My super-attractive girlfriend and I were talking the other day when we began discussing the people we get along with most easily and, conversely, those whom we find hard to enjoy.
I explained that I get along easily with those who can see the bigger picture. Those who don't make a big deal out of little things. Those who are open to discussing new ideas, who understand my sense of humor, and who have a general air of optimism.
Those who I have a hard time getting along with? I thought about it for a little bit. Annoying people. But what makes someone annoying? I surmised that at the heart of it all, I didn't like people who were hypocritical. I know, I know. Deep, right? Real original. I mean, who honestly sees hypocrisy and says, "I think that's fantastic"? But anyway, hypocritical people are the worst.
The thing about hypocrisy is that the more you look for it, the more you see it. And it's the biggest catch 22 in history. By saying I don't like hypocritical people, I am in fact being a hypocrite. It's a humbling thing, really. Try it out for a day. Keep your eyes open for hypocrisy everywhere you go. It starts out fun, and you'll feel really great. You'll see people driving alone in SUVs who ask for their coffee in their own cup so as not to waste (I'm sitting in a Starbucks right now, observing.) But keep looking, and soon the game will stop being fun. You'll get super pissed at someone for cutting you off in traffic. Then a couple miles down the road, realize that you need this exit, and cut over to get off the freeway. But its different for you, right? After all, it was only that one time, and it was only because you didn't want to miss the exit. Right.
I mention all of this because I had an epiphany.* As previously mentioned, I'm at Starbucks right now. I rode my bike here, being as its a beautiful Friday morning and I have some new music on my iPod to listen to. On my way here, I passed by an elderly couple on their bikes. I called out "on your left," then whizzed by. I could have sworn that the old man said something as I went by, but I had my earphones in and could easily have imagined it. Plus, I was going quite a bit faster than the couple, so I figured it didn't matter.
As is usual, my imagination kicked in. You see, I have this deep-seeded suspicion of the world around me. The origins of this suspicion can be easily traced to the movie "The Truman Show," wherein a man lives his entire life on a TV set without knowing, while the rest of the world watches.
What if that old man had been calling out my name? What if he had been trying to tell me something important? A warning, or good company to buy stock in? In fact, what if that old man was really me? Sometime in the future, as an old man, I decide to go back and tell myself some valuable piece of advice. I can't remember exactly where I was on this day, but I know I'm going to be riding down that road. And then, I see myself! I call out my name as I whizz past, but my younger version is too busy listening to "Empire State of Mind" and imagining what it'd be like to be a rich and famous rap star.
And then I'm gone, and my whole trip into the past is wasted. And by now, I bet you're wondering what this has to do with hypocrisy.
Well, if there's another thing I can't stand, it's angsty young people. I've spent some time over the past few years in youth groups working with high schoolers, and that is my number one annoyance with them. They'll tell me about this really harsh dumping they just endured, or some catastrophic event where their sister deleted their video game save data. I can look back at my own life, back on similar experiences, and realize that what was a huge deal back then really didn't make the slightest bit of difference in my life now. When I try to tell them that it's not the end of the world, they get this "you don't know me" attitude. Like my advice is dated or superfluous or stupid. I don't know what it's like. I can't help.
But the thing is, I can. And I'm trying. Believe it or not, you're not the first person to get dumped. To get hurt. To get wronged. But they can't see that a lot of times, so it leads to endless frustrations for those trying to offer advice.** Today, on my bike ride past the old couple, I realized something. That old man didn't have to be an older version of myself in order to offer important advice.
Why is it that I assume I'm the only one qualified to give advice to myself? That old dude had been around for a pretty long time, by the looks of him.*** He probably could have offered a ton of useful advice. I would try to say something like, "no dude, you don't know me." And I bet he'd think of me the same way I think of high schoolers. I wonder if he'd have the patience to keep trying.
Oh, hypocrisy.
Thanks for reading,
-Daniel K
*And naturally, my first reaction was to blog about it. Alright, 21st century!
**One of the reasons I'll never be a youth group leader.
***No offense, old dude, if you're reading this. I might add that your beard was very distinguished.
Friday, July 1, 2011
Saturday, June 25, 2011
The Adventures: Reloaded
No, but seriously this time.
I'm picking up blogging again. I've decided that I miss the eclectic, episodic style of blogging, and that I want to start this one up again. Here's a quick recap of these past months, to get everyone on the same page:
I enrolled in a class called "Advanced Creative Writing: Fiction" this semester. The goal for the class could be summed up quite simply this way: write a novel. I had wanted to take the class ever since I heard about it my freshman year, and so I decided to become an English Minor in order to do this.* It didn't disappoint. We began by reading a few chapters from a book about writing books. Then delved into some theory, honed our character development and dialogue skills, and then turned in chapter one. After that, it was pretty much every week that we were required to turn in a chapter of some sort. Ten chapters, ten pages each. All said and done, we needed a 100-page manuscript to pass the class.
