I usually stay away from politics in forums such as this because the people who agree with you will only agree and the people that disagree with you will only get angry and judge you forever based on one opinion you might hold. But at the moment, I'm angry and when I'm angry, I type. So here I go.
I'm really, really, really tired of politics. It's gigantic and complicated and ineffectual. The point of a democracy is that the people vote in who they want to vote in and then those people vote on issues representative of the PEOPLE'S NEEDS.
First of all, a democracy does not work if all the participants of the democracy don't know what they're freaking talking about. Myself included, we simply do not understand our government. This is partly because it's become a huge web of annoying complicatedness and partly because we don't care to understand. This results in everybody taking the word of political pundits on highly polarized networks, until nobody has any opinions at all of their own, creating little armies of Keith Olbermans or Bill O'Reilly's or (God help us) Rush Limbaughs.
We end up with people thinking the healthcare bill will result in all their grandmas dying, a billion simultaneous free abortions, and the general end of the world. This simple, ignorant misconceptions result in stalling any forward progress on the bill. Republicans just say no, no, no so they can get re-elected by their misinformed Republican constituents. They keep the bill from getting passed, so even people who support the bill end up siding with the Republicans because the Democrats can't get it through. But they can't get it through because of the Republicans! Silly politics keep going on. Meanwhile, millions of people struggle to get by day to day with no healthcare or no job. I thought the government was supposed to help and protect the people??
Even Obama said in some interview or another that his mistake was that he thought the people would understand the policy. Because the policy itself is good. But all they end up getting is gross misrepresentations of the truth that they vehemently oppose without any real understanding. Poor Obama had too much faith in the American people and is now paying for it.
It used to be the media's responsibility to explain the government to the people. But they don't. All we get is men personally attacking others without remorse, overly biased reporting. (I just got caught in a sad youtube vortex of startling examples of horrible political reporting... I highly recommend that if you take anything they say on FOX News OR MSNBC seriously.)
It's a shame. How is a democracy supposed to work when politicians only want to get re-elected, the parties only want to shoot each other down, and the people have no clue what's really going on??
Jan 30, 2010
Jan 28, 2010
Infinite Discontinuity
The three words I've probably said the most in my life:
I hate math.
There's always been something in the numbers sprawled across the page that I find incredibly elusive. Always beyond my comprehension.
No matter how good a teacher or textbook may be, I still always fail to completely grasp it and understand it in the full, self-doubtless way I want to. Plus, it adds a lot of B's to my transcript...
But lately, I haven't hated it quite so much. I thought I would despise the obligatory PreCalc class I finally couldn't put off any longer. I don't. I'm not saying I enjoy it (I will never ever enjoy math, especially math with any variation of the word "calculus" in it).
But there's a certain certainty in the numbers that I kind of like. For example, some days during the week, I go to Precalc after a literature class. In this literature class, we discuss enormous topics above human comprehension and are expected to formulate articulate on-the-spot opinions about it. All this does is frustrate me.
While a quadratic equation also frustrates me, there's always the hope of conquering it. I know there's a definite answer and I know it's in the back of the book. There's always a method. Somebody has done the real discovering for you. All you have to do is learn how they did it and remember.
There's no answers to "what's the meaning of life?" no matter how many times my professor asks me. It truly is beyond my comprehension. You cannot graph humanity's inability to "approach the sublime" about the y-axis. We do search books for the answers, but even Thoreau, with all his footnotes, couldn't tell us. Nobody can.
At this age, this time in my life, there is nothing if not uncertainty. I may not have to provide my opinion on the meaning of life (excluding 9:30-10:50 on Mondays and Wednesdays) but I do have to decide what I want the meaning of my life to be. That's no easy task and I can't control a lot of what is going to happen, no matter how I much I may want to.
But I can control the x's and y's in my Precalc homework, ever certain and ever sure, clipped safely into my binder. I go into that class and when I leave, I decidedly know one more mathematical principle. I'm definitely not going to switch to a math major, but I can more greatly appreciate the steadfast consistency of numbers.
I hate math.
There's always been something in the numbers sprawled across the page that I find incredibly elusive. Always beyond my comprehension.
