Slavery

When the average person thinks of the word "slavery" many automatically think of physical chains and psychological destruction. As a Christian, I rejoice in being a slave. I've done many things in my life to please people: skipping class, crazy partying, and drinking alcohol. I have heard people say, "I can't be a Christian, there's too many rules and regulations. Out in the world, I'm free to do whatever I want."

I too used to think this, but then I realized I was a slave to myself and the world. I wanted to be cool, so I did things I knew I shouldn't. We all just want to be liked and accepted. That's the interesting thing about humans, we like to profess our superiority over other animals; however, we're not very different from our counterparts.

We're pack animals, seeking for belonging within a particular group. This is why people with similar interests flock to together. This is also why it's hard for people to change. If I decide to change my opinion or behavior, those within my circle can no longer relate to me, which usually results in expulsion from the group. Hence the reason we go against common sense in order to avoid rejection.

But you see, humans enslave themselves to material objects and destructive attitudes in the name of freedom. We would rather be free to destroy ourselves, then be caged in perfect harmony. I'm not saying that religion should be a cage, in which we place ourselves merely for the promise of an eternal life. What I'm saying is that we reap the fruits of our so called freedom.

Deciding not to partake in the 'pleasures' of the world I don't declare myself a saint, I'm just someone attempting to achieve the epitome of free will.

Can't Believe It

It’s the most important day of my life and I can’t seem to find my wallet. The taxi is already outside and the driver is honking again. I walk to the front door, doesn’t he realize this wastes more time, open my imitation steel door and yell, “Please, just wait another minute.” My words seem to soothe him, or perhaps he is glancing at the meter that is accumulating more numbers. I take a deep breath as I take my hair down from the scrunchie holding it hostage. My reflection is grinning at me for making such a mistake.

Today could be my beginning in a great career. I graduate from Syracuse University in three months and I have been applying for jobs like crazy. During this recession everyone, especially in my field, art history, has emphasized the importance of landing a job before graduating college. I have slaved over my books for four years in order to be the most knowledgeable individual on DaVinci and Rembrandt.

I have landed an interview with the California Museum in Sacramento, California. I slept a full eight hours last night, ate a balanced breakfast, grabbed my bag that had been packed since last week and ran out the door. The taxi driver kindly listened to me ramble on about how amazing the museum was and how it was my first location choice. He is a smiling old man with white hair that contrasts his mahogany skin. He blows his horn again, reminding me that my flight leaves in an hour, and I continue my rummaging through my couch cushions. I smirk at the fact I won’t be home when my neat freak roommate gets home.

“YES!” I exclaim as I find the little square of leather that constitutes as a wallet. If it weren’t for the fact it said Coach across the front people would think it belonged to a man. I run out the door and jump into my yellow chariot.

“I thought you weren’t gonna find it.” He chuckles as we speed off. Screeching tires break the silence of my suburban neighborhood, but luckily the majority of the inhabitants are already at work. “We still have time.” He states as I glance down at my watch. It’s like he keeps reading my mind.

As he hurries back to the airport I have to close my eyes to keep from getting carsick. The flash of gleaming blurs of colors doesn’t do well for the nerves jumbled in my stomach. When we arrive I jump out of the seat before he can come to a complete stop.

“Good luck kid!” he yells as I run into the airport. The crowd is too thick for a Monday morning, and I wonder if everyone is traveling today. When I was here twenty minutes ago there was half as many people. I haven’t been on an airplane for a few months, yet I’m not surprised by the noise. Glancing at my watch I realize I have another half hour before my flight takes off. I walk over to the Fridays and sit at the bar. The bartender sends me a wink. Returning the grin I pull out my wallet as he makes his way to me.

“Hello ma’am, what will you be having?”

“I’ll order an apply martini” he nods his approval before hurrying off to make my drink. He reminds me of my boyfriend; dark hair, blue eyes, and large biceps. My drink is placed in front of me and I take a small sip to savor the taste. I smile as the liquid slides down my throat. “Now that’s a martini”.

My boyfriend supports my decision to move away even though he will be stationed in upstate New York for at least another year. Even though we won’t be able to see each other as often as before, he understands my passion for history, specifically art. My parents, on the other hand, hate everything about me possibly changing locations. They think the west coast is full of pompous movie stars and socialites with too much money. I always remind them that New York is the same except for the fact we get snow.

“Flight 8791”

“That’s me.” I tell my bartender as I hand him the cash for the drink.