In May when we turned in our drafts, I was at ten chapters and 118 pages. And my plot was nowhere near done. Since school's let out for the summer, I have completed chapters 11 and 12, and have almost finished chapter 13.** I should have the whole work done in a few weeks, probably rounding out to 15 or 16 chapters. I'll need a mess of revisions and re-writes, which means I'll need an army of proofreaders... so if you're interested in receiving a copy,*** leave me a comment and I'll mail you one when it's ready to go.
Writing my novel was an extremely entertaining experience. I began with a clear idea of what my novel would be. Over Christmas break, I developed the setting and characters. It would take place at Montana State University, and center around three different students. Aaron, a delinquent freshman who gets his kicks out of provoking people into fighting him. Justin, a Christian sophomore who just wants to get by and graduate. And Eric, a senior who belongs to a secret society of sorts. I would develop the setting, MSU, and then have the characters go about their lives, sometimes interacting with each other, but mainly keeping to their own groups of friends. I would use this to explore the deeper questions in life. Why are we here? What are we to do with our lives? How do we deal with pain and loss? Where do we find joy? You know, the stuff novels are made of.
About January, however, I decided that I wanted my novel set in Portland. Or Seattle. Somewhere gloomy and melancholy, where a brooding high school senior named Isaac lived with his mom in a large apartment complex. Isaac was really into the bike scene, riding his stripped-down fixed gear through the back alleys and along the river with his younger high school friends. A reluctant leader of younger guys who looked up to him and expected more of him than he wanted to give. I'd use this to explore the deeper questions in life. Why are we here? What are we to do with our lives? How do we deal with pain and loss? What is a really cool name to give a fixed gear bike?
By the third week of class, we had to turn in our statements of intent. The basics of our novel - who was/were the main character(s), where did it all take place, who was the narrator. By this time, I had it down for sure. Forget the deeper questions in life... My novel was going to be set in space. Humanity had migrated across the stars. Interstellar travel was made possible by the discovery of superhumans who could utilize a Force-like power to propel ships through the vastness of space. The colonization of the stars was just underway, however, with the rules of the wild west in play - whoever has the biggest guns makes the rules. Our protagonist wakes up in the medical ward of a ship without any memory. He stumbles his way into a fierce conflict between the Federation and the rebels, unsure of which side to join.
The week after that, I had it down for sure. My professor roller her eyes as I pitched my forth (and final) plot line. I ended up with Izaac^, a young superhuman who lives in the enormous city-building of Denver sometime in the distant future. Spurned by the most prestigious superhuman academy on the planet, Izaac falls in with a group of resistance fighters who want to deactivate the source of the superhumans' powers.^^
And so the writing began. Now here I am, six months, 13 chapters, and 150 pages later. I realized the other day, however, that I want to start writing things completely unrelated to Izaac or his plight with the resistance fighters. I think this will help me finish, as it will provide an outlet for the times when I don't feel like sitting down and writing. I can write about whatever I want!
Politics? Sure. Starbucks? You bet. Summer time in Colorado? Why not.
Oh, blogging. How I've missed you.
Thanks for reading,
-Daniel K
*This is only a slight exaggeration.
**I decided to take a break from chapter thirteen to update my blog, in fact. I just got done with the only romance scene in the whole piece, and it was exhausting. Romance is annoying.
***And you promise not to steal my idea and publish it under your name.
^Spelling it "Izaac" instead of "Isaac" is how you know it's set in the future.
^^This is purposefully vague. I was only half-kidding about my fear of someone stealing my idea.
I'm picking up blogging again. I've decided that I miss the eclectic, episodic style of blogging, and that I want to start this one up again. Here's a quick recap of these past months, to get everyone on the same page:
I enrolled in a class called "Advanced Creative Writing: Fiction" this semester. The goal for the class could be summed up quite simply this way: write a novel. I had wanted to take the class ever since I heard about it my freshman year, and so I decided to become an English Minor in order to do this.* It didn't disappoint. We began by reading a few chapters from a book about writing books. Then delved into some theory, honed our character development and dialogue skills, and then turned in chapter one. After that, it was pretty much every week that we were required to turn in a chapter of some sort. Ten chapters, ten pages each. All said and done, we needed a 100-page manuscript to pass the class.
In May when we turned in our drafts, I was at ten chapters and 118 pages. And my plot was nowhere near done. Since school's let out for the summer, I have completed chapters 11 and 12, and have almost finished chapter 13.** I should have the whole work done in a few weeks, probably rounding out to 15 or 16 chapters. I'll need a mess of revisions and re-writes, which means I'll need an army of proofreaders... so if you're interested in receiving a copy,*** leave me a comment and I'll mail you one when it's ready to go.
