Ayaan Hirsi Ali grew up in some of the world’s most strict Islamist countries, but after running away from an arranged marriage and claiming refugee status in Holland, she flourished and become a powerful political force, with a steady personal perspective and a spine of solid steel. Her autobiography humanizes the struggles in many other countries, most notably Somalia, and awakens a zeal in anyone who has even wanted to make a difference in the world. Her story is called Infidel.
The most philosophical aspect of her story raises questions of cultural and moral relativism. My initial reactions include a feeling that it is wrong to intrude and judge other cultures, especially one I know little about.
One objection is that we may judge a culture if the culture itself permits judgment, but this is quickly reduced to absurdity. It makes the two cultures equivalent in that we must submit to a higher will, but excuses us from the notion that we are accountable to our own culture, in which judgment is unacceptable. This becomes a battle of cultures, the struggle of a hare and a fox on an epic scale. We must ensure that we preserve our essential hare-ness, for it is no good to become another fox.
Another objection was a cry to the loss of the culture, a cultural preservation so we maintain our humanity, and every aspect thereof, while we abandon notions that prove incompatible or counter to an acknowledged goal. Respect for other cultures is good, but our world is a world of action. It is a temptation of many nihilist to reduce all to a state of “true nature”, to find a basic sense of rightness or meaning reflected within the Zen nature around us; but as humans we are playing a new game now. As we make rules to play with our newfound intellect and sense of individuality, above all, we must be conscientious.
But our “war”, the new “game” is unique in that victory does not preclude destruction. This is not a decision of right or wrong, good or bad, but of fit or unfit. We may carry the parts of another culture with us, as a memory, to respect each aspect, but the majority must move on, evolve. To become stagnant is to perish.
This lesson can, of course, become internalized. As one passes stages in life, one must learn new, and abandon old, recognizing the stages in others, to lend assistance where necessary, but never to degrade or disrespect, but to honor and remember in fondness. But only to remember, for if we become mired in the past, we ignore our future.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
life updates
It started at a black desk. I'd sat to write, sipping coffee and a small soup, running ideas like carrots across the cheese grater of my mind. The dogs were running, ridiculously, under my feet, their favorite game. When I asked if they would like, "outside?" they charged for the door like maniac children; I smiled as I let them out.
Only one returned.
The other, neatly removed from our lives like an unwanted afterthought, prised out of our delicate shell like a shot from a wound.
In brief glimmers now, I miss her, see her out the windows, can feel how a parent feels when their child fails to return home. Waiting for their safety, to see their haired head bob just above the window frame. Picturing them, forever looking away, and wondering.
Reading something one does not want to read is always a challenge. There is, of course, the disbelief. An internal force of will so strong, so palpable, that it tears the psyche in two; one must remain in the truth, but the other is pleased to go into fancy, where life continues unabated as though a terrible calamity had not suddenly befallen us. But no matter how we cling, we must be pulled away.
I have a sore. Several across my body. Small round traces in my skin that sting to touch.
She put down the letter, holding her breath, 'lest the wind blow away the spider-web holding her to her past moment, her last second of hope, breaking the worst finish line ever, pushing her through it to, "another failure"
She felt like a pebble in a valley of tremendous monoliths. the minutes ticked by, she floated home, pulled by the dog, the letter dangling from one finger, as if she did not own it, it was not hers, this? No. Not mine.
Use it, was her advice, given like a crust from a man in a thick fur coat. But all the words were out there, used, and scrubbed, and reused, dull, they could never be new. Another failure, even her grief taken from her. Even sunk in the mire, her own personal horror was mundane, not worth anything. Glued to the dirt like a bug, thrashing stupidly in the bitter knowledge, feeling so foolish that a million tragedies were happening everywhere, and were so much worse, but they could not touch her like this, the spike in her bubble, the rape of hope., So ridiculous, then, to cry, wail, heave, but each light has a darkest hour, all united in sorrow. Tadpoles of misery, glistening in turmoil.
Fine. She bellows.
Throw me to ruin.
