Thanks to Ray Huttash for being the first to respond to my little musings! :-)
All you other folks feel free to jump on the band wagon.
In response to what you said, I have a couple of things to post.
I met with a friend in Colorado who is studying brain disorders quite heavily in PT school. He was explaining to me that the newest diagnosis trend in children is Autism. Finally! We've found a way to excuse a child's shortcomings, and still call them a genius. Isn't that Brilliant? Now all the parents can go on happily about their days with that peace of mind, while the television raises their children.
It's interesting what Ray points out about getting children in active situations. I think that children who spend all of their free time watching TV and playing video games while eating candy and drinking soda, are bound to come up with a bit of extra energy.
The big curiosity I have about the diagnosis and treatment of such disorders, is about the American Quick-Fix. They say that we know miles more about how black holes are formed, work, and die than we have been able to decode about our own brains. And yet, we feel confident to adjust people's brain chemistry, day in and day out, with no fear. It makes one wonder.
Thursday, October 30, 2003
Your Apathy is Killing People
I had dinner in the city tonight at Lucky Chang's. On my journey toward Penn Station, somewhere near Chelsea, I saw a piece of graffiti that stuck in my head. The graffiti was stenciled in many locations in white spray paint. It said "YOUR APATHY IS KILLING PEOPLE."
Who is this piece of propaganda speaking to? What does it hope to achieve? I imagine some twenty-something revolutionary spraypainting in the dead of night feeling very clever at his ability to move people to action. It makes me think of a quote I encountered from Ghandi (no clue as to the context) "It doesn't matter what you do. only that you do it."
On one hand I like the empowerment offered by this little piece of graffiti. There is an implication here that even a single voice has the power to save lives, that the enforcing of change starts with taking interest, and that even by analyzing one's apathy a system of change is being imposed. This quote becomes a challenge to right a wrong, to involve yourself in the world around you. I think this is an important idea to grapple with. One can not be both apathetic and involved, and so by taking an active interest in something you become powerful.
On the other hand, there are implications which concern me. Is there truly such a wide spread lack of interest in the human condition that people are dying? Is this pointed at our voices or our lifestyles? I have heard it said that my generation is classifiable by our apathetic attitudes. It would stand to reason, in a democratic society, that crops of coming-of-age-voters who don't care, could mean dangerous things for our future. I worry that this quote speaks to an American archetype who would rather drink beer, watch the thursday night line-up, and suck down cheeseburgers than get out and vote, or write a letter to their Senator. It worries me that THIS sort of apathy is what breeds the kind of animosity America has seen in recent years from other nations.
I'm not sure who this is pointed to, or what it aims to change. I do know It's going to make me think a little harder about what I can do to improve the world in which I live. I may not be able to change all of the bad things in the world, but I can find someone who is doing something truly good, and help them do that.
Who is this piece of propaganda speaking to? What does it hope to achieve? I imagine some twenty-something revolutionary spraypainting in the dead of night feeling very clever at his ability to move people to action. It makes me think of a quote I encountered from Ghandi (no clue as to the context) "It doesn't matter what you do. only that you do it."
On one hand I like the empowerment offered by this little piece of graffiti. There is an implication here that even a single voice has the power to save lives, that the enforcing of change starts with taking interest, and that even by analyzing one's apathy a system of change is being imposed. This quote becomes a challenge to right a wrong, to involve yourself in the world around you. I think this is an important idea to grapple with. One can not be both apathetic and involved, and so by taking an active interest in something you become powerful.
On the other hand, there are implications which concern me. Is there truly such a wide spread lack of interest in the human condition that people are dying? Is this pointed at our voices or our lifestyles? I have heard it said that my generation is classifiable by our apathetic attitudes. It would stand to reason, in a democratic society, that crops of coming-of-age-voters who don't care, could mean dangerous things for our future. I worry that this quote speaks to an American archetype who would rather drink beer, watch the thursday night line-up, and suck down cheeseburgers than get out and vote, or write a letter to their Senator. It worries me that THIS sort of apathy is what breeds the kind of animosity America has seen in recent years from other nations.
I'm not sure who this is pointed to, or what it aims to change. I do know It's going to make me think a little harder about what I can do to improve the world in which I live. I may not be able to change all of the bad things in the world, but I can find someone who is doing something truly good, and help them do that.