Writing my novel was an extremely entertaining experience. I began with a clear idea of what my novel would be. Over Christmas break, I developed the setting and characters. It would take place at Montana State University, and center around three different students. Aaron, a delinquent freshman who gets his kicks out of provoking people into fighting him. Justin, a Christian sophomore who just wants to get by and graduate. And Eric, a senior who belongs to a secret society of sorts. I would develop the setting, MSU, and then have the characters go about their lives, sometimes interacting with each other, but mainly keeping to their own groups of friends. I would use this to explore the deeper questions in life. Why are we here? What are we to do with our lives? How do we deal with pain and loss? Where do we find joy? You know, the stuff novels are made of.
About January, however, I decided that I wanted my novel set in Portland. Or Seattle. Somewhere gloomy and melancholy, where a brooding high school senior named Isaac lived with his mom in a large apartment complex. Isaac was really into the bike scene, riding his stripped-down fixed gear through the back alleys and along the river with his younger high school friends. A reluctant leader of younger guys who looked up to him and expected more of him than he wanted to give. I'd use this to explore the deeper questions in life. Why are we here? What are we to do with our lives? How do we deal with pain and loss? What is a really cool name to give a fixed gear bike?
By the third week of class, we had to turn in our statements of intent. The basics of our novel - who was/were the main character(s), where did it all take place, who was the narrator. By this time, I had it down for sure. Forget the deeper questions in life... My novel was going to be set in space. Humanity had migrated across the stars. Interstellar travel was made possible by the discovery of superhumans who could utilize a Force-like power to propel ships through the vastness of space. The colonization of the stars was just underway, however, with the rules of the wild west in play - whoever has the biggest guns makes the rules. Our protagonist wakes up in the medical ward of a ship without any memory. He stumbles his way into a fierce conflict between the Federation and the rebels, unsure of which side to join.
The week after that, I had it down for sure. My professor roller her eyes as I pitched my forth (and final) plot line. I ended up with Izaac^, a young superhuman who lives in the enormous city-building of Denver sometime in the distant future. Spurned by the most prestigious superhuman academy on the planet, Izaac falls in with a group of resistance fighters who want to deactivate the source of the superhumans' powers.^^
And so the writing began. Now here I am, six months, 13 chapters, and 150 pages later. I realized the other day, however, that I want to start writing things completely unrelated to Izaac or his plight with the resistance fighters. I think this will help me finish, as it will provide an outlet for the times when I don't feel like sitting down and writing. I can write about whatever I want!
Politics? Sure. Starbucks? You bet. Summer time in Colorado? Why not.
Oh, blogging. How I've missed you.
Thanks for reading,
-Daniel K
*This is only a slight exaggeration.
**I decided to take a break from chapter thirteen to update my blog, in fact. I just got done with the only romance scene in the whole piece, and it was exhausting. Romance is annoying.
***And you promise not to steal my idea and publish it under your name.
^Spelling it "Izaac" instead of "Isaac" is how you know it's set in the future.
^^This is purposefully vague. I was only half-kidding about my fear of someone stealing my idea.
Saturday, January 1, 2011
Many Honorable Return of the New Year.
I watched the New Year roll its way over the glittering streets of Reno in from an overlook halfway up Geiger Grade. I've wanted to watch the fireworks from up there since my senior year of high school, but for one reason or another I never did. Yet being as I had a car, a new camera, and some spare time, I decided to go for it this time around. I drove the winding and twisting road up to the scenic overlook dressed in every scrap of winter clothing I brought with me from Colorado and parked next to a small four-door car which boomed with the sounds of expensive subs.
I climbed out of the truck with my backpack in one hand and a folding chair in the other. Trying not to block anyone else's view, I set up the chair, zipped my jacket up to my nose, and sat on the cold plastic on the cold mountainside during the cold night in the cold state of Nevada. I dug into my pocket and fished out my cellphone. A click of the "Volume Up" button on the side caused the front display to yell at my eyes, "11:52!" I winced at the brightness and set the phone on my thigh. Just in time.
I spent the next few seconds digging out my new camera from my backpack, stuffing it under my coat to keep it from catching cold, and then jamming my hands into my jacket pockets.
Volume Up. 11:53!
I can never decide if city lights look like embers from a dying fire or man's poor imitation of God's stars. Bother metaphors appeal to me. In the former, you get an explanation for the pulsing, flickering, and moving patterns of the city's luminescence. It looks as if a caravan of giant gypsies stopped over in the valley for the night, got cold from drinking the frosty waters of Lake Tahoe, and so sparked up a fire to warm their huge gypsy feet. Much later, when they were all going off to sleep, the most safety-conscious giant gypsy got up and stomped out the flames.
