula Patton, as some poor grunts get shot down by an RPG over some long, forgotten mountain pass. The romanticism of war has long died, and Hemingway’s rhetoric is no longer appealing, perhaps this why Afghanistan does not exist during dinner.
ReplyDeletePeter this a really really really good blog post. I like the reference to Hemingway, it is very effective in creating the nostalgic feeling of the essay for the reader. The line "Afghanistan does not exist during dinner" is perfect: very powerful and profound, but it is also not cliched and doesn't make the reader want to roll their eyes (which can sometimes happen when going for this dramatic of an ending). If there is anything that I would criticize, its the use of "Marky" instead of just saying Mark. It kind of feels like you break the tone of the essay there.
Delete