“Have a safe trip”

“Thank you.” I reply as I hop off the barstool and hurry to the gate. I’ll only be gone a few days so my luggage is a medium duffel bag. My purse begins to jingle but I don’t have time to answer as I rush to the front of the line. The flight attendant asks for my boarding pass and I reach into my bag. When I don’t feel the paper envelope I allow the people behind me to go on as I rummage through my bag. My face and heart sinks as I realize I left the folder containing my boarding pass, hotel confirmation, and directions to my interview on the coffee table in front of my couch.

“Forgot your ticket huh?” the flight attendant asks me.

“Talk about uh oh.”

Plucking Opportunity

When my eyes open, there’s no sunshine. Instead of the sun flooding my bedroom with warmth, it’s pitch black. Turning my head to the left, I sigh as I glance at the clock. I shove my covers back and immediately wish I hadn’t as the gust of cold air hits me. As I sit on the edge of the bed I notice how cold the floor is and the fact I don’t have any house slippers, something I keep forgetting to buy.

After breakfast and getting dressed I venture outside. It’s humid, even in the darkness. The moon is beginning to recede as I walk to my co-worker’s home. Jose is a family man with three beautiful children. His wife died years ago and he takes care of them by himself.

“Hola.” He says with a smile. I return the smile but reply in English.

“Hello”

“Porque estas hablando en ingles, Eduardo?”

“I don’t want to pick fruit for the rest of my life.”

Jose rolls his eyes at me and hops into his truck. Junior, his oldest, is sixteen and responsible for getting the younger ones to school. I look out the window as Jose pulls off, trying not to remind the life I left behind. My mother was a sensitive woman who slaved day and night in the machiladora, the foreign factories, which don’t pay their workers the proper wages. She died two years ago due to respiratory issues and I came to America two months after to find a better job.

I’ve been picking fruit for Mr. Johnson for about two years now. He pays me enough to maintain my half of the small apartment I share with a man who doesn’t speak to me.

As a child, fruit was my favorite food, strawberries to be exact, but now I hate them. I’m lucky to be twenty-three because my body is young enough to regenerate quick enough to return to work every day. In all my time working for Mr. Johnson I have never been late or missed my shift. He says he’ll help me get my citizenship but I don’t believe him. I think he just tells me that to keep me from going to another farm.

By the time we arrive to the farm the sun is out and shining it’s brightest. Earlier in my life I would have been excited to see all the tomatoes, strawberries, and oranges. But now, I want to scream at the fact the only way to live is to pick fruit. The American workers, who get paid more, believe most of us who don’t speak English are either idiots or deaf. To make interaction minimal we all act like we are deaf and ignore them when they are screaming at us to do something else. Mr. Johnson rarely raises his voice and if it weren’t for my predicament I’m sure he would be a nice man.

“So what’s your deal?” Bobby, Mr. Johnson’s son, asks me as I stop to get a drink of water.

“What?”

“You’re the only one who can speak English.” He states. “Why is that?”

“Knowing two languages works your brain. Your father is able to speak Spanish.”

“I don’t know why. One of these days he’s gonna get busted for what he’s doing.” he takes a drag of his cigarette. “Having illegals farming his land, taking jobs away from Americans who deserve it.” He looks at me with a hate in his eyes I haven’t seen before. “Damn, Mexicans-“

“I’m from Ecuador.”

“Like I care.”, glancing away from me he smirks. “Time’s up.”

I turn to look where his eyes are to see immigration officers raiding the farm. I try to run through the strawberries, jumping over the patches, but I don’t make it very far. A body slams into my back shoving my face into the fruit. I think back to a time when fruit represented happiness. As my hands are cuffed, I remember taking fresh oranges to Jose’s children. I think about what will happen to him and his family. The officer shoves me into the car, my head hitting the window on the other door. My vision blurs as I close my eyes to allow the headache to subside.

As the car drives away I stare at the strawberry grove. My small steps were supposed to lead to bigger plans and I’m not sure how things will go for me now. I was going to apply for my citizenship soon and with all the money I had saved up I was going to get a better apartment. I look into the rearview mirror to see my hope vanish before my eyes. Who knew fruit could be someone’s only opportunity.

Masquerade

It’s dark in this small cell but that’s not the reason my vision is impaired. My eye is swollen shut and my loafers are soaked through. If they weren’t Italian leather I’m sure they would have fallen apart after all they had been through today.