In the latter, you get a good picture of Man's hilarious ineptitude. In attempting to replicate God's nighttime spectacle, we end up with some stars spread way too far apart, some lumped together, some blinking, some shifting from green to yellow to red. The colors are all off, and it wastes a lot of electricity.
Volume Up. 11:55!
About this time every year, I get to thinking that I need to do something rash. I look around my folding chair for opportunities. There are a handful of parked cars around me. Maybe I could go and kick the tires of one until the occupants get out to stop me, then I could defeat all seven of them in hand-to-hand combat. Moving my gaze onward, I see a sign that reads "CONGESTED AREA 25 MPH." I need that sign. It will be my souvenir from the night I finally saw the fireworks from this overlook. Jake left his bag of tools in the back of the truck. I could probably go right now and get the wrench I would need. Someone might try to stop me, but I could always defeat all nine of them in hand-to-hand combat and then be on my way with my sign. Whatever I'm going to do, I need to do it fast because I'm running out of time.
Volume Up. 11:57!
Time is a weird thing. It's a weird thing because we hate it so much. There's never enough when we want it most and there's a surplus when we desire to get on with life. I once heard my good friend Robbie Halleen use our hatred of time as proof that we are eternal beings. "Fish don't complain about the ocean being too wet," he said, "and worms don't complain about having to be underground all of the time. That's because they were made for those environments. But humans always feel the chafe of time on them, which indicates that this is not where we're supposed to be."
Volume Up. 11:59!
I press the "Power" button on the side of my camera and flip the view screen open. My eyes wince at the LCD's brightness. The camera's computer blinks at the blobs of light in front of it, confused for a second or two. Then it slowly understands and adjusts the lenses to make the picture sharper. There she is. The city of Reno, all laid out in front of me. I wonder if the folks watching from behind me are annoyed that I'm filming. The light from my screen is a bit bright so I try to cover it with my other hand. I know that in some movie theaters, they'll kick you out for even opening your cellphone. I hope that no one tries to kick me out of the overlook. For their sake, of course. I wouldn't want to defeat all twelve of them in hand-to-hand combat.
LCD Screen Display: "12:00"
The fireworks leap off the tops of the casinos downtown. I'm recording it all on my new camera. A few seconds later, I hear the faint pops and booms of the explosions. I try all sorts of tricks with the camera. I center the fireworks and zoom in as far as it'll go. Then I pan out a bit and put the fireworks near the bottom right-hand corner of the screen. Oh yeah, I think, this will work great for a title sequence. I plan to later put the words "2011 - A Year In Review" in the black empty space where the night sky is. Of course, in the final edit, I will have Auld Lang Sine playing. Of course I'm going to make a "2010 In Review" video. It will be full of all the awesome stuff I do in 2011. Or rather, all of the awesome stuff people around me do in 2011, because there's not much chance that I will give the new camera to someone else to film.
LCD Screen Display: "12:03"
Shouldn't these fireworks be over by now? They are for me, as I flip the screen shut and power off the new camera. I place the new camera into the new camera bag and then put that whole apparatus into my old backpack, stand up, stretch, pick up the folding chair, and walk back to the truck. I stow all of my effects in the passenger seat and head off down the hill. I can see the fireworks sparkling all the way until I exit onto South Meadows Parkway and head for Dad's place.
Happy New Year, one and all.
Thanks for reading,
-Daniel K
I climbed out of the truck with my backpack in one hand and a folding chair in the other. Trying not to block anyone else's view, I set up the chair, zipped my jacket up to my nose, and sat on the cold plastic on the cold mountainside during the cold night in the cold state of Nevada. I dug into my pocket and fished out my cellphone. A click of the "Volume Up" button on the side caused the front display to yell at my eyes, "11:52!" I winced at the brightness and set the phone on my thigh. Just in time.
I spent the next few seconds digging out my new camera from my backpack, stuffing it under my coat to keep it from catching cold, and then jamming my hands into my jacket pockets.
Volume Up. 11:53!
I can never decide if city lights look like embers from a dying fire or man's poor imitation of God's stars. Bother metaphors appeal to me. In the former, you get an explanation for the pulsing, flickering, and moving patterns of the city's luminescence. It looks as if a caravan of giant gypsies stopped over in the valley for the night, got cold from drinking the frosty waters of Lake Tahoe, and so sparked up a fire to warm their huge gypsy feet. Much later, when they were all going off to sleep, the most safety-conscious giant gypsy got up and stomped out the flames.
In the latter, you get a good picture of Man's hilarious ineptitude. In attempting to replicate God's nighttime spectacle, we end up with some stars spread way too far apart, some lumped together, some blinking, some shifting from green to yellow to red. The colors are all off, and it wastes a lot of electricity.