No matter how good a teacher or textbook may be, I still always fail to completely grasp it and understand it in the full, self-doubtless way I want to. Plus, it adds a lot of B's to my transcript...
But lately, I haven't hated it quite so much. I thought I would despise the obligatory PreCalc class I finally couldn't put off any longer. I don't. I'm not saying I enjoy it (I will never ever enjoy math, especially math with any variation of the word "calculus" in it).
But there's a certain certainty in the numbers that I kind of like. For example, some days during the week, I go to Precalc after a literature class. In this literature class, we discuss enormous topics above human comprehension and are expected to formulate articulate on-the-spot opinions about it. All this does is frustrate me.
While a quadratic equation also frustrates me, there's always the hope of conquering it. I know there's a definite answer and I know it's in the back of the book. There's always a method. Somebody has done the real discovering for you. All you have to do is learn how they did it and remember.
There's no answers to "what's the meaning of life?" no matter how many times my professor asks me. It truly is beyond my comprehension. You cannot graph humanity's inability to "approach the sublime" about the y-axis. We do search books for the answers, but even Thoreau, with all his footnotes, couldn't tell us. Nobody can.
At this age, this time in my life, there is nothing if not uncertainty. I may not have to provide my opinion on the meaning of life (excluding 9:30-10:50 on Mondays and Wednesdays) but I do have to decide what I want the meaning of my life to be. That's no easy task and I can't control a lot of what is going to happen, no matter how I much I may want to.
But I can control the x's and y's in my Precalc homework, ever certain and ever sure, clipped safely into my binder. I go into that class and when I leave, I decidedly know one more mathematical principle. I'm definitely not going to switch to a math major, but I can more greatly appreciate the steadfast consistency of numbers.
Jan 18, 2010
The Great Outdoors
So I haven't been writing lately...
Quite the fail on my part.
I just haven't been putting any cohesive thoughts together lately. Nothing really to commit to paper, er, screen. I have the feeling this post isn't going to be much different.
When I was little, I spent my life outside. If I spent a day inside, I felt a little guilty, like I was wasting all the sunshine and the fresh air. It's purpose was to provide a backdrop for all my vast imaginary worlds.
When I was really little, our house had (what seemed to me at the time) really big woods. Thinking back, it must've not been that big or Mom wouldn't have let five year old me tromp around out there unsupervised. But in these woods, I had great adventure. I don't remember that much, except the overwhelming happy feelings of fun, except this one day in which I discovered these random bones. I was completely convinced I'd stumbled on some sort of archaeological breakthrough. The missing link was in my backyard. Looking back, I'm pretty sure they were the toys of my neighbor's dog, T.J.
Now, I rarely go outside unless I'm walking from point A to point B. I'd like to blame it on the cold weather, but it's not that. I just lost the need to go out there somewhere along the way.
In my literature class, the discussion revolves around the properties of nature being conducive to self-discovery. Henry David Thoreau climbs the mountain and comes back down with divine inspiration and insights into the depths of humanity. I have issues buying into this theory. It seems awfully romanticized to me. But I did seem to like the outdoors enough when I was little. I didn't imagine half the things inside as I did in the big woods or the other assorted backyards I would later play in. Does this owe to nature or a child's imagination, though?
Today, I had to walk my cat. (That's another long, boring blog...) I put him on his little cat-sized leash and unleashed him into the wild he so desperately craves. While he was very frustrated to be tied to me instead of his usual manner of running free, he tried to make the most of the rare escapade. While I held onto his leash, forever pulling away from me, I found myself standing at the edge of the woods surrounded by nature.
No divine intelligence made its way through the branches into my waiting brain, but I did feel a little more peaceful than usual. More content. I tried to adopt the look of my cat, sitting serenely but acutely aware, in the middle of his kitty kingdom. He took in every leaf that blew and branch that swayed with keen awareness. Each branch he took care to sniff was of the utmost importance and deserved his complete concentration. While I'm not capable of this level of concentration, I tried to take it all in adequately.
Eventually, my dear pet extracted himself from his leash and dashed off. Because he's not allowed this freedom until the end of the month, I had to chase him through the woods. It's much less glamorous when you're trying to save your cat's $1000 dollar operation and random branches and thorns and unidentified sticky things are attacking you.