Complete loss.
Bring the horror.
Just do not consign me to wallow in this sick tepid nothing. Cast me to shadow or let me stand in the light. Just don't stand me in the twilight and promise me the sun.
Only one returned.
The other, neatly removed from our lives like an unwanted afterthought, prised out of our delicate shell like a shot from a wound.
In brief glimmers now, I miss her, see her out the windows, can feel how a parent feels when their child fails to return home. Waiting for their safety, to see their haired head bob just above the window frame. Picturing them, forever looking away, and wondering.
Reading something one does not want to read is always a challenge. There is, of course, the disbelief. An internal force of will so strong, so palpable, that it tears the psyche in two; one must remain in the truth, but the other is pleased to go into fancy, where life continues unabated as though a terrible calamity had not suddenly befallen us. But no matter how we cling, we must be pulled away.
I have a sore. Several across my body. Small round traces in my skin that sting to touch.
She put down the letter, holding her breath, 'lest the wind blow away the spider-web holding her to her past moment, her last second of hope, breaking the worst finish line ever, pushing her through it to, "another failure"
She felt like a pebble in a valley of tremendous monoliths. the minutes ticked by, she floated home, pulled by the dog, the letter dangling from one finger, as if she did not own it, it was not hers, this? No. Not mine.
Use it, was her advice, given like a crust from a man in a thick fur coat. But all the words were out there, used, and scrubbed, and reused, dull, they could never be new. Another failure, even her grief taken from her. Even sunk in the mire, her own personal horror was mundane, not worth anything. Glued to the dirt like a bug, thrashing stupidly in the bitter knowledge, feeling so foolish that a million tragedies were happening everywhere, and were so much worse, but they could not touch her like this, the spike in her bubble, the rape of hope., So ridiculous, then, to cry, wail, heave, but each light has a darkest hour, all united in sorrow. Tadpoles of misery, glistening in turmoil.
Fine. She bellows.
Throw me to ruin.
Complete loss.
Bring the horror.
Just do not consign me to wallow in this sick tepid nothing. Cast me to shadow or let me stand in the light. Just don't stand me in the twilight and promise me the sun.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Dada-ictions
It's a strange thing, then, addictions. the original inspiration for this article spurred from a reading of Cracked's "5 creepy ways video games are trying to get you addicted", and I will save myself time later by apologizing for the amount of times I am forced to use the word, or variants thereof, addiction.
When I wake, I try to cook something, breakfast I prefer to be varying and different, something original but familiar. The reason why is unknown to me, it's just a compulsion. Certainly I only require the base amount of nutrition but there is a feeling that I need a difference, a change, some control.
I try not to watch T.V. I read, instead, but even free magazines suck me in with the strange siren of meaning and autonomy. The thrill obtained just from accomplishing whatever goal (Bake the Perfect Frittata!) the hamster in my head tells me to aim for is momentary, until the horrible secondary voice in the back of my head tries to place the puzzle piece of success in the larger picture of the jigsaw I'm completing, which has no sides, no reference, and no end in sight; the puzzles of my youth where we had lost a few key pieces and were now ignobly stored in Ziploc bags.
Even eschewing the virulent sources of consumer pop-culture does not spare me the usual cravings for asinine garbage. I had the craving the other day for a new purse, for what reason I could not possibly document. Even as I write this, it is plugged into a laptop with freshly manicured nails. The woman who owned the salon the nails were duchessed at was a small-business owner, something you could sense about her within a few minutes of meeting her, the bustle and competence scurrying around her sensible shoes. Hearing her story, her history, a few words of interest made me think and wonder. As a child I was forever saying what I wanted to be when I grew up, but that nebulous time has undoubtedly arrived and I find myself disenfranchised.
When so much in life has been reduced to a series of drop-down selectable menus and replaceable facades, the overall governance of our own life is still shrouded in mystery and, dare I say, peril. It is the biggest game of poker you will ever find: the stakes, all-in; the rules, incomprehensible; the penalties, eternal. We array a platter of pop-ups, we construct mazes of challenges and struggles, we convince ourselves, froth ourselves into a frenzy, to appeal to the ruthless master of our internal measure that it matters, that this - truly THIS- is what life is about.