Volume Up. 11:55!
About this time every year, I get to thinking that I need to do something rash. I look around my folding chair for opportunities. There are a handful of parked cars around me. Maybe I could go and kick the tires of one until the occupants get out to stop me, then I could defeat all seven of them in hand-to-hand combat. Moving my gaze onward, I see a sign that reads "CONGESTED AREA 25 MPH." I need that sign. It will be my souvenir from the night I finally saw the fireworks from this overlook. Jake left his bag of tools in the back of the truck. I could probably go right now and get the wrench I would need. Someone might try to stop me, but I could always defeat all nine of them in hand-to-hand combat and then be on my way with my sign. Whatever I'm going to do, I need to do it fast because I'm running out of time.
Volume Up. 11:57!
Time is a weird thing. It's a weird thing because we hate it so much. There's never enough when we want it most and there's a surplus when we desire to get on with life. I once heard my good friend Robbie Halleen use our hatred of time as proof that we are eternal beings. "Fish don't complain about the ocean being too wet," he said, "and worms don't complain about having to be underground all of the time. That's because they were made for those environments. But humans always feel the chafe of time on them, which indicates that this is not where we're supposed to be."
Volume Up. 11:59!
I press the "Power" button on the side of my camera and flip the view screen open. My eyes wince at the LCD's brightness. The camera's computer blinks at the blobs of light in front of it, confused for a second or two. Then it slowly understands and adjusts the lenses to make the picture sharper. There she is. The city of Reno, all laid out in front of me. I wonder if the folks watching from behind me are annoyed that I'm filming. The light from my screen is a bit bright so I try to cover it with my other hand. I know that in some movie theaters, they'll kick you out for even opening your cellphone. I hope that no one tries to kick me out of the overlook. For their sake, of course. I wouldn't want to defeat all twelve of them in hand-to-hand combat.
LCD Screen Display: "12:00"
The fireworks leap off the tops of the casinos downtown. I'm recording it all on my new camera. A few seconds later, I hear the faint pops and booms of the explosions. I try all sorts of tricks with the camera. I center the fireworks and zoom in as far as it'll go. Then I pan out a bit and put the fireworks near the bottom right-hand corner of the screen. Oh yeah, I think, this will work great for a title sequence. I plan to later put the words "2011 - A Year In Review" in the black empty space where the night sky is. Of course, in the final edit, I will have Auld Lang Sine playing. Of course I'm going to make a "2010 In Review" video. It will be full of all the awesome stuff I do in 2011. Or rather, all of the awesome stuff people around me do in 2011, because there's not much chance that I will give the new camera to someone else to film.
LCD Screen Display: "12:03"
Shouldn't these fireworks be over by now? They are for me, as I flip the screen shut and power off the new camera. I place the new camera into the new camera bag and then put that whole apparatus into my old backpack, stand up, stretch, pick up the folding chair, and walk back to the truck. I stow all of my effects in the passenger seat and head off down the hill. I can see the fireworks sparkling all the way until I exit onto South Meadows Parkway and head for Dad's place.
Happy New Year, one and all.
Thanks for reading,
-Daniel K
Thursday, October 14, 2010
It's Been a While.
And for that, I am sincerely sorry. Things have been ridiculously busy around here, what with being an RA, President of RHA, having a girlfriend, and planning for King Cougar.*
Yet I want to maintain this blog. On that note, I am about to copy/paste an opinion article I just wrote for Veritas, the CCU student newspaper. I know this is the cheap way out, but like they always say, "it's better to kills two birds with one stone than write an opinion article and not post it to your blog."
Deal.
What’s In a Name? (OR) The "Ghetto" Only in Name
I remember a phone conversation with one of my soon-to-be residents over the summer. I told him that I was the RA of the Ghetto for this year, and that I was really excited to get to know him. He responded by asking me a question. “Is the Ghetto, like, junkier than other stairwells?” After a moment’s pause, I responded in the negative and began informing him on the history of stairwell names – how they were chosen years ago by students who wished to express the zeitgeist in the stairwell. And while I don’t know for sure why the founders of the Ghetto decided to call it such, I would like to give an account of the current meaning of the term “Ghetto” as it pertains to CCU.
The history and scholarly definition of the word “ghetto” is not a glorious one. Princeton’s WordNet defines it as “1. Formerly the restricted quarter of many European cities in which Jews were required to live; ‘the Warsaw ghetto.’ 2. Any segregated mode of living or working that results from bias or stereotyping; ‘no escape from the ghetto of the typing pool.’ 3. A poor densely populated city district occupied by a minority ethnic group linked together by economic hardship and social restrictions.” Yet the word has become more of an adjective in today’s world; one might describe a trashy car or a shoddy production as “ghetto.”