So, I finally gathered the animal and corralled him in the pool fence, so at least he'd still get to breath the fresh air. I sat in there with him, reading. I found myself much happier here, with this modern printed book that didn't fall from a tree, than I did standing in the woods. I guess I'm not an adventurer of the woodlands or a vast appreciator of the thing called Nature, like Henry David. I remain stubbornly unashamed of this fact.
But, perhaps, when the weather warms up, I'll set aside some time to go out and play.
Quite the fail on my part.
I just haven't been putting any cohesive thoughts together lately. Nothing really to commit to paper, er, screen. I have the feeling this post isn't going to be much different.
When I was little, I spent my life outside. If I spent a day inside, I felt a little guilty, like I was wasting all the sunshine and the fresh air. It's purpose was to provide a backdrop for all my vast imaginary worlds.
When I was really little, our house had (what seemed to me at the time) really big woods. Thinking back, it must've not been that big or Mom wouldn't have let five year old me tromp around out there unsupervised. But in these woods, I had great adventure. I don't remember that much, except the overwhelming happy feelings of fun, except this one day in which I discovered these random bones. I was completely convinced I'd stumbled on some sort of archaeological breakthrough. The missing link was in my backyard. Looking back, I'm pretty sure they were the toys of my neighbor's dog, T.J.
Now, I rarely go outside unless I'm walking from point A to point B. I'd like to blame it on the cold weather, but it's not that. I just lost the need to go out there somewhere along the way.
In my literature class, the discussion revolves around the properties of nature being conducive to self-discovery. Henry David Thoreau climbs the mountain and comes back down with divine inspiration and insights into the depths of humanity. I have issues buying into this theory. It seems awfully romanticized to me. But I did seem to like the outdoors enough when I was little. I didn't imagine half the things inside as I did in the big woods or the other assorted backyards I would later play in. Does this owe to nature or a child's imagination, though?
Today, I had to walk my cat. (That's another long, boring blog...) I put him on his little cat-sized leash and unleashed him into the wild he so desperately craves. While he was very frustrated to be tied to me instead of his usual manner of running free, he tried to make the most of the rare escapade. While I held onto his leash, forever pulling away from me, I found myself standing at the edge of the woods surrounded by nature.
No divine intelligence made its way through the branches into my waiting brain, but I did feel a little more peaceful than usual. More content. I tried to adopt the look of my cat, sitting serenely but acutely aware, in the middle of his kitty kingdom. He took in every leaf that blew and branch that swayed with keen awareness. Each branch he took care to sniff was of the utmost importance and deserved his complete concentration. While I'm not capable of this level of concentration, I tried to take it all in adequately.
Eventually, my dear pet extracted himself from his leash and dashed off. Because he's not allowed this freedom until the end of the month, I had to chase him through the woods. It's much less glamorous when you're trying to save your cat's $1000 dollar operation and random branches and thorns and unidentified sticky things are attacking you.
So, I finally gathered the animal and corralled him in the pool fence, so at least he'd still get to breath the fresh air. I sat in there with him, reading. I found myself much happier here, with this modern printed book that didn't fall from a tree, than I did standing in the woods. I guess I'm not an adventurer of the woodlands or a vast appreciator of the thing called Nature, like Henry David. I remain stubbornly unashamed of this fact.
But, perhaps, when the weather warms up, I'll set aside some time to go out and play.
Jan 5, 2010
Because I Have To
After a long, tumultuous relationship, I think it's finally over. Perhaps he's gotten too boring; we've fallen into a rut. I'm left with a dull, gnawing ache in my stomach all the time thinking about it. I really need him to live.
This isn't an exaggeration. I'm talking about food.
We've never really gotten along. I don't like eating. I only do it because the alternative, death, is a bit worse.
But occasionally, my will to live takes a small dive and I start eating the minimal amount necessary to sustain existence. Lately, I've been eating a cup of rice and those kinds of pickles that come on the side of sandwiches in nicer restaurants, and that's about it. It gets to the point that I actually feel sick after eating anything resembling an actual meal. Stomach shock, I guess.