Even the culture we swim through, when we wish to break free of the presiding "reality t.v." or video game, or what-have-you, addiction, there is another culture there to catch us, to show us, that this - truly THIS- is what life is about. Even the conspiracy theorists, (Why the Government is Out to Get You) or the artists, (This Represents the Sadness of Love Lost) have a specially designed web, net, cradle, to hold us softly to spare us from what Sartre called Anguish; the uncomfortable realization that we are indeed, wholly responsible for our individual spiraling existence.
Perhaps it is, then within this overarching sand heap of ants, that we are found, we can rest assured that everything does matter within the larger context. But many days it feels as though I am breaking the game of truth or dare, that I have peeped behind the massive curtain behind the sets, and instead of production gear or lights, have found - nothing, but my fellow actors keep playing, and I have lost my part, my lines, where's my mark? The query now, do I keep playing, hold my breath, hope the magic holds, assume it matters not, or do I acknowledge the empty, hold to it, to what end? I suspect I know the end of that route, and I like both my ears. Oddness, for certain to assume my place is to be some sort of traveling meta-player, rollicking across the stage while the audience, (is there an audience?) tries to ensure I don't spill their cosmic drinks?
Scarier still, is the thought of the realist, non-realist debate. If a realist perspective holds, this angst has no point other than to keep me awake for sleepless nights, which no doubt, makes the problem worse. But should a non-realist perspective hold, my answer is solved, within the relief that the only things which exist are those that I choose to focus on, 'meaning' can go stuff itself, and I can sleep soundly with no worse fear than should I die in my sleep everything I've ever known would be obliterated (buh?), which will likely keep me up.
It is to this problem I return, like a dog to a rope toy, time and again, with about as much success. Elegantly simple, yet fiendishly engaging, with no end in sight, no way off the hamster ball of this obsession. I shelve it, time and time again, like a book that I read which has contented itself to seat one the main character in a bland room with no theory as to why or when it will cease. I have hurled it across the room, but faithfully return panting.
When I wake, I try to cook something, breakfast I prefer to be varying and different, something original but familiar. The reason why is unknown to me, it's just a compulsion. Certainly I only require the base amount of nutrition but there is a feeling that I need a difference, a change, some control.
I try not to watch T.V. I read, instead, but even free magazines suck me in with the strange siren of meaning and autonomy. The thrill obtained just from accomplishing whatever goal (Bake the Perfect Frittata!) the hamster in my head tells me to aim for is momentary, until the horrible secondary voice in the back of my head tries to place the puzzle piece of success in the larger picture of the jigsaw I'm completing, which has no sides, no reference, and no end in sight; the puzzles of my youth where we had lost a few key pieces and were now ignobly stored in Ziploc bags.
Even eschewing the virulent sources of consumer pop-culture does not spare me the usual cravings for asinine garbage. I had the craving the other day for a new purse, for what reason I could not possibly document. Even as I write this, it is plugged into a laptop with freshly manicured nails. The woman who owned the salon the nails were duchessed at was a small-business owner, something you could sense about her within a few minutes of meeting her, the bustle and competence scurrying around her sensible shoes. Hearing her story, her history, a few words of interest made me think and wonder. As a child I was forever saying what I wanted to be when I grew up, but that nebulous time has undoubtedly arrived and I find myself disenfranchised.
When so much in life has been reduced to a series of drop-down selectable menus and replaceable facades, the overall governance of our own life is still shrouded in mystery and, dare I say, peril. It is the biggest game of poker you will ever find: the stakes, all-in; the rules, incomprehensible; the penalties, eternal. We array a platter of pop-ups, we construct mazes of challenges and struggles, we convince ourselves, froth ourselves into a frenzy, to appeal to the ruthless master of our internal measure that it matters, that this - truly THIS- is what life is about.