Where does that leave the Ghetto Stairwell? Is this a passé name which should be thrown out with last semester’s class notes? To flee from this ugly definition, should we propose a name change for the stairwell? When faced with an undesirable reality, there are two paths one can take. The first is to flee from the tide. You distance yourself from the cause of your grief. You shed the old skin and start anew. You wash your hands and walk the other direction as quickly as possible. Yet I submit to you that the more noble reaction is to effect change within your circumstances. Rather than spurn the connotation of the word “ghetto,” we should strive to reverse the polarity of the term. We can make “ghetto” mean something different. We can redeem rather than be repulsed. The beauty of language is that it is always in a state of flux. It is alive and moving. Most importantly, it is created by man and can therefore be re-created by man.
So it is with the Ghetto Stairwell. We seek not to “be ghetto” as our culture defines the term, but instead tell the culture what “ghetto” now means. Our goal is to reinvent the word and bring light into a dark area of language. When the tax collectors come to John the Baptist and ask, “What shall we do,” John does not tell them to stop being tax collectors. He instructs them instead to only collect what they are required to. In other words, don’t flee from your blighted profession – redefine what it means to be a tax collector.
In I Corinthians, the Apostle Paul is telling off the religious folk of the Corinthian church for expecting their obedience in Christ to mean financial or material gain. The Corinthians obviously thought that a mark of Apostleship is wealth and power. To illustrate a true Apostle, Paul writes that “we have become the scum of the earth, the refuse of the world.” In other translations, it is interpreted as “everybody’s garbage” and “the filth of humanity.” It is not a far stretch to say that Apostles ought to be the Ghetto of the world. Let it be so.
Thanks for reading,
-Daniel K
*The annual male beauty pageant. My friends and I will be hosting this year.
Yet I want to maintain this blog. On that note, I am about to copy/paste an opinion article I just wrote for Veritas, the CCU student newspaper. I know this is the cheap way out, but like they always say, "it's better to kills two birds with one stone than write an opinion article and not post it to your blog."
Deal.
What’s In a Name? (OR) The "Ghetto" Only in Name
I remember a phone conversation with one of my soon-to-be residents over the summer. I told him that I was the RA of the Ghetto for this year, and that I was really excited to get to know him. He responded by asking me a question. “Is the Ghetto, like, junkier than other stairwells?” After a moment’s pause, I responded in the negative and began informing him on the history of stairwell names – how they were chosen years ago by students who wished to express the zeitgeist in the stairwell. And while I don’t know for sure why the founders of the Ghetto decided to call it such, I would like to give an account of the current meaning of the term “Ghetto” as it pertains to CCU.
The history and scholarly definition of the word “ghetto” is not a glorious one. Princeton’s WordNet defines it as “1. Formerly the restricted quarter of many European cities in which Jews were required to live; ‘the Warsaw ghetto.’ 2. Any segregated mode of living or working that results from bias or stereotyping; ‘no escape from the ghetto of the typing pool.’ 3. A poor densely populated city district occupied by a minority ethnic group linked together by economic hardship and social restrictions.” Yet the word has become more of an adjective in today’s world; one might describe a trashy car or a shoddy production as “ghetto.”
Where does that leave the Ghetto Stairwell? Is this a passé name which should be thrown out with last semester’s class notes? To flee from this ugly definition, should we propose a name change for the stairwell? When faced with an undesirable reality, there are two paths one can take. The first is to flee from the tide. You distance yourself from the cause of your grief. You shed the old skin and start anew. You wash your hands and walk the other direction as quickly as possible. Yet I submit to you that the more noble reaction is to effect change within your circumstances. Rather than spurn the connotation of the word “ghetto,” we should strive to reverse the polarity of the term. We can make “ghetto” mean something different. We can redeem rather than be repulsed. The beauty of language is that it is always in a state of flux. It is alive and moving. Most importantly, it is created by man and can therefore be re-created by man.
So it is with the Ghetto Stairwell. We seek not to “be ghetto” as our culture defines the term, but instead tell the culture what “ghetto” now means. Our goal is to reinvent the word and bring light into a dark area of language. When the tax collectors come to John the Baptist and ask, “What shall we do,” John does not tell them to stop being tax collectors. He instructs them instead to only collect what they are required to. In other words, don’t flee from your blighted profession – redefine what it means to be a tax collector.
In I Corinthians, the Apostle Paul is telling off the religious folk of the Corinthian church for expecting their obedience in Christ to mean financial or material gain. The Corinthians obviously thought that a mark of Apostleship is wealth and power. To illustrate a true Apostle, Paul writes that “we have become the scum of the earth, the refuse of the world.” In other translations, it is interpreted as “everybody’s garbage” and “the filth of humanity.” It is not a far stretch to say that Apostles ought to be the Ghetto of the world. Let it be so.