I'm weird. I know. My family repeatedly tells me this as I stand in the middle of the kitchen, repulsed by all that surrounds me, rooted there by my grumbling, angry stomach.
My dad and brother love food. They adopt this look of pure joy while eating the simplest of dinners. While they have their fair share of dislikes as anyone does, they'll eat almost anything and are usually happy to do it. They don't understand how I can leave anything uneaten, push any dish away by just smelling it. My brother is appalled that I don't like the cheap version of pizza served in the Golden Coral buffet, but I'm not putting anything in my mouth that is not at least mildly aesthetically pleasing.
Concerned about my lack of what you'd call a sustainable diet, my mother appealed to the Swann's lady with her large truck full of various foods. Mom must've mentioned my childhood pension for steak, because they were vehemently advocating these "steak bites" things. Mom bought them and was brandishing the bag in my face when I most recently wandered into the kitchen to stare helplessly.
Unable to resist her pleas, I put the "steak bites" into the microwave. Immediately this seems like a bad sign, to put steak into a microwave. But that is what it said. So in they go. In the bag, they strongly resemble dog food made for a large German Shepard.
After spinning around in the microwave for a few minutes, the bag tells me to stir them. I'm not sure how you stir solid food. This was my second warning. But, under Mom's watchful eye, I flipped them over and stuck them back in the microwave.
When I pulled them out this time, they were simply hunks of oddly colored meat surrounded by a sea of speckled grease. Third warning, using the word "warning" lightly.
Undiscouraged, or at least not showing it, Mom says, "Put them on another plate and eat them." So begin transferring the supposed savior of my tastebuds to a clean plate. I can already tell, just by forking them, that their consistency is more like slightly thawed frozen jello than any steak I've ever eaten. Fourth warning.
Finally, the time has come to consume the blasted hunks of prepackaged grease and fat. I put one in my mouth. The taste isn't too horrible, though it reminds me somewhat of the deer my uncle forced me to eat when I was little. (Possible fifth warning?)
The consistency is horrible though. It's like chewing gum, but slimey. Mom sees the disgust on my face as I try to swallow the small piece, but she is unsympathetic. "They were expensive and you need to eat. Eat them."
So with that, I covered them in A1 sauce and forced my way through the awful plate. There's still a whole bag of them waiting to torture me in the refrigerator.
And what's that? I think I hear my stomach growling.
I hate food.
This isn't an exaggeration. I'm talking about food.
We've never really gotten along. I don't like eating. I only do it because the alternative, death, is a bit worse.
But occasionally, my will to live takes a small dive and I start eating the minimal amount necessary to sustain existence. Lately, I've been eating a cup of rice and those kinds of pickles that come on the side of sandwiches in nicer restaurants, and that's about it. It gets to the point that I actually feel sick after eating anything resembling an actual meal. Stomach shock, I guess.
I'm weird. I know. My family repeatedly tells me this as I stand in the middle of the kitchen, repulsed by all that surrounds me, rooted there by my grumbling, angry stomach.
My dad and brother love food. They adopt this look of pure joy while eating the simplest of dinners. While they have their fair share of dislikes as anyone does, they'll eat almost anything and are usually happy to do it. They don't understand how I can leave anything uneaten, push any dish away by just smelling it. My brother is appalled that I don't like the cheap version of pizza served in the Golden Coral buffet, but I'm not putting anything in my mouth that is not at least mildly aesthetically pleasing.
Concerned about my lack of what you'd call a sustainable diet, my mother appealed to the Swann's lady with her large truck full of various foods. Mom must've mentioned my childhood pension for steak, because they were vehemently advocating these "steak bites" things. Mom bought them and was brandishing the bag in my face when I most recently wandered into the kitchen to stare helplessly.
Unable to resist her pleas, I put the "steak bites" into the microwave. Immediately this seems like a bad sign, to put steak into a microwave. But that is what it said. So in they go. In the bag, they strongly resemble dog food made for a large German Shepard.
After spinning around in the microwave for a few minutes, the bag tells me to stir them. I'm not sure how you stir solid food. This was my second warning. But, under Mom's watchful eye, I flipped them over and stuck them back in the microwave.