Even the culture we swim through, when we wish to break free of the presiding "reality t.v." or video game, or what-have-you, addiction, there is another culture there to catch us, to show us, that this - truly THIS- is what life is about. Even the conspiracy theorists, (Why the Government is Out to Get You) or the artists, (This Represents the Sadness of Love Lost) have a specially designed web, net, cradle, to hold us softly to spare us from what Sartre called Anguish; the uncomfortable realization that we are indeed, wholly responsible for our individual spiraling existence.
Perhaps it is, then within this overarching sand heap of ants, that we are found, we can rest assured that everything does matter within the larger context. But many days it feels as though I am breaking the game of truth or dare, that I have peeped behind the massive curtain behind the sets, and instead of production gear or lights, have found - nothing, but my fellow actors keep playing, and I have lost my part, my lines, where's my mark? The query now, do I keep playing, hold my breath, hope the magic holds, assume it matters not, or do I acknowledge the empty, hold to it, to what end? I suspect I know the end of that route, and I like both my ears. Oddness, for certain to assume my place is to be some sort of traveling meta-player, rollicking across the stage while the audience, (is there an audience?) tries to ensure I don't spill their cosmic drinks?
Scarier still, is the thought of the realist, non-realist debate. If a realist perspective holds, this angst has no point other than to keep me awake for sleepless nights, which no doubt, makes the problem worse. But should a non-realist perspective hold, my answer is solved, within the relief that the only things which exist are those that I choose to focus on, 'meaning' can go stuff itself, and I can sleep soundly with no worse fear than should I die in my sleep everything I've ever known would be obliterated (buh?), which will likely keep me up.
It is to this problem I return, like a dog to a rope toy, time and again, with about as much success. Elegantly simple, yet fiendishly engaging, with no end in sight, no way off the hamster ball of this obsession. I shelve it, time and time again, like a book that I read which has contented itself to seat one the main character in a bland room with no theory as to why or when it will cease. I have hurled it across the room, but faithfully return panting.
Friday, March 05, 2010
When the Loss was Noticed
Out of my mouth
a sound
only part of me cares to own
a hollow roar
from the small child in my belly
who has never truly silenced
wailing like a barrel
the grief of the young
smuggled away as an adult
coughed out in tiny burps
this cry
like a plucked string
resonance from my bones
from the holes in my marrow
the cosmic pulse
my own existence exerts
a sound
only part of me cares to own
a hollow roar
from the small child in my belly
who has never truly silenced
wailing like a barrel
the grief of the young
smuggled away as an adult
coughed out in tiny burps
this cry
like a plucked string
resonance from my bones
from the holes in my marrow
the cosmic pulse
my own existence exerts
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Hide and go seek life
I remember, on occasion, an incident when I was young, sleeping-over at my girlfriend's house. We had decided to play Truth or Dare, and I, having nothing interesting to report, chose dare. I was instructed to borrow ice cubes from a neighbor, who turned out to be a young girl close to our age, who handed me some with a minimum of fuss or odd glances. When I returned to triumphantly throw them in my drink, my compatriots wailed that I had 'done it wrong' by revealing to the unwitting neighbor that I was under duress, in the form of a dare. This, of course, made no sense to me; the confession had made the whole affair easier, and I didn't poke fun at a neighbors ignorance, taking advantage of the innate hilarity of others confusion. This caused my girlfriends to pout, and declare we should play another game, since I had obviously ruined this one, by my insistence that I had done nothing wrong.
In retrospect, I suppose it was not really entering into the 'spirit of the game', since without ulterior explanation she would assume that there was 'something wrong' with me, in the finest tradition of the fundamental attribution error, this result being the intention of the game truth or dare. But the feeling that someone, somewhere, thinks I am a lunatic, without a cause I have wholeheartedly embraced, is one I have never been able to come to peace with. Sometimes I wonder if, since the concept of who a person really consists of, is shrouded and subjective, that it may be also defined by what other people think. Certainly the primary energy left behind by an individual when they depart this world, is encapsulated within others memories. The difference between a fond, correct remembrance, and an unflattering, false one is invalidated when the potential to correct the unflattering one is erased by the removal of the original subject.