Wednesday, October 29, 2003
This Orchid Won't Grow Itself
I spend two afternoons a week tutoring a young girl named Heather. She is what they qualify as a "special needs" student. I object to this term because I feel like every child has special needs. Every living thing has special needs. My dogs will not live if I care for them the same way I care for my orchids. It just doesn't work that way.
This particular student has been diagnosed as ADD and ADHD. I'm sure that this is a very real condition for people that struggle with it, but as an outsider I feel skeptical. This young girl does not seem to hear anything from the adults around her except: "CALM DOWN!! StOp ThAt! and GO sit DOWN!" She is ten years old and is barely capable of reading and writing a complete sentence. Her caretakers take enough interest to seek out my help two days a week, but admit to being too impatient to help her study everyday. She does not play any sports, and seems to have no inclination towards running, jumping, skipping, or other standard kid fare. She does have a propensity for screaming, yelling, laughing, picking at, playing with, and generally reserving all negative attention in her immediate environment. Her biggest motivation in working with me seems to be making the whole event stop; although, half way through our sessions I can begin to see the desire to get the correct answers set in. As long as she thinks she can get off of the hook, she decries any attempt with "I Don't Know." When she sees that I won't accept that answer, she usually "knows" quite readily.
Today was a particularly trying session. Every single task was met with a general groaning, head thrown back, eyes rolling into their sockets fit. Every single answer was scribbled on the page with such angst that it seemed as though this must be a studied technique. When I had the gall to suggest we go over her spelling in preperation for her test, you would have thought I was sending her to prison. I found myself chasing her around my apartment, crawling around on the floor, hanging upside down on my couch, and performing a three ring circus to keep her with me. The result was a girl who consistently fails her spelling test, working out the sounds and spelling the words. By the end of our spelling review I was exhausted. She seemed ready to run a marathon. As an experiment, I challenged her to a race around the block, which she adamantly refused.
I found myself wondering: Are ADD and ADHD easy ways out on good old fashioned parenting? Why isn't this child spending that valuable energy in some extremely physical activity? What would happen if someone just spent the time to get her attention, and help her process the information she needs to learn? Why is it considered abnormal for a child to be uninterested in sitting still and thinking? Why wouldn't a young person be distracted by EVERYTHING? I'm not sure there's a point where life ever stops feeling new and disorienting. At least she's present and involved.
I recognize that many people may read this and feel as though I'm being insensitive to a condition that affects many people. Perhaps I just don't understand. Explaining what I go through when I suffer a depression that is chemical and not situational, is nearly impossible if the explainee has never felt it. I guess that's part of my point. I feel like it's less important to name and excuse our shortcomings, struggles, and limitations, and more important to identify our special needs and help them get met.
We all need cultivation, and caretaking. It is the instinct that coagulates people into families of varying shapes, sizes, and functionalities. Every person around you is hoping that someone will come along that will recognize their individual needs, and help them grow. We are each a rare species of orchid shooting our root systems into this dizzying earth, praying for the correct nutrients and cool water. We all reach for sources of light and warmth. I'd like to think that every human being gets to spend at least one full season in bloom.
I suppose that the true irony is that we all have the choice to be both orchid. . . and cultivator.
This particular student has been diagnosed as ADD and ADHD. I'm sure that this is a very real condition for people that struggle with it, but as an outsider I feel skeptical. This young girl does not seem to hear anything from the adults around her except: "CALM DOWN!! StOp ThAt! and GO sit DOWN!" She is ten years old and is barely capable of reading and writing a complete sentence. Her caretakers take enough interest to seek out my help two days a week, but admit to being too impatient to help her study everyday. She does not play any sports, and seems to have no inclination towards running, jumping, skipping, or other standard kid fare. She does have a propensity for screaming, yelling, laughing, picking at, playing with, and generally reserving all negative attention in her immediate environment. Her biggest motivation in working with me seems to be making the whole event stop; although, half way through our sessions I can begin to see the desire to get the correct answers set in. As long as she thinks she can get off of the hook, she decries any attempt with "I Don't Know." When she sees that I won't accept that answer, she usually "knows" quite readily.
