The recent earthquake that struck Haiti on January 12th last month has occupied a place in everyone's mind as of late. The pictures are riveting: a child crying out in anguish with a gashed forehead, a mother sobbing while pointing at a pile of rubble (the presumed resting place of a family member), and desperate riots pushing and shoving for a handout of basic subsistence items. In accord with the amount of exposure, Americans have responded with warm hearts and gracious spirits; an estimated $523 million was donated to help in just under a month. This figure is worth celebrating, but a question lingers in my mind: would Americans, myself included, have done anything if the tragedy hadn't inundated the media and pop culture for the past month? My gut tells me no. Unfortunately, Americans generally respond to events in correspondence to the level of visibility an outside source provides instead of actively living a conscientious lifestyle that seeks to alleviate injustice daily.
When you see or hear stories about people abusing cuddly puppies or cute children, you usually react with outrage. Nobody likes Michael Vick. People who drown dogs go to, well... the dog house in our eyes. Even if we take no tangible action, our hearts usually ache with compassion; regardless of response, we can agree most people at least feel sympathy for obvious cases of injustice. The media knows this and has made caring down right accessible. How convenient for us.
We watch shows like ABC's Extreme Makeover: Home Edition and "participate", by sitting on a couch for an hour, in a life transforming process for a needy family who are provided with an American-dream-made-ready home. Popular movements such as TOMS (buy a hipster pair of shoes; a needy kid gets a pair too), Stop Genocide in Darfur (sign up to an email list; get an awesome T-Shirt) and Invisible Children (watch a well-produced video; post awareness links on your facebook) make it easy to get involved in an issue of injustice. No one faults the humanitarian aid these organizations provide. What they are doing is wonderful work, but you have to admit they tote incredible marketing strategies. They know people enjoy feeling like they are making a difference in the world.
Even Hollywood has caught the benevolence bug because it knows people will go to theaters to watch movies with themes of social injustice. Films like Blood Diamond, Hotel Rwanda, and Slumdog Millionaire leave people a remote click away from gut-wrenching plots based on the suffocation of mitigating circumstances. However, does anyone who is daily subjected to systems of injustice actually benefit from our observance of their plights while sitting on a comfortable theater chair? Not often. We might feel motivated to make a difference, or we even might be emotionally scarred for a couple of days. But this doesn't seem to help the people who are in a tough spot unless empathy translates into action and real involvement in such issues. In Hotel Rwanda there is a particularly jarring (and ironic!) scene in which this is highlighted:
Paul: I am glad that you have shot this footage and that the world will see it. It is the only way we have a chance that people might intervene.
Jack: Yeah and if no one intervenes, is it still a good thing to show?
Paul: How can they not intervene when they witness such atrocities?
Jack: I think if people see this footage they'll say, "Oh my God, that's horrible," and then go on eating their dinners... What the hell do I know?
Jack's response might seem cynical, but don't people do this every day: see an issue of injustice on TV... feel a moment of sympathy... and return to their lives of normalcy. Or in Haiti's case, see a picture on TV... feel a moment of sympathy... send a text message for the Red Cross... and then return to eating dinner.
Of course the response to Haiti isn't bad in of itself: $523 million is nothing to sneeze at, but I wonder why it takes constant coverage and the unlikely trio of Jay-Z, Bono, and Rihanna performig on national TV for us to notice a disaster of such epic proportions. Even Barack Obama's State of the Union Address let Haiti know not only were we aware of its plights, but we were responding. In fact, Barack thinks our response of benevolence is part of what defines us as Americans:
"...that fundamental decency that has always been at the core of the American people – lives on... in all the Americans who've dropped everything to go some place they've never been and pull people they've never known from rubble, prompting chants of "U.S.A.! U.S.A.! U.S.A!" when another life was saved."
You have to wonder whether the victims being pulled out of the rubble cared about the nationality of their rescuers and whether they thought America had been doing a good job of "fundamental decency" before the earthquake when Haiti was the poorest country in the western hemisphere, clean drinking water was scarce, basic education was a luxury, child labor was prevalent, and forced prostitution was easy to find. Or perhaps you should ask the same question to a resident of a Brazilian slum, a child sex-slave in India or one of the mind boggling 1,768,500 people directly effected during the past year by over ten natural disasters in countries like Indonesia, Albania, Tanzania, Vietnam and Ghana with a death count of 1411, a total cost of damages around $4 billion and a sum of 12.92 million donated by the United States of America in response.