It’s funny how one little thing can change your entire existence. I was living the American dream in California. I had wanted to be an actor since I was eight years old and experienced Mardi Gras for the first time. I wanted to be like those people dancing and singing through the streets. I admired the free spirit of their celebration and I hoped to live a life where I could do what made me happy rather than what was expected.

I had not spoken to my mother in five years not only because of the way I left home but because my agent found out I was one-fourth black.

“When were you going to tell me?” Fred asked me.

“I didn’t think it was that big of a deal.” I answered.

“Wow Aiden, you really don’t understand what’s going on here.”

“I haven’t talked to them in over two years.”

This statement seemed to soothe him because he fell silently into his chair.

“We have to keep things that way.” he stated. “You can’t ever speak to anyone in your family who isn’t white.” He grabbed my chin. “You hear me?”

“I hear ya.” I mumbled. I kept that bargain for two years but one letter changed everything.

It was early morning when my mother contacted me. I had gone outside to get the daily paper and decided to check my mailbox. Flipping through the letters, mostly junk mail, I came across my mother’s script. I hurried back into my home to open the letter; with a shaky hand I slowly opened.

My dearest Aiden,

I forgave you for leaving the moment Kenneth came back. I have known where you were but I always figured you would contact us if you needed to. I hope you are eating okay and taking care of yourself. The girls have seen every one of your movies, don’t worry they haven’t told anyone you are related to them. I just wanted to say that I miss and love you.

Your loving Mother,

Jade

Against Fred’s wishes I packed my bag and was on the next flight to New Orleans. As soon as I stepped into the Louisiana air my lungs were seasoned with Cajun spice. My mouth watered and my empty stomach growled. I caught a taxi to my old neighborhood but there were no vendors there. The entire town had changed so much from the haven it was when I was a child. There were colored and whites signs in store windows and over water fountains. People of color were stepping around whites on the street. Even those browner than me moved out of my way. I pulled my jacket closer to me trying to keep out the cold not just from the weather but the people. The smiling faces that had one greeted me were gone and I wondered if everyone I knew had moved. Everyone with color had a look of despair.

When I knocked on the door to my house the woman before me wasn’t my mother.

“Julia?” I gasped pulling my sister in my arms. She still smelled like the lotion my mother used when she was a baby. Her hair was up in a bun and she wore a small amount of shimmer on her eyes to bring out the hazel color.

“Who’s at the…” Rosalie’s voice trailed off as she took in the sight of me. I guess time hadn’t done me too bad either. The middle child, and oldest while I was gone, had turned into a gorgeous adult. Dark brown hair that almost looked black flowed over her shoulders and contrasted her deep green eyes. “Come in.”, she suggested while grabbing my hand. Julia followed suite and the two pulled me into the living room.

“What’s all this commotion at the door?” my mother asked without bothering to turn away from the stove. All three of us stayed quiet. “What in the world is the matter with you two?” she turned around to see me and re adjusted her grip on the bowl she was holding. “You came back...” She hurried over to me pulling me into a bear hug.

“I am so sorry for leaving the way I did.”

I was eighteen when I graduated high school, but I had no intention of attending a university in the fall. My mother wanted me to go to Xavier University of Louisiana but I refused. It was predominately colored and despite my ancestry I felt no connection to the people there. I had the gift of “passing” as everyone called it; my hair looked straight when kept short, my eyes were light brown, and my skin had only a hint of color during the summer. The parents of the girls I grew up with began to approach my parents about marriage. Every other week my mother was making dinner for some girl and her folks. When asked about my plans for the future, my mother answered. I was viewed as the perfect specimen of a husband not because of my personality or skill but because each girl was hoping that I would pass on my gift. I felt like a dog being bred and I hated my mother for it.

“A man needs a degree Aiden.” She told me as she whisked through the kitchen preparing dinner. No amount of money could curb her love of cooking.

“Dad doesn’t have a degree and he is doing fine.” I argued having a seat at the oak table.

“Your father is from a different time.” I watched as Rosalie handed my mother a spice she was looking for. She smacked the back of my head when I leaned on the table. “You know better than that.” I rubbed my head wishing I had remembered. My house was the largest on Royal Street, making the butt of jokes that I was the prince of the French Quarter. In my neighborhood money equaled worth so your possessions were more important than your behavior. Living in a home too big for her family, cooking in a kitchen that should be in a hotel, and owning only hand- made clothes made my mother a saint in the eyes of my neighbors.