Whether one believes the opinions of others matter when 'evaluating' self-worth, is negotiable, but the dynamic at work between the girl's and their beliefs of the 'spirit of the game' is undeniable. It seems, in life, especially in relationships that too many times we try to play 'a game', where the rules are not defined, other than by sheer subjective speculation. We cannot let others win, so we hide, we equivocate, and scheme. When a goal is identified, we will strive, and endeavor, through any means, to achieve it, and then look down on others who refuse to play the way we play, because it does not validate and justify our actions, and we begin to wonder and guess, if there is a better way to play, which perhaps could achieve more. The games we play in childhood just teach us the steps required to play the bigger games in adulthood, to deny ourselves, tease ourselves, even misinform ourselves. We live in a world of self-delusion, and it is all set in motion so others can dance to the steps that everyone knows, in a huge coordinated two step of activity. When someone begins to waltz, there is chaos as things become disorderly. Our society is increasing becoming obsessed with the streamlined, the efficient, the ordered. And this obsession drives out creativity and seeks to squash novelty. But whether it is good or bad, is again, subjective.
In retrospect, I suppose it was not really entering into the 'spirit of the game', since without ulterior explanation she would assume that there was 'something wrong' with me, in the finest tradition of the fundamental attribution error, this result being the intention of the game truth or dare. But the feeling that someone, somewhere, thinks I am a lunatic, without a cause I have wholeheartedly embraced, is one I have never been able to come to peace with. Sometimes I wonder if, since the concept of who a person really consists of, is shrouded and subjective, that it may be also defined by what other people think. Certainly the primary energy left behind by an individual when they depart this world, is encapsulated within others memories. The difference between a fond, correct remembrance, and an unflattering, false one is invalidated when the potential to correct the unflattering one is erased by the removal of the original subject.
Whether one believes the opinions of others matter when 'evaluating' self-worth, is negotiable, but the dynamic at work between the girl's and their beliefs of the 'spirit of the game' is undeniable. It seems, in life, especially in relationships that too many times we try to play 'a game', where the rules are not defined, other than by sheer subjective speculation. We cannot let others win, so we hide, we equivocate, and scheme. When a goal is identified, we will strive, and endeavor, through any means, to achieve it, and then look down on others who refuse to play the way we play, because it does not validate and justify our actions, and we begin to wonder and guess, if there is a better way to play, which perhaps could achieve more. The games we play in childhood just teach us the steps required to play the bigger games in adulthood, to deny ourselves, tease ourselves, even misinform ourselves. We live in a world of self-delusion, and it is all set in motion so others can dance to the steps that everyone knows, in a huge coordinated two step of activity. When someone begins to waltz, there is chaos as things become disorderly. Our society is increasing becoming obsessed with the streamlined, the efficient, the ordered. And this obsession drives out creativity and seeks to squash novelty. But whether it is good or bad, is again, subjective.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Recent Ruminations
At the heart of an onion
I was born
wrenching open layers,
silky filaments
coat my lips
which, when ripped
burst forth a spring of new sorrow
filling my old cocoon
with tears
I thought of
nothing
today, threw it
behind my face
thinking it would stick
to the billboard of my thoughts
but watched it drop straight down,
past, into the vast dark pool
of my eyes with a tremendous
gasp
silver shoals
darting in
a brown stream
Now that November is over, while the National Novel Writer's Month novel I created is being edited, I'm unsure whether to post it online, or simply post parts.
I was born
wrenching open layers,
silky filaments
coat my lips
which, when ripped
burst forth a spring of new sorrow
filling my old cocoon
with tears
I thought of
nothing
today, threw it
behind my face
thinking it would stick
to the billboard of my thoughts
but watched it drop straight down,
past, into the vast dark pool
of my eyes with a tremendous
gasp
silver shoals
darting in
a brown stream
Now that November is over, while the National Novel Writer's Month novel I created is being edited, I'm unsure whether to post it online, or simply post parts.