Today was a particularly trying session. Every single task was met with a general groaning, head thrown back, eyes rolling into their sockets fit. Every single answer was scribbled on the page with such angst that it seemed as though this must be a studied technique. When I had the gall to suggest we go over her spelling in preperation for her test, you would have thought I was sending her to prison. I found myself chasing her around my apartment, crawling around on the floor, hanging upside down on my couch, and performing a three ring circus to keep her with me. The result was a girl who consistently fails her spelling test, working out the sounds and spelling the words. By the end of our spelling review I was exhausted. She seemed ready to run a marathon. As an experiment, I challenged her to a race around the block, which she adamantly refused.
I found myself wondering: Are ADD and ADHD easy ways out on good old fashioned parenting? Why isn't this child spending that valuable energy in some extremely physical activity? What would happen if someone just spent the time to get her attention, and help her process the information she needs to learn? Why is it considered abnormal for a child to be uninterested in sitting still and thinking? Why wouldn't a young person be distracted by EVERYTHING? I'm not sure there's a point where life ever stops feeling new and disorienting. At least she's present and involved.
I recognize that many people may read this and feel as though I'm being insensitive to a condition that affects many people. Perhaps I just don't understand. Explaining what I go through when I suffer a depression that is chemical and not situational, is nearly impossible if the explainee has never felt it. I guess that's part of my point. I feel like it's less important to name and excuse our shortcomings, struggles, and limitations, and more important to identify our special needs and help them get met.
We all need cultivation, and caretaking. It is the instinct that coagulates people into families of varying shapes, sizes, and functionalities. Every person around you is hoping that someone will come along that will recognize their individual needs, and help them grow. We are each a rare species of orchid shooting our root systems into this dizzying earth, praying for the correct nutrients and cool water. We all reach for sources of light and warmth. I'd like to think that every human being gets to spend at least one full season in bloom.
I suppose that the true irony is that we all have the choice to be both orchid. . . and cultivator.
Tuesday, October 28, 2003
Matrix Personality Quiz
You are The Oracle, from "The Matrix."
Wise, kind, honest- is there anything slightly
negative about you? You are genuinely
supportive of others. Careful not to let people
take advantage of you, though.
What Matrix Persona Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla
The Man With The Iridescent Purple Umbrella
A small victory for the civil, thinking, evolving, educated sector of the human condition was won today. When the right wing organization arrived at Mepham High School to protest the propogation of gay youth, they were severely out numbered by the community members in support of progress. Perhaps the numbers are in our favor.
Meanwhile, I found myself at an audition, where I met a lovely gentleman carrying an iridescent purple umbrella. Which is pretty awesome if you ask me. So I told him I thought so; to which, he responded by explaining he had bought it thinking it was blue. "And your umbrella has been laughing at you ever since" I said. "Yeah, It's been begging for me to get fag-bashed everywhere I go." He said.
Wait a minute!
Is that what does it? Is the sheer audacity of a human with a penis carrying something as (pardon the cliche adjective here) fabulous as an iridescent purple umbrella, the very core beginning of the kind of hate that makes people commit unthinkable brutalities against him? When did such a minute expression of one's character become a life and death choice? What does that mean for people who feel free to explore and express themselves without censure? The beauty of freedom is choice. The ability to make choices is the foundation of this great country. Yet somewhere within this eco-system of culture a different message is being bred. There is a dangerous undercurrent amongst Americans which seems to say:
"Be homogonized, or be victimized!"
"Explore the freedom of being exactly like everybody else!"
What exactly makes a persons individuality so terryfying that people feel the need to squash it? The obvious answers that pop up first are fear, jealousy, and ignorance but somehow that's not enough.
Perhaps if you look around and see that everyone is just like you then you find your self infallable. Perhaps we live in a culture where people feel so lost that they need to identify themselves entirely through qualifiable statements like "normal."
I am perfectly happy to look around and note the variances posessed by myself and the people around me. I can't fathom a world in which every unique quality was supressed. Tonight I make a toast to the things that make us all different, and I nod my hat to the man with the iridescent purple umbrella.
Meanwhile, I found myself at an audition, where I met a lovely gentleman carrying an iridescent purple umbrella. Which is pretty awesome if you ask me. So I told him I thought so; to which, he responded by explaining he had bought it thinking it was blue. "And your umbrella has been laughing at you ever since" I said. "Yeah, It's been begging for me to get fag-bashed everywhere I go." He said.