Thanks for reading,
-Daniel K
*The annual male beauty pageant. My friends and I will be hosting this year.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
In With The Old.
Some of the biggest disappointments in my life have stemmed from the realization that something I thought new and cool and unexplored was, in reality, old hat. I remember, for example, the time I climbed Mt. Whitney with my boy scout troop. I returned to the pitiful elevation of 3,000 feet a hero, walking as tall as the mountain I had just scaled. After all, so few people had accomplished such a feat. I was like Emilia Earhart or Neil Armstrong. Yet when school started that September, I recall that during my first class, our new english teacher Mrs. Bowen had us play Classmate Bingo in order to better acquaint ourselves with each other. During the course of the game, Mrs. Bowen asked if anyone knew the tallest mountain in the contiguous 48 states. My hand shot up like a rocket and I exclaimed, "It's Mt. Whitney in California! I climbed it!"
"Me too," Mrs. Bowen replied in a heartbeat, "twice."
Suddenly my golden mountain lost its luster. It looked more like a mountain of lead now. I mean sure, I had climbed it... but who hadn't? Mt. Whitney, as I had just learned, was old news.
Now, as a 20-year-old white male living in America, there are certain thoughts and ideas I am exposed to on a regular basis. Yet the coolest and most alluring by far -- head and shoulders above Kanye West, MTV, and the partying scene -- is the idea of relative truth... The concept that Truth (note the capital T) is a fickle, tenuous, moving, amorphous concept whose definition invariably, by its nature, changes from person to person.
In short, Truth to one person is not always Truth to another.
This idea fascinated and enthralled me, as it does with millions of my peers. I mean, gone are the days where any shmuck on the street could spout off what Truth is. Truth is so much more complex than that, you see? Truth can't possibly exist within a single religion. Why, just look how many religions there are in the world! This concept, when I was first clued onto it in high school, was so... hip. It's what all the great thinkers of our time are soliciting. It is in movies, books, magazines, and TV shows. People eat it for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
Yet most promising of all, It makes our world safe, quiet, and happy. If the Truth confessed by an angry Christian and the Truth proclaimed by a fanatical Muslim are both true, then there's no reason to fight. What's true to you is awesome, and what's true to me is fantastic. There's no need for conflict in our utopia anymore.
As such, one of the most profound disappointments of my life came when I was listening to a message on the Gospel of John a while back. The pastor explained that Jesus had just been apprehended by the Jewish elite in the Garden of Gathsemane and beaten all night. The plotters decided that the best and most hands-free method of killing Jesus would be to send him before the cruel and unforgiving Pilate. All the Jews had to do was say that Jesus was leading an insurrection, and Pilate (who was in charge of brutally putting down any threats to Caesar,) would take care of the rest. Accordingly, the plotters hand Jesus over to be investigated.
While I was listening to the pastor read the discourse between Jesus and Pilate, an interesting few lines of dialogue caught my attention. Pilate asks Jesus if He is proclaiming to be a king (a direct violation of Roman law, as only Caesar was king.) Jesus replies, "You are right in saying I am a king. In fact, for this reason I was born, and for this I came into the world, to testify to the truth. Everyone on the side of truth listens to me." Pilate remarks, "What is truth?" and then leaves to go talk to the Jews.
What is truth? Pilate is asking that of Jesus. What is truth. Mrs. Bowen was telling me that she climbed Mt. Whitney twice as Pilate was asking Jesus that rhetorical question. And suddenly, this amazingly entrancing idea that Truth is in the eye of the beholder was loosing its charm. The concept that Truth is relative isn't new at all. It isn't the latest thing and it wasn't thought up by our clever little generation. Pilate was tracking with it in year 10. And here we are in year 2010 acting as if this is all the rage. It was at that moment that I saw this idea not as a great leap forward in human thinking but a step sideways in our search for answers. It isn't some intellectual progression of thought, it's a regression of mind back to archaic thinking.
I said that this was one of the biggest disappointments in my life. This is true because it had been something that I had poured my intellect into for years, dazzled by the "new" shine it emitted. Yet it was also one of the most freeing realizations as well. Now that relative Truth wasn't any more progressive in thought than the concept of absolute Truth, I was able to think through my own beliefs more clearly. I wasn't worried about sounding old-fashioned or out-of-date when I proposed that Truth is a set, definite thing.