“I have plans.”

My mother smirked at me. “Like what?”

I swallowed and took a deep breath feeling the curious eyes of Julia and Rosalie bearing into my back. I had usually followed orders so my defiance had become a spectacule. “I am going to Hollywood to become an actor.” The idea obviously appalled my mother because she narrowed her eyes like I had cursed her.

“You want to do what?” I noticed my sisters shrink back. “That is absolutely out of the question! You will go to college or work for your father.”

“I won’t do either.” I yelled back. “I won’t sit here and wait for you to find me a girl to marry.”

“Do you know what life out there is like?” she growled, angrily pointing to some place far away. “Prejudice and judgment are waiting for you. Our world is nothing like the one out there. Do you know how my father died?” I shook my head. “He was murdered because he was a black man married to a white woman. That is why my mother moved me here, so that I would be as far away from that mentality as possible and here you are ready to run back to it.” She sighed and her body relaxed. “If you want to see what the world is like take a vacation before school, go visit your father’s family in France.” She fell into the nearest chair. “Do you know why I married your father?” I shook my head ‘no’. “Just look at yourself and sisters.” I glanced at my seemingly white skin.

A few days after that conversation, I broke my leg jumping into a shallow pond. I screamed until I passed out and when I woke up I was in the hospital. My two best friends; Kenneth and Aaron, showed up with some of my favorite junk food.

“Man that looks bad.” Aaron said poking at my cast. “Does it itch?”

“It’s cool.” I replied opening one of the bars. “So where is my mom?”

“She couldn’t come.” Kenneth answered. I looked at my two best friends, confused.

“This is a white hospital Aiden.” Aaron whispered.

“What about my sisters?”

“You know you’re the lightest one…” Kenneth joked but I wasn’t amused. That’s when I first began to question who I really was.

Los Angeles was nothing like my hometown. There were so many cars the sky looked black from the exhaust. I covered my nose and mouth with my shirt. Kenneth was the one to drive me, telling his parents he wanted to see his aunt in Arizona. I began my new life with one hundred dollars to my name and all my possessions in the duffel bag over my shoulder.

I was in line at an audition when I first saw Philippe. He was standing behind me reciting his lines in French with his eyes closed.

“Are you looking for a place to stay?” Philippe asked me after the audition.

“Why?”

“I found a place but there is no way to afford it by myself.”

“So you’re looking for a roommate?” he nodded “Do you have a job?” he shook his head. “Well this just might work cause I have one of those.” He gave me a huge smile, showing all his pearly white teeth before patting me on the back.

“We’ll make a good team.”

The motel I had been staying in wasn’t the best but the apartment Philippe had found was beyond repair. The refrigerator worked only when it wanted to, occasionally wasting the little bit of groceries we could scrape together. The cooks in the Italian restaurant that we worked at usually felt bad for us and would pack us dinner whenever we had nothing to eat. I could tell the different in sauces with my eyes closed and to this day I can eat Italian food only once a month. Our carpet was discolored and molding in the corners of the single room we shared. Our bedroom, kitchen, and living room all one with a separate bathroom. I realized how much water I wasted back home after the first month’s water bill. My showers became only five minutes long and I shut off the water when I was brushing my teeth. Sleeping on an old couch and having to catch a bus every where I wanted to go made me appreciate and miss home, especially my mother. Two people living in our slice of space still had to budget like crazy to keep the lights on. One time I forgot to pay the bill and Philippe damn near killed me. He helped me became a man than my own father. Living with the Frenchmen I learned how to do laundry, cook, and how to clean. He showed me how to appreciate life even in dire conditions. I hadn’t laughed as much as when I lived with him and to this day I’m thankful for meeting him.

My break came when I was imitating our boss.

“Aiden, if you were any less charming I would fire you.” I grumbled with a hunched back and squinty eyes. My coworker and partner in crime couldn’t contain the laughter. “I have no idea what you are laughing at Frenchie, if it wasn’t for me you’d be back in Europe dealing with those blasted Germans.”

I noticed his face straighten out and I prepared myself for Mr. Cotta’s angry face but instead I saw a different small man.

“You got something special kid.” the man said. He extended his hand but I didn’t shake it. “You don’t trust me?”

“I don’t know you well enough to trust or distrust you Mr.…”

“Clancy, but you can call me Fred.” he stated as he handed me his card. “When you are done being skeptical give me a call.”