Wait a minute!
Is that what does it? Is the sheer audacity of a human with a penis carrying something as (pardon the cliche adjective here) fabulous as an iridescent purple umbrella, the very core beginning of the kind of hate that makes people commit unthinkable brutalities against him? When did such a minute expression of one's character become a life and death choice? What does that mean for people who feel free to explore and express themselves without censure? The beauty of freedom is choice. The ability to make choices is the foundation of this great country. Yet somewhere within this eco-system of culture a different message is being bred. There is a dangerous undercurrent amongst Americans which seems to say:
"Be homogonized, or be victimized!"
"Explore the freedom of being exactly like everybody else!"
What exactly makes a persons individuality so terryfying that people feel the need to squash it? The obvious answers that pop up first are fear, jealousy, and ignorance but somehow that's not enough.
Perhaps if you look around and see that everyone is just like you then you find your self infallable. Perhaps we live in a culture where people feel so lost that they need to identify themselves entirely through qualifiable statements like "normal."
I am perfectly happy to look around and note the variances posessed by myself and the people around me. I can't fathom a world in which every unique quality was supressed. Tonight I make a toast to the things that make us all different, and I nod my hat to the man with the iridescent purple umbrella.
Sunday, October 26, 2003
An Extra Hour
Today I gained an hour. Although some of my clocks have not yet been informed. I think I gain a strange sense of piece when my house is living in multiple time zones. It gives me the sense that time is irrelavent, but as I sit here decompressing from a lazy and pleasant day the dominant thought is that "every second is unbelievably precious." I want to believe that I honor that truth, but I know that I don't.
For an hour today, the sun cascaded gracefully behind the horizon of the Atlantic Ocean. She dragged her train of light behind her, which seperated and unforled in splashes of crimson and lavender. The sea was so dazzled by this display that she blushed and hid her blues. She turned her endless blue to glass, and sprayed arias against the shore as she mourned the passing of her beloved sun. And just as it seemed the ocean was inconsolable, the soft light of a waxing moon reached out with a thousand fingers and placed her gently on the shores. But I was not there to see it.
In every reach of this earth the dramas will play themselves out by moonlight, by star-shine, and by sunburst. Some of these tales will be projected on the panorama of the fall sky, while others' stage will be as small and heartwrenching as the glimmer in a young child's eye. Sometime's I think the truest secret of this journey is to spend as much time acting in them as watching. To spend as much time changing your piece of the world as marvelling at the majesty of the creature that is the universe. I tell myself that the true secret of the whole mystery lies within the risks we take, and that it is the balance between the watching and the doing that will give us the wisdom to know our course.
Any fool can harden themselves into a state of ignorant bliss. It is no triumph to stop watching, stop caring, stop reaching. There is no glory in hiding, no reward in settling, and no hope to be found in in-action. No answers are given to those who do not ask questions.
And so I ask:
"What will you do with your hour?"
I will love the people that teach me love. I will let them know it. I will raise my dogs to know that they are safe. I will invest in the mind of a child who only needs a compass for the roads she will travel. I will grow an orchid, and spend hours delighting in nature's opulence when it blooms. I will listen to music which makes me feel hopeful. I will write a poem, call a friend, watch a sunset, read a book, smoke cigarrettes with my neighbors, paint, run, scream, dance and bake a chocolate cake.
But I will not contribute to HATE.
So when I close my eyes to go to sleep tonight and dream of all the things I will do tomorrow. I will spend my extra hour praying for people like Fred Phelps, who are so afraid of the beauty that might be around them, of the love that they might experience, and of the growth that they might feel that they feel compelled to torture people who have already suffered enough. I will pray for the children who they will raise in an ecosystem of hatred. I will pray for the families of victims who will only have their scabs picked open and their pride damaged by picketts and screaming. I will hope that ignorance and hatred does not leave any further scars on the families of Mepham High School...
...and I will be winking up at the stars. Because, If there's a heaven, Matthew Sheppard is in it, and he is baking a chocolate cake.
