Justice for All

For the past week or so, I feel like all I've been doing is arguing. It's exhausting, really. But I would definitely be more exhausted if I didn't argue because I wouldn't be able to sleep soundly at night knowing I didn't defend what I believe to be right.

But the thing that angers me more than any of the bigots, religious zealots, and just plain ignorant people are those who claim the argument doesn't matter.

Of course it matters. Just because you aren't immediately affected by something doesn't mean it isn't worth worrying about. We are debating our state's Constitution; constitutions are documents by the people, of the people, for the people. We are the people, and it is our duty and obligation as citizens to have opinions and voice them about our government.

Further, if you cannot find it in yourself to care about somebody else, especially people who are being discriminated against, then you are exceedingly selfish. If you cannot care about people's rights being ripped away, about the pain and suffering of others, about grave injustices in the society you take part in, then there is no saving you. You are worse than those fighting on the immoral side because at least the opposition is taking a stand for what they believe. At least they have emotions.

Do not try to patronize me for passion. What is the point of living if you don't care about anything? Apathy is not cool; detachment is a mental illness, not a fad. Do not lay passively unless you agree with every single thing in your world. There is always something to be bettered, somebody that needs help.

I will argue until I can't argue anymore. I don't care if I'm defeated, if the amendment makes its disgusting way into our law. I will still fight it because I will still be right. Those who claim it doesn't matter are the truly wrong ones.

"We must always take sides. Neutrality helps the oppressor, never the victim. Silence encourages the tormentor, never the tormented."
-Elie Wiesel

Passionate People

Sometimes, I think there's nothing so great in the world than a person who is passionate about something.

There's something enchanting, attractive, magnetic about a passionate person. They're the people that people gather around. They inspire the groups that inspire change. People want to be where the action is, and sometimes you can just feel potential radiating from people.

That's why local news channels always feature "hometown heroes"--people pursuing passions in their little communities, with captivated local audiences looking to them to see some good in the world. End the newscast on this happy note, and people will associate the station with passionate people.

Maybe my life is just a pursuit of these individuals. By putting yourself in proximity, you can hope for a little of their magic to rub off on you. I attended gifted programs in elementary school taught by passionate people and ended up with a passion for reading. My high school was created by a group of passionate people, and I ended up with a passion for education. I've always been a compulsive club-joiner; I like the feeling of sitting in a room of people with a common purpose and understanding, all working towards the same goal. When everybody comes together to create something successful, each person adding something that wouldn't have been there without them, it sparks little seeds of passion in all the participants.

Every day, I grow a little more sure that I'm supposed to be a teacher. Teachers are in a prime position to notice sparks of passion in students and ignite them. And maybe they'll rub off a little on me, too.

There Are Places I Remember...

I know this is roughly the same topic I always write about, but hey, it's my life. Whatcha gonna do?

I feel like a baby bird getting tossed out of a nest. It's necessary, and I want to do it, know I have to do it, and know it'll be wonderful being able to fly. But before you can leap, you have to sever connections with everything inside that nest.

My nest is considerably bigger than a baby bird's.

It feels like life sort of makes these disconnects for you. Lately, I've been feeling more disconnected than I used to be from everything and everyone. At first, I was sort of depressed about that feeling, like it indicated some kind of failure on my part to keep in touch. Then I started thinking it was just me being beaten into sad monotony by the same life I've lived for five years. But now I sort of think it's just me subconsciously preparing for leaping out of the metaphorical nest. It's a lot easier to jump if the things that hold you back aren't holding on quite so tightly anymore.

I figured this out when I noticed myself becoming irrationally annoyed at the few things that haven't really changed. It seems as though they're stuck in the past, and they need to hurry up and join us in the future. I couldn't really pinpoint why they became annoying; they just were.

It is still a little depressing though. I don't talk to the same people I used to talk to every day, and if I do, conversation seems superficial, separate, obligatory. It's only natural to miss people, and it's perfectly possible to miss somebody you see every day. It's like my relationships are preparing themselves to downgrade to the Christmas card level they'll soon be reduced to.