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Camp(y)
The battery in my walkman has died.
pulling the phones out of my ears
i raise my head
looking into the face
of unfathomable weight, power
rock god titan.
a mesozoic eye regards my size
the moutain has found me wanting.
pulling the phones out of my ears
i raise my head
looking into the face
of unfathomable weight, power
rock god titan.
a mesozoic eye regards my size
the moutain has found me wanting.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Typical
Cruising down the road in a thirteen ton truck, with a dish of butter chicken, an unhinged frenchman at the wheel, "stuck in middle" on the radio and my honey waiting for me with shakesphere at home.
Alright I'm bragging, but I didn't want to give readers the impression I was emo.
Alright I'm bragging, but I didn't want to give readers the impression I was emo.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Lapis Lazuli harmony
The heron's beak
is an arching spire
piercing the tinfoil-bitter-blue.
He provides the path
from the Thunder God's fury
through the crown of my skull
through my vertebrae
My feet rooted.
My ears are open.
Fill me with dirt,
I have cleaned my plate.
is an arching spire
piercing the tinfoil-bitter-blue.
He provides the path
from the Thunder God's fury
through the crown of my skull
through my vertebrae
My feet rooted.
My ears are open.
Fill me with dirt,
I have cleaned my plate.
Wednesday, August 05, 2009
Friday, July 24, 2009
Late night Titus
My mouth is full of teeth
and veins filled with tiny stars
edged bits of sand
as the waves heave
over and again rolling
across the lace of my spine
I, Titus,
a sorrow dispersed
into the blackness
the stars lay witness
and veins filled with tiny stars
edged bits of sand
as the waves heave
over and again rolling
across the lace of my spine
I, Titus,
a sorrow dispersed
into the blackness
the stars lay witness
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Socket Wrench
There was a socket danging down from the sky. It was white and simple; a place to put a bulb. I stood, agog, in the middle of the road. I walked to it, touched it; there was no switch, but a long cord, all the way up, until I lost it in the sky, swingin with my touches with a great weight. I plugged my head in, screwed it up in, messing my hair; my face blushed, my cheeks flushed. How odd.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Monday, June 08, 2009
Lunar Orb
There is a moon in my sky tonight:
large yellow fat hanging hovering
like the eye of some Godzilla
waiting with baited tongue
teeth covered in fly bits
turning towards
flicking lightning
gulp
large yellow fat hanging hovering
like the eye of some Godzilla
waiting with baited tongue
teeth covered in fly bits
turning towards
flicking lightning
gulp
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Ironic apocalypse soap
In my purse I have a small bar of soap. I keep it there in case anything bad ever happend, because few things make me feel better and more capable than being clean. But then I thought, "What could ever happen that would be so bad I wouldn't have access to soap?" Naturally, the apocalypse. But then I realized, if the apocalypse happens, noone will care what I smell like. Thus it is ironic apocalypse soap. The soap is ironic, not the apocalypse.
(P.s. Roots: I intended to post a comment replying to your last comment, but after 7 tries, couldn't get it, I decided to wait until I had access to a computor. I'm not sure how long that will be...)
(P.s. Roots: I intended to post a comment replying to your last comment, but after 7 tries, couldn't get it, I decided to wait until I had access to a computor. I'm not sure how long that will be...)
Friday, May 15, 2009
Bill 44
Oh for heaven's sake.
The newest hot button issue being debated around tables of the socially- conscious is Bill 44, a bill to include into Alberta's human rights law the right to exempt their children from classes teaching concpets the parents disagree with (for example evolution, religon, sex and it's orientations). Many liberals are declaring this would "[strike] another blow against critical thinking in schools and extend one of the bleaker elements of its history".