When I pulled them out this time, they were simply hunks of oddly colored meat surrounded by a sea of speckled grease. Third warning, using the word "warning" lightly.
Undiscouraged, or at least not showing it, Mom says, "Put them on another plate and eat them." So begin transferring the supposed savior of my tastebuds to a clean plate. I can already tell, just by forking them, that their consistency is more like slightly thawed frozen jello than any steak I've ever eaten. Fourth warning.
Finally, the time has come to consume the blasted hunks of prepackaged grease and fat. I put one in my mouth. The taste isn't too horrible, though it reminds me somewhat of the deer my uncle forced me to eat when I was little. (Possible fifth warning?)
The consistency is horrible though. It's like chewing gum, but slimey. Mom sees the disgust on my face as I try to swallow the small piece, but she is unsympathetic. "They were expensive and you need to eat. Eat them."
So with that, I covered them in A1 sauce and forced my way through the awful plate. There's still a whole bag of them waiting to torture me in the refrigerator.
And what's that? I think I hear my stomach growling.
I hate food.
Jan 2, 2010
Everything I Know About Being a Girl, I Learned From Judy Blume
Some books are just better by booklight and 3 a.m.
I'm no statistician, but I'm going to guess that in 75% of women's pasts, they've spent a few late nights huddled underneath the covers, reading a forbidden but juicy Judy Blume book by a flashlight (or booklight).
I know I'm no exception. Judy Blume pretty much wrote the book(s) on being a girl. When I saw a book titled "Everything I Needed To Know About Being a Girl I Learned From Judy Blume," I simply couldn't leave the store without it. The title alone sums it up perfectly.
Last night, true to my typical fashion, I couldn't sleep. When I can't sleep, out comes the books. Usually, I just turn on the lamp strategically placed beside my bed. But for some reason, I felt compelled to attach the small pink booklight that sits uselessly on my nightstand to the cover and read by the glow of a single, tiny LED bulb. I also felt compelled to set aside the interesting novel I'm currently in the middle of, and pick up the aforementioned Judy Blume homage.
As I sat there, staring at the title page, I couldn't help but laugh. This is exactly how most girls read a Judy Blume original.
Judy has managed to become one of the most challenged authors of all time. She isn't charged with the crime of promoting witchcraft like J.K. Rowling or religious sacrilege like Philip Pullman. She simply told prepubescent girls how it is when nobody else would.
The middle school and early high school years are notoriously tumultuous, and tv would to tell you that everybody has a wise mother or a cool aunt to assist you in navigating it. I'm here to tell you that not everyone does. My mother, while great and perfectly adequate, is definitely not nurturing and pretty much as embarrassed as I was. She was also an only child. No cool aunts.
So I turned to the one thing that had always worked for me before: books. I discovered Judy Blume in a random chance-grabbing at my middle school library, which is how many good things happen. But I discovered more than just something to read. I discovered my cool aunt and wise mom and best friends and beautiful reassurance all alphabetically arranged on the bottom shelf in the first row in the library.
Judy Blume knew all and knew how to make a confused twelve year old girl understand. No time in life is more embarrassing than puberty. There's not a soul alive that doesn't blush a little at just the word. But Judy made it alright. Judy made it alright for so many young girls.
Judy teaches the pitfalls of bras and boys and even God. Though she pisses a lot of people off (the audacity to suggest that it's okay for girls to masturbate or that going to your parents isn't always the best solution for bullying or that sometimes the heroine just doesn't get the guy), she teaches so many girls how to be girls, how to be women. Even though her books are banned so often, by libraries and over-protective parents alike, somehow anybody who wants the books somehow gets them and reads them surreptitiously under the covers.
Though I read almost all of her books in the course of my growing up, I never got around to reading Forever..., the most notorious Blume title (even more notorious than her refreshingly blunt and explicit novel intended for emotionally and sexually frustrated housewives). Often known as the The Sex Book, it simply tells the tale of a high school couple exploring the boundaries of their relationship, physically and mentally.
I don't think it's the sex scenes themselves that make people cringe at the content. The female lead, Katherine, has sex and nothing bad happens. She doesn't get pregnant, an STD, or become a raging sex addict. She satisfies her curiosity, and eventually, moves on. I'm sure this story plays out over and over in high schools all over the country. Judy Blume recognized this, and helped so many Katherines feel a little less alone.