Tonight, I sat at my grandma's kitchen table and looked through the photo albums that captured three generations' worth of life. In the pictures of my dad's youth, he was surrounded by people he never talks to anymore. The people are so happy in the pictures, so unaware of the diverging paths they're about to walk down. The closeness of the relationships are captured on the photo album's page even if they don't exist in Dad's current reality.

Most of the pictures had a story behind them. These are the parts that truly matter. All of these people left some sort of impression on Dad, whether it's an anecdote he still tells from time to time or a life lesson learned hard. I suppose the people, for the most part, are making the transition from my reality to my photo album. They're anecdotes and lessons learned. Through that, they'll always exist at their full intimacy in my life. I will remember them for what they were then, and only partially for what they are now and what they will become.

I'm sad, but I'm happy. I know I'll find a new set of people to make their own invaluable impressions and create their own memories; I know the ones I've got now are permanent and strong. A successful life, perhaps, should be measured by weight of the photo albums stacked in the bottom drawer of the bureau in the living room.

Football

My whole life, my parents really wanted me to like football. For a period when I was about seven, I felt extreme pressure to choose a preferred team. I made what seemed to be the logical choice: I lived in North Carolina, so I selected the Panthers. I didn't understand football in the slightest, never watched the games, but for almost entire year's worth of Sundays, I would be dressed in Panther garb and adults would endlessly spout the Panther's score to my uncomprehending and apathetic ears.

As time passed and my true feelings about football became apparent, the Panther-mania gave way to just the occasional comment by the distant behind-the-times relative. I'm now very glad I didn't stick with the Panthers, as they are a horrible team to be fan of these days.

It isn't much of a wonder that I didn't grow up liking football. I've written about previously about mom's football insanity, which didn't paint a blissful picture of an American pastime. I regarded the behavior as insane, not something I'd ever want to participate in. I guess I ignored my dad's rational football viewing--he would simply watch the games with interest, root for his favorite team, be a little sad if they lost, and then move on with his life in a timely manner. But the crazies always get the attention.

This all changed through a couple of random events. The first didn't have much to do with football. One evening, I was passing through the living room and saw my parents utterly transfixed by something on the television. They were watching the Celtics and the Lakers in the NBA finals, and it was a close game. They've always been big Celtics fans, so they were pretty (but reasonably) into the game.

Out of boredom and intrigue, I sat down and watched the rest of the game with them. It was almost fun--the drama and intensity of the game was appealing, and I have a decent understanding of the game from having played youth league basketball, so I could watch with a degree of intelligence. I ended up watching the rest of the exciting seven-game series, and even though the Celtics lost to the Lakers in game seven, it was a pretty fun experience. I even found myself looking forward to the next games, which was something I'd never before experienced about a sport event, short of the Olympics and maybe the Sunday round of the Master's.

The second event was a pretend stint as a sports writer at the local newspaper. The boss guy ended up being an incompetent jerk, and I never actually performed the job, but when I thought I was going to have to attend and report upon a lot of football games, I tried to learn the game. My gleeful parents taught me all about first downs, pass rushes, and sacks. I watched a few games to test my knowledge. I've always been decent at retaining information, and soon possessed a fairly decent working knowledge of football.

Another fateful evening, I found myself bored. It happened to be the first regular season game of my dad's favorite football team, the Indianapolis Colts. I sat down with them to watch, and ended up absorbing every second. It turns out football isn't so bad when you understand it.

I then watched every single Colts game, up until their first round playoffs loss to the New York Jets on Saturday. I was actually sad, for both their loss and the end of my extended interest in the NFL season.

My parents couldn't be more proud. They bought me a personalized Colts jersey, which I actually find pretty awesome; they explain the nuances of the game, and are super thrilled when I site some article I read online about analyzing the Colts' running game or recent injury report. I could win the Nobel Peace Prize while studying at Cambridge University to become a neurosurgeon, and they would still remember the day I watched my first full football game with them as their proudest day.