I couldn’t help the shocked look when I walked into Fred’s office. His secretary made me take off my shoes before I could even go in. The two doors were from the floor to the ceiling and I had to use all my strength to push them open. Fred’s desk was black wood, his chair white leather. The two chairs in front of his desk were black leather and there was a blood red couch on the side of the room.

“To be honest I never thought you were coming to see me.”

“Well here I am.”, I shrugged. I was sick of being overworked and underpaid, my desire for fame had not left me but I was well aware of the release acting had provided. Each audition was a portal which leads me to another place, away from all my issues. I knew what was going to happen and everything happened according to plan.

“Is there a name to go with that face?”

“Aiden Christensen.”

Stroking his chin he circled me. “Hollywood needs a new face and I think yours is it.” He smiled. “You are going to make a ton of money.”

Two years, three films, four radio interviews, five television appearances later I was the hottest new young star in Tinsletown. Women wanted me, men wanted to be me, and just about every director said I was easy to work with. I seemed to have a perfect life but you need to know where you came from to know where you were going so that’s why I jumped on that plane once I never my mother had forgiven me.

“No one knows about us.” My mother guessed as we walked through our backyard.

“My agent doesn’t even know I’m here.”

“You just up and left?”

“I got your letter and wanted to see you.” she nodded with raised eyebrows as if she was surprised. “A lot has changed around here.”

“You see that already huh.” I silently agreed. “With your father gone I am the beneficiary so these white men think they can just bully me into selling.”

“Why don’t you just give it up? It’s not worth the trouble.”

“Not worth the trouble? This is more than just some space of land, this is about our rights.”

“Things aren’t the best but it’s better to just go with the flow.”

“Going with the flow huh.” she laughed in my face. “That approach has kept you away from your family for all this time. I married your father so you could have any and everything you needed, not to pretend to be something you aren’t.”

“Do you realize you just totally contradicted yourself? You want me to reap the benefits of looking white without forgetting I’m black?”

She grabbed me by my ear then twisted it. “A little bit of quick money doesn’t make you a man Aiden, remember that.” she shoved me away. “Obviously there was a break in communication.” She sighed. “How long are you staying?”

“Just a few days.”

I was supposed to leave without looking back. I was supposed to return to my life in California without acknowledging my roots but instead I ended up marching with my family. I was heading to the corner store after dark like I had always done as a teenager and I saw a young black boy run past. Seconds later two white boys followed. I was supposed to mind my own business but instead I gave chase running into an uncomfortable situation. The white guys had tripped the black guy and begun to beat him.

“Get away from him!”

“Whatcha gon do bout it?” the biggest guy asked. “You one of them Nigger loving Yanks?”

“I’m telling you to let this boy go. He’s not even sixteen.”

“Telling us.” the biggest one laughed let out a bellow that flashed his dingy teeth and wide gap. “This Nigger lover is really going to try to tell us what to do.” His fist connected before I could even think and the fight was on.

I was left with a swollen eye and busted lip. The next morning the police officer let us all but the black guy go. He didn’t have the gift he didn’t have the gift so there was no telling what would happen to him. I walked all the way home because no one could pick me up. I might have been thrown back into the cell.

“What the hell happened to your face?” Julia asked when I stumbled into the house

“I bet he tried to break up one of the sun down beatings.” Rosalie added.

“It was right what you did.” my mother said. “And you need to bring them up on charges.”

“If I do that I’ll surely end up in the press.”

“Is that more valuable than addressing these issues? To be honest there is no reason for these stupid curfews. We are people, not animals to be caged when not supervised.”

“There’s a march to Biloxi tomorrow.” Julie squealed.

“We’re all going.” Rosalie stated. “You should come…”

When I was marching in the crowd I was just like anyone else. The pounding hoses of water showed no mercy. I was choked by the pressure, my lungs felt like they were collapsing. Screams of women and the laughter of the police filled the air. Looking at them I wondered how any human could take pleasure in what they were doing. I lost my mother when the chaos erupted so I have no idea what shape she is in. I saw a grown man, not even an officer, trying to drag my sister off. I fought him with all I was worth only to be attacked by dogs. As I sit in the corner I take in the men around me. In the dark we all look the same and there is no difference between the darkest and the lightest man. This movement is something that will better the society as a whole and if I have to loose my status just because I’m not white then that’s fine with me. I’m tired of hiding; I hope that one day I can be judged on the content of my character rather than the color of my skin.

