Material possessions run modern society. These possessions come down to technology, and technology today comes down to just one rectangular piece of metal (or plastic, if you live in China). That’s right folks; one piece of metal the size of your hand runs our entire population. Seven billion people. One piece of metal. We call it the “smartphone”.
Imagine if every single smartphone in the existence of Earth disintegrated in the same fire as in Anne Bradstreet’s poem, “Upon the Burning of Our House”. Our relationships between each other could no longer be formulated over the Internet. Life would be turned upside down.
On Thursday of last week, tragedy struck the Yeskey household: I broke my own smart phone. Oh, my precious Samsung Galaxy S4! (Yes, you heard correctly. I’m in the minority here with a Droid). My S4 squealed as it leapt out in front of me, hitting the hard, tile floor face-first. Upon picking it up, I discovered, to my terrible dismay, that its screen would no longer turn on. Black forever, like the hole where my heart used to be.
Just three days without the device has caused a significant amount of strife in my daily life.
First, I missed a notification from my work that my shift had been cut for the night. The struggles of a slow Sunday scooping frozen yogurt… I swear. Not only had I planned my entire day around going to work, but so did my dad, because he had to drive me. Sorry Pa.
Second, my homework has taken double the amount of time to complete. Without quick Google searches for definitions of words or diagrams of mitosis, my entire weekend became engulfed in academics.
Third, I have been forced to take a step back in time to the ages of the cave man and use an alarm clock to wake up in the morning. The sound of incessant beeping is forever engrained into my brain.
Fourth, I can’t Twitter stalk. Or Instagram stalk. Or Facebook stalk. What am I supposed to do with my life?
Fifth, I have to type this blog on a “computer”, using oddly shaped buttons called a “keyboard”. Such a strange contraption it is. Not to mention it's just about as fast as a sloth with chained legs trying to walk through a pool of straight-up honey.
Sixth, seventh, eighth, ninth, tenth… The list goes on forever like the blackness of my S4 screen. Luckily, I have insurance on my phone, and I will be getting a replacement in the mail tomorrow. Life will go on! I will survive!
. . .
And this is what society has come down to. Material possessions --> Technology --> Smart phones --> Psychotic, human interaction-deprived, sore-eyed teenagers with faces lit up by the artificial light that radiates from their smart phones. Whatashame.
Sunday, September 29, 2013
Sunday, September 22, 2013
Go You!
"Indian" is not the only stereotype circulating the block. Sherman Alexie is not alone in his battle against this judgemental classification of human beings.
In middle school, I was "that emo kid." Hair as black as an abyss, eyeliner so thick I could pass for a raccoon, and skinny jeans so tight that belts lost their purpose.
I was emo. Emo was I.
I was goth. Goth was I.
I was stereotyped. Stereotyped was I.
I was hurt, too. Hurt, too, was I.
Fifth grade. No, this early on I had not built up an emo wardrobe, but my personality reflected such a label. Silent, glaring, and (constantly) swearing, the label stuck to my forehead like gum under a dining room table.
Sixth grade. When my pre-algebra teacher assigned the class seats, I inevitably got paired with an "Asian nerd". Christine was forced to sit next to my spiked head. "You scared me when I first met you," she confided in me.
Others were sincerely afraid of me. Funny thing is, in retrospect, I was afraid of myself, too. Not my emoness, but rather my true personality. My true being. And for that reason, I hid myself in the dark, under layers of black fabric. There was no way in the world that my true essence was worth radiating to others. Who was I anyway? How was I supposed to communicate my individuality to others if I had no idea what this meant? Thus, I clung for dear life to the character that was easiest to be--emo Bri.
Seventh grade. The harassment continued
. On the bus, kids stroked my hair as they walked through the isle. They secretly snapped photos of me at seven in the morning from the back of the bus. My personal paparazzi. However, by this time, my caramel roots began to show and I no longer had the energy to maintain such a drastic style. Nor the money. (Decent eyeliner is seven bucks a pop!)
Eighth grade. I impulsively chopped my hair off. I was now strutting a preppy bob. Jaw-length. The stereotyping ceased, but an air of labels still lingered as I walked through the halls of Smith Middle School.
I needed to go through that experience. Some call it a phase, I call it a stepping stone. A stepping stone to the discovery of who Brianne Yeskey really is:
Amiable.
Bri.
Creative.
Dedicated.
Be you. Create your own label, because if you don't, others will do it for you. Don't be afraid to be yourself. Don't be afraid of yourself. Today you are you, and that's truer than true... Woohoo! Go you!
In middle school, I was "that emo kid." Hair as black as an abyss, eyeliner so thick I could pass for a raccoon, and skinny jeans so tight that belts lost their purpose.
I was emo. Emo was I.
I was goth. Goth was I.
I was stereotyped. Stereotyped was I.
I was hurt, too. Hurt, too, was I.
Fifth grade. No, this early on I had not built up an emo wardrobe, but my personality reflected such a label. Silent, glaring, and (constantly) swearing, the label stuck to my forehead like gum under a dining room table.