Working to reverse systems of ongoing injustice will never be as sexy as a celebrity benefit concert, as dramatic as a Hollywood movie or as easy as a text message, but when help is just a click away, people lose contact with the life beat of the real people who are enslaved to their situations. The only way to stop "feeling bad" and move to a place of intentional action is to actually engage the people who are stuck in their positions of helplessness. Afterward, perhaps you can start a cool internet movement to raise awareness among other idealistic and inactive Americans.
Friday, February 19, 2010
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Crosswalks: A Short Story
If it were up to me, pedestrian traffic lights wouldn't exist. No one in Chicago uses them any more. They are a landmark of convention, a last resort for decrepit grandparents and toothless babies. I sat on a bench observing seventeen middle-aged white collar workers nonchalantly jaywalk the avenue at a brisk gait. Their demeanor betrayed the event as routine- a monotonous checklist immune to the blaring traffic. Even my sumptuous pastry, a cinnamon raisin bagel with light strawberry cream cheese, escaped their notice. No matter if the signal directed people to walk or stop, they were only concerned with operating on schedules; the rest of the world be damned before they paused at an intersection. Today, the red hand extended: unheeded. Tomorrow, the white man walking: unheeded.
When nearing a busy intersection, the cautious nature of the Chicago's average motorist betrayed their awareness of the pedestrian's indifference. The crossing obstacle hardly fazed the drivers- no longer was the act illegal in their minds. As soon as the hindrance cleared the road, the motorists would casually speed up and continue life. I found the cautious traffic funny and started erupting with laughter, the ludicrous nature of this generic crosswalk tickling my soft spot. The stares I received from some passing men in trim, neat suits only added to my mirth. I could hear the mental meandering in their rational brains, “What's that crazy scum ball doing in this part of town? It’s bad enough the hobo does nothing all day but leaching off decent, hardworking people like me is something else. I work everyday and make an honest living, but this lazy no-account can find nothing better to do than lounge on benches as if he owned the world. Probably off to buy himself cheap booze after annoying decent people for spare change. And at this hour!”
The assuming exterior of these model citizens disgusted me. I saw through their facade, but their delusional counterparts bought the mirage as quickly as they bought Beamers for their spoiled daughters. Yesterday, they told their steadfast cheating wives they would get a promotion with better hours, so today they could come home early and participate in quaint suburbia chaos; and tomorrow, household utopia would elude. However, a new job would bring longer hours, a bigger conference room, and a younger secretary. A morally grounded society it was said. The only grounded thing in this bog was their egos.
I knew their lives centered around moving further up on the social and financial ladder. An endless search to find the unachievable top waited for them, and by the time they stumbled upon the truth of their futility- unlikely as it was- gray hairs and failing organs would prevent evolution, livelihood lost in a paper-push wandering for the pinnacle of corporate achievement. An obviously pointless venture, but it was said if you believe, it can happen- lies, all lies proliferated to continue the sad cycle. I knew this story from experience, but I had gotten lucky- well, sorta.
It wasn't what most people would call luck. Growing up, I remember an empty home, a constant television, and a continual message: it was better on the other side and hard work would get you there. Coming from crammed apartment complexes and weedy city parks, I grabbed onto this promise. College and grad school were a blur of coffee and dimly lit libraries, my degrees the only proof I had attended because concrete memories of the seven years were nowhere to be found. The next couple of years were devoted to obtaining a six-figure-straight-outta-school job, paying back the government for my education, picking out a future soccer mom to buy pearls for, and building a family homestead in the classy 'burbs. Arriving at this stage in life, I had money, a wife, a daughter, a son, a house, cars, and boats, much like the slick bastards strutting the street next to me, but my American Dream started to unravel when I was attending a weekend conference. I got a call informing me my son had flipped his jeep; he died on the way to the hospital. Two weeks after the funeral, my daughter overdosed on antidepressants. My wife left me six months later. She said she couldn't live in our children's empty home. When I proposed we move, she informed me of her affair. But the individual losses had little affect on me.