Though life has yet to present me with that particular problem, I know I'll be just a little more prepared when it does. After all, I have Judy Blume in my corner.
Are You There God, It's Me Margaret affected me more soundly than almost any book I've ever read, and I read it in middle school. If I ever have a daughter, I will make sure she reads this book. But perhaps I'll leave it lying about, and let her experience it the way most girls have experienced Judy Blume--at 3 a.m. with a booklight and a sense of wonder.
I'm no statistician, but I'm going to guess that in 75% of women's pasts, they've spent a few late nights huddled underneath the covers, reading a forbidden but juicy Judy Blume book by a flashlight (or booklight).
I know I'm no exception. Judy Blume pretty much wrote the book(s) on being a girl. When I saw a book titled "Everything I Needed To Know About Being a Girl I Learned From Judy Blume," I simply couldn't leave the store without it. The title alone sums it up perfectly.
Last night, true to my typical fashion, I couldn't sleep. When I can't sleep, out comes the books. Usually, I just turn on the lamp strategically placed beside my bed. But for some reason, I felt compelled to attach the small pink booklight that sits uselessly on my nightstand to the cover and read by the glow of a single, tiny LED bulb. I also felt compelled to set aside the interesting novel I'm currently in the middle of, and pick up the aforementioned Judy Blume homage.
As I sat there, staring at the title page, I couldn't help but laugh. This is exactly how most girls read a Judy Blume original.
Judy has managed to become one of the most challenged authors of all time. She isn't charged with the crime of promoting witchcraft like J.K. Rowling or religious sacrilege like Philip Pullman. She simply told prepubescent girls how it is when nobody else would.
The middle school and early high school years are notoriously tumultuous, and tv would to tell you that everybody has a wise mother or a cool aunt to assist you in navigating it. I'm here to tell you that not everyone does. My mother, while great and perfectly adequate, is definitely not nurturing and pretty much as embarrassed as I was. She was also an only child. No cool aunts.
So I turned to the one thing that had always worked for me before: books. I discovered Judy Blume in a random chance-grabbing at my middle school library, which is how many good things happen. But I discovered more than just something to read. I discovered my cool aunt and wise mom and best friends and beautiful reassurance all alphabetically arranged on the bottom shelf in the first row in the library.
Judy Blume knew all and knew how to make a confused twelve year old girl understand. No time in life is more embarrassing than puberty. There's not a soul alive that doesn't blush a little at just the word. But Judy made it alright. Judy made it alright for so many young girls.
Judy teaches the pitfalls of bras and boys and even God. Though she pisses a lot of people off (the audacity to suggest that it's okay for girls to masturbate or that going to your parents isn't always the best solution for bullying or that sometimes the heroine just doesn't get the guy), she teaches so many girls how to be girls, how to be women. Even though her books are banned so often, by libraries and over-protective parents alike, somehow anybody who wants the books somehow gets them and reads them surreptitiously under the covers.
Though I read almost all of her books in the course of my growing up, I never got around to reading Forever..., the most notorious Blume title (even more notorious than her refreshingly blunt and explicit novel intended for emotionally and sexually frustrated housewives). Often known as the The Sex Book, it simply tells the tale of a high school couple exploring the boundaries of their relationship, physically and mentally.
I don't think it's the sex scenes themselves that make people cringe at the content. The female lead, Katherine, has sex and nothing bad happens. She doesn't get pregnant, an STD, or become a raging sex addict. She satisfies her curiosity, and eventually, moves on. I'm sure this story plays out over and over in high schools all over the country. Judy Blume recognized this, and helped so many Katherines feel a little less alone.
Though life has yet to present me with that particular problem, I know I'll be just a little more prepared when it does. After all, I have Judy Blume in my corner.
Are You There God, It's Me Margaret affected me more soundly than almost any book I've ever read, and I read it in middle school. If I ever have a daughter, I will make sure she reads this book. But perhaps I'll leave it lying about, and let her experience it the way most girls have experienced Judy Blume--at 3 a.m. with a booklight and a sense of wonder.
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