Sixth grade. When my pre-algebra teacher assigned the class seats, I inevitably got paired with an "Asian nerd". Christine was forced to sit next to my spiked head. "You scared me when I first met you," she confided in me.
Others were sincerely afraid of me. Funny thing is, in retrospect, I was afraid of myself, too. Not my emoness, but rather my true personality. My true being. And for that reason, I hid myself in the dark, under layers of black fabric. There was no way in the world that my true essence was worth radiating to others. Who was I anyway? How was I supposed to communicate my individuality to others if I had no idea what this meant? Thus, I clung for dear life to the character that was easiest to be--emo Bri.
Seventh grade. The harassment continued
. On the bus, kids stroked my hair as they walked through the isle. They secretly snapped photos of me at seven in the morning from the back of the bus. My personal paparazzi. However, by this time, my caramel roots began to show and I no longer had the energy to maintain such a drastic style. Nor the money. (Decent eyeliner is seven bucks a pop!)
Eighth grade. I impulsively chopped my hair off. I was now strutting a preppy bob. Jaw-length. The stereotyping ceased, but an air of labels still lingered as I walked through the halls of Smith Middle School.
I needed to go through that experience. Some call it a phase, I call it a stepping stone. A stepping stone to the discovery of who Brianne Yeskey really is:
Amiable.
Bri.
Creative.
Dedicated.
Be you. Create your own label, because if you don't, others will do it for you. Don't be afraid to be yourself. Don't be afraid of yourself. Today you are you, and that's truer than true... Woohoo! Go you!
Sunday, September 15, 2013
Heritage Schmeritage
The genes we inherit from our ancestors create our entire outward appearance. They establish the color hair we have on our heads to the size of our feet and everything in between: however, is it possible that our genetic makeup dictates who we are on the inside as well? In other words, are our thoughts, feelings, morals, and behavior all a result of our DNA?
In The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, Mark Twain explores the possibility that human beings are all equal through the use of his character Jim. Initially presenting Jim as the stereotypical black slave--dumb and lacking humanity-- Twain develops Jim's emotions and personality as the novel progresses. Jim escapes the society that frowns upon his skin color via a raft with Huck. Jim becomes Huck's caretaker. He mourns for his family, and he regrets beating his deaf daughter. Jim is able to let go of his life as a slave. He is able to let go of his heritage. On the raft, it no longer defines him. He is able to freely express his true thoughts and feelings. Preconceived notions of how a certain race should act is nothing more than a stereotype. Heritage is a label. If we can break free of said label, as Jim does in The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, we will have more room to radiate our true essence to others.
Huck grows up in a situation that allows him to formulate his own opinions toward society. If genetic makeup decided Huck's true self, his white skin would have meant that he disgraced African Americans. However, Huck does not let his southern, white heritage define him. He breaks free of the stereotype, loving Jim and pursuing the morals that he believes are right in his heart.
When the Nazis systematically murdered Jews in the holocaust, the Nazis allowed the label of being a Jew to justify a person's death. Adolf Hitler imagined a perfect society of blonde hair and blue-eyed humans. However, the Jews were more than just a three-letter title. Like anybody, they had different personalities, morals, behaviors, thoughts, feelings, and interests. The Nazis allowed heritage to define the Jews, killing hundreds of thousands.
People are more than their heritage.
Our true beings are decided through upbringing and are not a result of inheritance or physical appearance. One's inside character may be suppressed by society's view of said person's background, but it is not background that creates one's inner being.
In The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, Mark Twain explores the possibility that human beings are all equal through the use of his character Jim. Initially presenting Jim as the stereotypical black slave--dumb and lacking humanity-- Twain develops Jim's emotions and personality as the novel progresses. Jim escapes the society that frowns upon his skin color via a raft with Huck. Jim becomes Huck's caretaker. He mourns for his family, and he regrets beating his deaf daughter. Jim is able to let go of his life as a slave. He is able to let go of his heritage. On the raft, it no longer defines him. He is able to freely express his true thoughts and feelings. Preconceived notions of how a certain race should act is nothing more than a stereotype. Heritage is a label. If we can break free of said label, as Jim does in The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, we will have more room to radiate our true essence to others.
Huck grows up in a situation that allows him to formulate his own opinions toward society. If genetic makeup decided Huck's true self, his white skin would have meant that he disgraced African Americans. However, Huck does not let his southern, white heritage define him. He breaks free of the stereotype, loving Jim and pursuing the morals that he believes are right in his heart.
When the Nazis systematically murdered Jews in the holocaust, the Nazis allowed the label of being a Jew to justify a person's death. Adolf Hitler imagined a perfect society of blonde hair and blue-eyed humans. However, the Jews were more than just a three-letter title. Like anybody, they had different personalities, morals, behaviors, thoughts, feelings, and interests. The Nazis allowed heritage to define the Jews, killing hundreds of thousands.
People are more than their heritage.
Our true beings are decided through upbringing and are not a result of inheritance or physical appearance. One's inside character may be suppressed by society's view of said person's background, but it is not background that creates one's inner being.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)