Normalcy returned. With my car in the shop, unscheduled time on a city bus induced reflection. My past immunity to emotional trauma planted the first weed in my mall-parking-lot heart. How could my son and daughter die teenage deaths, my wife leave, and my life continue unfazed? The question penetrated my asphalt exterior. I never mourned for my lost family- you can't mourn for people you don't know: I had never heard of the bands my son had posters of in his room; I didn't understand why my daughter wanted a French poem read at her funeral; and I never understood why my wife woke me up in the middle of the night to listen to the rain patter on the roof. Sure, I wept at funerals, burnt wedding photographs, and sold my house, but two months later no discernible difference emerged in my weekly rhythms.
I hummed from harbor to haven, unaffected by hullabaloo and hell like a part of the public transportation system in Chicago flowing diverse people through the circulatory system of the city. New breath coming with each successive destination reached, and after sucking all the oxygen out of the room, blood cell citizens sweeping back across the vessels of the city looking for replenishment. The employees of the transit system were a peculiar bunch bearing witness to the average patron's time-choked emphysema. I wondered if they pitied us.
Ever since that bus ride, the luck kept pouring down. I lost my job and then practically everything in the divorce. Luck can happen fast. That's why you eat the delicacies in life. Savor them, remember them, embrace them. My bagels were a reminder of this. The sweet, smooth, bread produced a pleasant sensation as I felt the fat roll off the tongue. Someone said that man doesn't live on bread alone, and they were right: people need to feast on each other drawing sustenance from nutrient-rich interaction. People need to feel the fat roll off the tongue.
I felt the call of nature, pushed myself up off the bench, and glanced at the traffic signal. I decided not to acknowledge its warning and stepped into the street. During the cross, I remembered my pack of bagels halfway across the road. Turning back, I saw the blur of a city bus hurtling towards me. My last thought seemed out of place, “I know the bus driver.”
I had always known him.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I haven't done a ton of editing... I might expound on it later but I had to fit it in a word limit for a class.
When nearing a busy intersection, the cautious nature of the Chicago's average motorist betrayed their awareness of the pedestrian's indifference. The crossing obstacle hardly fazed the drivers- no longer was the act illegal in their minds. As soon as the hindrance cleared the road, the motorists would casually speed up and continue life. I found the cautious traffic funny and started erupting with laughter, the ludicrous nature of this generic crosswalk tickling my soft spot. The stares I received from some passing men in trim, neat suits only added to my mirth. I could hear the mental meandering in their rational brains, “What's that crazy scum ball doing in this part of town? It’s bad enough the hobo does nothing all day but leaching off decent, hardworking people like me is something else. I work everyday and make an honest living, but this lazy no-account can find nothing better to do than lounge on benches as if he owned the world. Probably off to buy himself cheap booze after annoying decent people for spare change. And at this hour!”
The assuming exterior of these model citizens disgusted me. I saw through their facade, but their delusional counterparts bought the mirage as quickly as they bought Beamers for their spoiled daughters. Yesterday, they told their steadfast cheating wives they would get a promotion with better hours, so today they could come home early and participate in quaint suburbia chaos; and tomorrow, household utopia would elude. However, a new job would bring longer hours, a bigger conference room, and a younger secretary. A morally grounded society it was said. The only grounded thing in this bog was their egos.
I knew their lives centered around moving further up on the social and financial ladder. An endless search to find the unachievable top waited for them, and by the time they stumbled upon the truth of their futility- unlikely as it was- gray hairs and failing organs would prevent evolution, livelihood lost in a paper-push wandering for the pinnacle of corporate achievement. An obviously pointless venture, but it was said if you believe, it can happen- lies, all lies proliferated to continue the sad cycle. I knew this story from experience, but I had gotten lucky- well, sorta.
It wasn't what most people would call luck. Growing up, I remember an empty home, a constant television, and a continual message: it was better on the other side and hard work would get you there. Coming from crammed apartment complexes and weedy city parks, I grabbed onto this promise. College and grad school were a blur of coffee and dimly lit libraries, my degrees the only proof I had attended because concrete memories of the seven years were nowhere to be found. The next couple of years were devoted to obtaining a six-figure-straight-outta-school job, paying back the government for my education, picking out a future soccer mom to buy pearls for, and building a family homestead in the classy 'burbs. Arriving at this stage in life, I had money, a wife, a daughter, a son, a house, cars, and boats, much like the slick bastards strutting the street next to me, but my American Dream started to unravel when I was attending a weekend conference. I got a call informing me my son had flipped his jeep; he died on the way to the hospital. Two weeks after the funeral, my daughter overdosed on antidepressants. My wife left me six months later. She said she couldn't live in our children's empty home. When I proposed we move, she informed me of her affair. But the individual losses had little affect on me.