For an hour today, the sun cascaded gracefully behind the horizon of the Atlantic Ocean. She dragged her train of light behind her, which seperated and unforled in splashes of crimson and lavender. The sea was so dazzled by this display that she blushed and hid her blues. She turned her endless blue to glass, and sprayed arias against the shore as she mourned the passing of her beloved sun. And just as it seemed the ocean was inconsolable, the soft light of a waxing moon reached out with a thousand fingers and placed her gently on the shores. But I was not there to see it.
In every reach of this earth the dramas will play themselves out by moonlight, by star-shine, and by sunburst. Some of these tales will be projected on the panorama of the fall sky, while others' stage will be as small and heartwrenching as the glimmer in a young child's eye. Sometime's I think the truest secret of this journey is to spend as much time acting in them as watching. To spend as much time changing your piece of the world as marvelling at the majesty of the creature that is the universe. I tell myself that the true secret of the whole mystery lies within the risks we take, and that it is the balance between the watching and the doing that will give us the wisdom to know our course.
Any fool can harden themselves into a state of ignorant bliss. It is no triumph to stop watching, stop caring, stop reaching. There is no glory in hiding, no reward in settling, and no hope to be found in in-action. No answers are given to those who do not ask questions.
And so I ask:
"What will you do with your hour?"
I will love the people that teach me love. I will let them know it. I will raise my dogs to know that they are safe. I will invest in the mind of a child who only needs a compass for the roads she will travel. I will grow an orchid, and spend hours delighting in nature's opulence when it blooms. I will listen to music which makes me feel hopeful. I will write a poem, call a friend, watch a sunset, read a book, smoke cigarrettes with my neighbors, paint, run, scream, dance and bake a chocolate cake.
But I will not contribute to HATE.
So when I close my eyes to go to sleep tonight and dream of all the things I will do tomorrow. I will spend my extra hour praying for people like Fred Phelps, who are so afraid of the beauty that might be around them, of the love that they might experience, and of the growth that they might feel that they feel compelled to torture people who have already suffered enough. I will pray for the children who they will raise in an ecosystem of hatred. I will pray for the families of victims who will only have their scabs picked open and their pride damaged by picketts and screaming. I will hope that ignorance and hatred does not leave any further scars on the families of Mepham High School...
...and I will be winking up at the stars. Because, If there's a heaven, Matthew Sheppard is in it, and he is baking a chocolate cake.
Good Morning Technology
Good Morning Technology!
Good Morning America!
I have never kept a formal journal. I saw Doogie Howser type sacharin sweet messages full of Hallmark wisdom each night before bed, and honestly. . . it warmed the very cockles of my sentimental heart. Last night I heard that a dear friend of mine had been Blogging while on a trip to Moscow (where he was no doubt busy being a genius.) I began to search for his blogs, but became fascinated with what that meant. I decided that perhaps in the face of a shifting, changing, technological society, there are perhaps a wealth of merits to the practice of publishing one's thoughts. My hopes are unclear to me at this very moment, but as most of my endeavors I imagine that they have something to do with having a voice that gets heard. I am a member of a generation who has not developed a voice. When I open my doors and windows... When I step out into the streets... When I silence the critic within... I hear screaming.
What are we screaming for?
Leadership?
Revolution?
Revelations?
Answers?
Poetry?
I may never be considered one of the great voices of my generation, but in the posts that follow, I am hoping to find my voice. Perhaps it will speak to you.
Good Morning America!
I have never kept a formal journal. I saw Doogie Howser type sacharin sweet messages full of Hallmark wisdom each night before bed, and honestly. . . it warmed the very cockles of my sentimental heart. Last night I heard that a dear friend of mine had been Blogging while on a trip to Moscow (where he was no doubt busy being a genius.) I began to search for his blogs, but became fascinated with what that meant. I decided that perhaps in the face of a shifting, changing, technological society, there are perhaps a wealth of merits to the practice of publishing one's thoughts. My hopes are unclear to me at this very moment, but as most of my endeavors I imagine that they have something to do with having a voice that gets heard. I am a member of a generation who has not developed a voice. When I open my doors and windows... When I step out into the streets... When I silence the critic within... I hear screaming.
What are we screaming for?
Leadership?
Revolution?
Revelations?
Answers?
Poetry?
I may never be considered one of the great voices of my generation, but in the posts that follow, I am hoping to find my voice. Perhaps it will speak to you.
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