I still occasionally get weird reactions from people who knew me before I cared about screen passes and pylons, but I now entertain some weird attraction to the game. It really doesn't make sense to emotionally invested in something where you have no real connection the people involved and the outcome is virtually irrelevant to life in any meaningful way. And yet millions of people watch it, cry over it, rejoice over it every week.

I guess the attraction is a very base human appeal: rooting for a team gives you something to be apart of, something bigger than yourself. Wanting the same team to win gives two people a kind of unique camaraderie that is not easily replicated elsewhere. Identifying yourself with a solidified group--Jets fans, Colts fans, Steelers fans--that is cut and dried is a very rare thing. You may subscribe to a political party, but there is so much variance within that you might not have anything real in common with the other members at all. You can attend the same schools or work in the same business, but still be miles apart. But if you both are diehard Cowboys fans, well that's something you can bond over.

So maybe that's why my parents were so glad that I took an interest in the game they hold so dear. It's not about the football players or the score in the end. It's about the people you celebrate wins or mourn losses with.

Into the Passion Pit

I exist in a weird place between the "I love Katy Perry, Lady Gaga, and Ke$ha" world of pop song, Glee-watching, mainstream teenyboppers and the "I love a bunch of bands you're not privileged enough to even listen to" band tshirt-wearing, skinny jean squeezing counter-culture teenager. I don't worship Kurt Cobain nor will I ever buy a Jonas Brothers concert ticket.

So I drift between these two worlds and never feel like I have complete credit in either of them.

Standing in the middle of a group of half-drunken, college-aged social deviants, I didn't exactly feel at home. Not being particularly into the music (while not a horrible sound, it was very...consistent to say the least and I never understood one word that was uttered), I turned my attention to the concert-goers that surrounded me.

The girls in front of me, blocking my view to the stage and bobbing up and down noncommittally the music, as if to say "I just happened to walk in here and saw a concert going on and decided to stay" even though they obviously made a concerted effort to attend, were a rather strange sight. One was dressed in a very non-hipster kid jeans and a sweatshirt, snapping a picture every three seconds and commencing to edit the quality of them in real time, very much unengaged with the performance unfolding a few feet in front of her.

What I presume was her friend stood beside her, much more into the music as evidenced by the occasional fist pumping to the beat and accidental tell-tale smile, was wearing a strange shirt-dress thing with loud and mismatched childish jewelry, including an over-sized monkey ring. In this weird demographic, it was difficult to tell the Halloween costumes from the personal "style" of the patrons.

Behind me was what can only be described as an obnoxious, oddly dressed and very drunk lesbian. She apologized to me a few times for her intoxicated dancing and bumping, but she did not apologize for her annoying habit of completely turning her back on the show and attempting to flirt with a tragically geeky-in-an-unattractive-way (Yeah, I'm confused too.) guy who was a little way too much into the band. Eventually, they both disappeared with their Coors Light aroma and impolite mosh pit etiquette.

Other notables include the threesome composed of a man and woman similarly dressed whose body language suggested a romantic couple and whose facial features suggested siblings accompanied by a girl who didn't fit at all; also present was what appeared to be a gay couple dressed as a gorilla and a banana, an obnoxious sounding kid who looked like Justin Bieber but was dressed as something I don't know about, and a super drunk guy who said hey to everyone and spit in the floor.

While I may never be part of this peer group (what a shame), it was nice to experience it for one night, a bobbing head among all the other bobbing heads in the crowd, unintelligible from an actual appreciator of electronica music.

I do enjoy passionate and eclectic people and loud music with a bass that reverberates through your very muscles and organs and contributing to the happiness of a beloved friend, so all and all, it was a night well spent.

Hibernating

I have been struggling with people lately. It seems every time I try to talk to one, it goes wrong. I don't think I'm doing anything differently than usual to warrant lesser results, but perhaps I am.