I do not have children. I'm not sure I will ever have children. But I know, between my parents and the revolving door of "grab-bag" teachers (some of whom were excellent, others...less so) who I would trust with my upbringing. I may not believe in what you say, but i will defend, to the death, your right to teach it to your children. This is being touted as a way to eliminate discrimination that many parent pass on to their offspring, but this is not the vehicle to do it in. To do so, we need to eliminate discrimination in the adults, not estrange children from their parents. Society today has enough things ripping the family apart, we do not need another one causing children to question the first authority they will ever know.
Furthermore, teachers are not all the overarching bearers of unbiased information that we would love them to be. Some have feelings. Some are politically motivated. What can be done to combat the uncomfortable suggestion that a teacher may have access to hundreds of fresh minds? At least parents only have access to their own child. A bigoted parent will do less damage than a bigoted teacher.
The common objection, here, is that knowledge is better than ignorance and that children should be aloowed access to all schools of thought to encourage tolerance. This is true, and I agree, but this is not the place to do it. If a tree is rotten on the inside, do we cut off the leaves, grafting them onto an already burdened tree? The proper step would be to nourish the base of the tree and watch the branches heal. Children are in difficult enough situations. Lets not make them worse.
The newest hot button issue being debated around tables of the socially- conscious is Bill 44, a bill to include into Alberta's human rights law the right to exempt their children from classes teaching concpets the parents disagree with (for example evolution, religon, sex and it's orientations). Many liberals are declaring this would "[strike] another blow against critical thinking in schools and extend one of the bleaker elements of its history".
I do not have children. I'm not sure I will ever have children. But I know, between my parents and the revolving door of "grab-bag" teachers (some of whom were excellent, others...less so) who I would trust with my upbringing. I may not believe in what you say, but i will defend, to the death, your right to teach it to your children. This is being touted as a way to eliminate discrimination that many parent pass on to their offspring, but this is not the vehicle to do it in. To do so, we need to eliminate discrimination in the adults, not estrange children from their parents. Society today has enough things ripping the family apart, we do not need another one causing children to question the first authority they will ever know.
Furthermore, teachers are not all the overarching bearers of unbiased information that we would love them to be. Some have feelings. Some are politically motivated. What can be done to combat the uncomfortable suggestion that a teacher may have access to hundreds of fresh minds? At least parents only have access to their own child. A bigoted parent will do less damage than a bigoted teacher.
The common objection, here, is that knowledge is better than ignorance and that children should be aloowed access to all schools of thought to encourage tolerance. This is true, and I agree, but this is not the place to do it. If a tree is rotten on the inside, do we cut off the leaves, grafting them onto an already burdened tree? The proper step would be to nourish the base of the tree and watch the branches heal. Children are in difficult enough situations. Lets not make them worse.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Pink rainstorm
I remember
my mother
she made me
strawberry spinich salad
she made me
finish my homework
she made me
proud of myself
she made me
remember other's feelings
she made me
tall and attractive
she made me
dance to piano music
I remember
my mother
she made me
my mother
she made me
strawberry spinich salad
she made me
finish my homework
she made me
proud of myself
she made me
remember other's feelings
she made me
tall and attractive
she made me
dance to piano music
I remember
my mother
she made me
Sunday, May 03, 2009
High Figs (a.k.a. update)
I wish I had something more exciting to post, but this will have to do. We passed the "fifteen day" mark within which to post our statement of defence (Saturday. I had a small party to observe the occasion. By party, I mean booze), but my lawyer assures me it's not necessary yet. Currently it's just talking; Not even official negotiating. However my friend, the driver of our errant vehicle, has not been served yet because the army has whisked him away. Not far away, just away. Teehee. I'm not worried though, I'm taking a criminology course! Wait'll the chief justices get a load of me! Carries a pistol and can say "Mens rea" without snorting! Able to leap medium sized sandcastles in a single bound with a running start and good tail wind! Now, where's my lasso?
In honor of my daddy, the mayor
There once was a man from High Level,
said "This weather can go to the devil."
He set out to be mayor;
His first edict declar'd?
"One summer shall now become Sev'ral."
said "This weather can go to the devil."
He set out to be mayor;
His first edict declar'd?
"One summer shall now become Sev'ral."
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