Normalcy returned. With my car in the shop, unscheduled time on a city bus induced reflection. My past immunity to emotional trauma planted the first weed in my mall-parking-lot heart. How could my son and daughter die teenage deaths, my wife leave, and my life continue unfazed? The question penetrated my asphalt exterior. I never mourned for my lost family- you can't mourn for people you don't know: I had never heard of the bands my son had posters of in his room; I didn't understand why my daughter wanted a French poem read at her funeral; and I never understood why my wife woke me up in the middle of the night to listen to the rain patter on the roof. Sure, I wept at funerals, burnt wedding photographs, and sold my house, but two months later no discernible difference emerged in my weekly rhythms.
I hummed from harbor to haven, unaffected by hullabaloo and hell like a part of the public transportation system in Chicago flowing diverse people through the circulatory system of the city. New breath coming with each successive destination reached, and after sucking all the oxygen out of the room, blood cell citizens sweeping back across the vessels of the city looking for replenishment. The employees of the transit system were a peculiar bunch bearing witness to the average patron's time-choked emphysema. I wondered if they pitied us.
Ever since that bus ride, the luck kept pouring down. I lost my job and then practically everything in the divorce. Luck can happen fast. That's why you eat the delicacies in life. Savor them, remember them, embrace them. My bagels were a reminder of this. The sweet, smooth, bread produced a pleasant sensation as I felt the fat roll off the tongue. Someone said that man doesn't live on bread alone, and they were right: people need to feast on each other drawing sustenance from nutrient-rich interaction. People need to feel the fat roll off the tongue.
I felt the call of nature, pushed myself up off the bench, and glanced at the traffic signal. I decided not to acknowledge its warning and stepped into the street. During the cross, I remembered my pack of bagels halfway across the road. Turning back, I saw the blur of a city bus hurtling towards me. My last thought seemed out of place, “I know the bus driver.”
I had always known him.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I haven't done a ton of editing... I might expound on it later but I had to fit it in a word limit for a class.
Sunday, August 16, 2009
Life Stories: 1
On my fourth birthday I remember sitting under a hanging cloth shelf in my family's dining room. Our wooden floor was hard on my knees, and my head was oscillating the towers of knick-knacks above. I was looking into our kitchen watching my father wash the dishes and my mother finish icing a cake for my birthday party later.
Observing the birthday preparations, I had a deep four-year-old thought, "I am really old. I am four." I am not sure why I remember the exact mental phrasing that ran through my brain, but this memory has always been etched into my past experience library. Throughout my life, some memories have stuck with me and some have slipped away. For whatever reason, concrete has held this one in place.
Some memories are recurring and mighty. Some are blurring and dying. I am going to start a blog series to tell my life stories. They may not be chronological or comprehensive, but I want to start writing out my life. Any blog of this nature will be titled: Life Stories (Number X).
Observing the birthday preparations, I had a deep four-year-old thought, "I am really old. I am four." I am not sure why I remember the exact mental phrasing that ran through my brain, but this memory has always been etched into my past experience library. Throughout my life, some memories have stuck with me and some have slipped away. For whatever reason, concrete has held this one in place.
Some memories are recurring and mighty. Some are blurring and dying. I am going to start a blog series to tell my life stories. They may not be chronological or comprehensive, but I want to start writing out my life. Any blog of this nature will be titled: Life Stories (Number X).
Sunday, August 9, 2009
Let's Get It Started
I am a student at the University of Texas at Austin, and I recently completed my freshman year here. After considerable study, growth, and fellowship, I realized how little I practice writing outside of normal study. This blog will be my attempt to remedy my lack of self-initiated writing. As an aspiring writer, theologian, philosopher, and educator, I hope to improve my skills with practice. I am not setting limits on the content or style of writing I will share, but I do have one rule: I will be honest. If you aren't a fan of honesty, I am going to politely suggest you curtail your curiosity and resume your regularly scheduled programming. However if honesty is a ship you have already boarded or it perks your attention more than customary morning coffee, perhaps you will enjoy my attempt to share my life with you.
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