Or maybe it's just the time of year. Exam time, for the students among us, always produces plenty of stress. Everybody is bent over syllabuses and calculators, trying to figure out what has to be scored on the remaining assignments to capture that coveted A, or maybe just to pass. The pressure of having to study leaves everyone feeling guilty for having a non-school related conversation, daring to think about something else when there's so much schoolwork to be done. Everybody is on edge.

There's also the weather, becoming cold and windy and rainy and sucking all the life force from the poor little humans wrapped in layers, shivering their way from place to place. The wind comes and snatches all the green from the leaves and knocks them to the ground, along with the spirits of those raking the leaves despondently. It's hard to be happy when surrounded by a dead, cold outdoors. It gets dark so early.

Or maybe it's just that my own stock of patience has been depleted. I haven't been sleeping or eating particularly well lately, giving me a chronic feeling of bad health. My head always hurts and it takes conscious effort to stay awake. This doesn't leave much room for dealing with the sensitivity of my fellow beings, and catering to their minute sensibilities. It takes energy that I do not have to deal with people.

So I avoid contact until this time has passed. Now I know why bears hibernate. It's easier to spend these months curled up in your cave, warm and sleeping, than out there trying to communicate with a frustrating world. I stay inside, with my heating and books, where I can remain blissfully alone.

Only "Urgh" is Adequate

Fickle friends, how you annoy me!

I don't understand people. I really don't. They're so simple and so complex all at same time. This makes them especially hard to be friends with.

All I want are people I can talk to, that I can identify with, and who don't judge me. Apparently this is entirely too much to ask.

Why do we demand that our friends be who we want them to be instead of who they actually are? Life isn't supposed to be like a Sims game. You can't click edit and add or subtract personality traits. That doesn't stop anyone from trying though.

I have come to really appreciate the few people I can count on to actually accept me instead of try to mold me into their image of what I'm supposed to be. Heck, I'll even settle for people willing to incorporate new ideas into their me-stereotype.

What I can't tolerate are those who feel the need to demand of me certain actions or bar me from others. If you do not like any aspect of my personality, actions, interests, etc., why do you even want to be near me at all?

If I could, I would be everyone's friend. But I'm tired of always having to the bigger person in some many various relationships. I'm never allowed to be the petty and immature one because that role is constantly filled by somebody else. It's hard always letting everything slide off my back when hardly anyone affords me that luxury.

I suppose I should just get over it and deal with people as they are, and I as I am. But sometimes, I just reach a breaking point where I wish I didn't have to talk to them anymore. I want to pass on all their games and scheming and lies. I just want to be. Simply be, without judgment or having to take sides or engage in silly arguments.

But that's not possible and I'll always have to deal and I'll always have to be the bigger person and I hope I don't have to stretch so far I break.

As Michel from Gilmore Girls once said, "People are especially stupid today. I cannot talk to anymore of them." Or something like that.

A Load of Cliches and a Silly Commentary on Humanity

It's easy to be cynical and write everyone off as all the same, or simple. But what is easiest is not always right. Rarely, really.

It seems like, with people, there's always a little something you don't know about them that makes you see everything else in a different light. It's surprising how much everything really does have a reason, even if it's sometimes hard to see. Buried way down deep inside is a motivation for every behavior, no matter how absurd.

Generally, I do think people can be placed into categories, but we don't recognize just how many categories there are. There are a bunch of different traits, disorders, tendencies, whatever that we can have, but there's just so many combinations possible that it creates the everybody-is-a-unique-snowflake allusion.

There's a billion paths our lives can take and all these small, varied circumstances mold people into the complex creatures they are. Unless we follow a person around every second of every day, we'll never completely understand what, to use a cliche, makes them tick.

I guess my point is that we shouldn't judge people, but that's stupid because we are always going to judge people. It cannot be helped. Plus it sounds dreadfully after school specialish. I guess, then, that my point is we should keep an open mind about people and allow the inevitable judgments to be altered by inevitable developments as you get to know a person.

After all, who wants to be over-simplified?