The idea that Truth to you is true and Truth to me is also true was an idea Pilate had going through his head. It seemed to be Jesus who was suggesting the new way of thinking... The revolutionary way of thinking. This example serves as a microcosm to why I decided to follow Christ. I wasn't interested in keeping alive some ancient, outdated set of beliefs. I didn't want to become part of a worn-out tradition. Instead, the life and the teachings of Jesus appeared to me as a breath of fresh air from the cloying stench of pop culture. Jesus told me to share instead of horde, and I agreed that that was a better way to live. He asked me to respect others before I took the best for myself, and I agreed that that was a more mature method. He told me that Truth is out there, solid and unchanging, even though sometimes I have no idea how to decipher it, and I agreed that that was a more wise understanding of things.
Thanks for reading,
-Daniel K
"Me too," Mrs. Bowen replied in a heartbeat, "twice."
Suddenly my golden mountain lost its luster. It looked more like a mountain of lead now. I mean sure, I had climbed it... but who hadn't? Mt. Whitney, as I had just learned, was old news.
Now, as a 20-year-old white male living in America, there are certain thoughts and ideas I am exposed to on a regular basis. Yet the coolest and most alluring by far -- head and shoulders above Kanye West, MTV, and the partying scene -- is the idea of relative truth... The concept that Truth (note the capital T) is a fickle, tenuous, moving, amorphous concept whose definition invariably, by its nature, changes from person to person.
In short, Truth to one person is not always Truth to another.
This idea fascinated and enthralled me, as it does with millions of my peers. I mean, gone are the days where any shmuck on the street could spout off what Truth is. Truth is so much more complex than that, you see? Truth can't possibly exist within a single religion. Why, just look how many religions there are in the world! This concept, when I was first clued onto it in high school, was so... hip. It's what all the great thinkers of our time are soliciting. It is in movies, books, magazines, and TV shows. People eat it for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
Yet most promising of all, It makes our world safe, quiet, and happy. If the Truth confessed by an angry Christian and the Truth proclaimed by a fanatical Muslim are both true, then there's no reason to fight. What's true to you is awesome, and what's true to me is fantastic. There's no need for conflict in our utopia anymore.
As such, one of the most profound disappointments of my life came when I was listening to a message on the Gospel of John a while back. The pastor explained that Jesus had just been apprehended by the Jewish elite in the Garden of Gathsemane and beaten all night. The plotters decided that the best and most hands-free method of killing Jesus would be to send him before the cruel and unforgiving Pilate. All the Jews had to do was say that Jesus was leading an insurrection, and Pilate (who was in charge of brutally putting down any threats to Caesar,) would take care of the rest. Accordingly, the plotters hand Jesus over to be investigated.
While I was listening to the pastor read the discourse between Jesus and Pilate, an interesting few lines of dialogue caught my attention. Pilate asks Jesus if He is proclaiming to be a king (a direct violation of Roman law, as only Caesar was king.) Jesus replies, "You are right in saying I am a king. In fact, for this reason I was born, and for this I came into the world, to testify to the truth. Everyone on the side of truth listens to me." Pilate remarks, "What is truth?" and then leaves to go talk to the Jews.
What is truth? Pilate is asking that of Jesus. What is truth. Mrs. Bowen was telling me that she climbed Mt. Whitney twice as Pilate was asking Jesus that rhetorical question. And suddenly, this amazingly entrancing idea that Truth is in the eye of the beholder was loosing its charm. The concept that Truth is relative isn't new at all. It isn't the latest thing and it wasn't thought up by our clever little generation. Pilate was tracking with it in year 10. And here we are in year 2010 acting as if this is all the rage. It was at that moment that I saw this idea not as a great leap forward in human thinking but a step sideways in our search for answers. It isn't some intellectual progression of thought, it's a regression of mind back to archaic thinking.
I said that this was one of the biggest disappointments in my life. This is true because it had been something that I had poured my intellect into for years, dazzled by the "new" shine it emitted. Yet it was also one of the most freeing realizations as well. Now that relative Truth wasn't any more progressive in thought than the concept of absolute Truth, I was able to think through my own beliefs more clearly. I wasn't worried about sounding old-fashioned or out-of-date when I proposed that Truth is a set, definite thing.
The idea that Truth to you is true and Truth to me is also true was an idea Pilate had going through his head. It seemed to be Jesus who was suggesting the new way of thinking... The revolutionary way of thinking. This example serves as a microcosm to why I decided to follow Christ. I wasn't interested in keeping alive some ancient, outdated set of beliefs. I didn't want to become part of a worn-out tradition. Instead, the life and the teachings of Jesus appeared to me as a breath of fresh air from the cloying stench of pop culture. Jesus told me to share instead of horde, and I agreed that that was a better way to live. He asked me to respect others before I took the best for myself, and I agreed that that was a more mature method. He told me that Truth is out there, solid and unchanging, even though sometimes I have no idea how to decipher it, and I agreed that that was a more wise understanding of things.
Thanks for reading,
-Daniel K
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