Cross Contamination

Individuals are powerful beings, able to consume technology and adapt it to their needs. The current trend in America, going green, is being promoted and widely accepted. I remember when few people unplugged appliances not in use or let the shower run to avoid a cold one. Saving energy has not always been an "American thing"; with the size of the average home and gas tank of American made cars. We are accustomed to wastefulness. If an outsider said, "This is not American culture and we have a duty to preserve their authencity." Americans would feel invaded.

Change allows people to have more choices. In our country new knowledge allows us the ability to choose what we want to use and what we want to discard. Some members of the older generations throw up their hands saying "This stuff is cool, but I'm just too damn old to be bothered." But when our elders were young they did not have this same choice.

This change is only possible because of individuals. As I mentioned before, no one blindly consumes information. In terms of globalization, we mold outside medium to our liking. In the contamination article: Scholar Larry Strelitz interviewed students from KwaZulu-Natal to inspect this 'invasion' and it's affects. He found that different students took away different lessons which deflates the idea that globalization brain washes individuals.

We live by actionable information. We check the weather channel to decide our attire, we check travel websites to purchase the least expensive ticket, we check our email and day planners to remember what we have to do. Professor Blevens once spoke in class about farmers in the Congo who have to charge their cell phones in their cars because they have no electricity, but they use internet on their phone to receive information about issues concerning their crops. In this way technology is helping, not hindering or invading, their way of life.

I agree with Appiah that "Talk of authencity now just amounts to telling other people what they ought to value in their own traditions." Growing up, I often heard the statement "You act white." and I was always confused because I did not understand what 'acting white' or 'acting black' meant. As I matured I began to question those types of statements. Both blacks and whites would try and tell me, an African American female born and raised in this country, that I was not 'black enough'. White peers would say I should listen to more rap music or not speak as proper. I love being a member of the African dispora, but I define what being black means to me. There is too much classification, too many titles and labels in our societies.

Globilazation is a way to mix and match cultures, to evolve through the new knowledge received from other people. Once people are valued, instead of concentrating on cultures, globalization will be viewed differently.

I'll Never Tell

I hate keeping secrets because I'm not very good at it. My parents always promoted honesty, over discipline for not so great behavior. The largest secret I had to keep was when one of my supervisors began to attempt to date one of my friends.

In my department RAs aren't 'supposed to' date residents due to conflict of interest of course. In the beginning of last fall a supervisor of a different building introduced himself to my friend who was living in his building. He made it clear he wanted to begin relationship with her so they starting spending time together; on and off campus.

I was worried about my position because I didn't want personal issues to affect my work life. There was a chance that the department head would have begun to ask around concerning the relationship. As I kept the secret I was more upset, than empowered because my friend has disrespected my opinion. Not only was the guy a player and hit on every girl he came across, I warned her about the situation I could be put in at work.

When the relationship finally ended, it was weird to have to work with the guy that disrespected my friend. I felt better because I was no longer on edge, about someone seeing them and asking me, or a supervisor questioning me. That particular supervisor was eventually fired so this year I haven't had to work with him.

At the end of the day I told her that if it came down to my job or keeping her secret, I was going to spill the beans.

No One Is Perfect

I have always prided myself on being not only politically correct, but being knowledgeable and sensitive to others lifestyles. Despite my conscious effort to always be 'culturally neutral' there are bumps in the road.

My most recent collision happened during my staff meeting a few weeks ago. Every week, for at least an hour and a half all twelve resident assistants, and our two supervisors meet. These meetings are full of information that could have been easily shared through email so it's up to the resident assistants, to make the time go by with jokes. There are many cultural, racial, or socio-economical jabs tossed at everyone but every once in a while some are off target leaving the group embarrased and confused.

This particular staff meeting was actually the entire two hours long. We had to converse about the new resident assistant applicants, to point out the shortcomings of those who wanted our jobs. One of my coworkers became fixated on one of the candidates. I mean every five mintues, though we had moved on in the meeting, he would say something else negative about the candidate. Finally someone said, "What the hell happened in Tobago?", because my coworker and the new candidate had actually grown up on the same island. I replied. "He must have stolen his cow."

The skeptical chuckles that floated around were not the responses I was anticipating when I blurted out my joke. Not only speaking to, but being friends with Trinis and Tobagonians, I'd heard many stories about how country the island of Tobago is. I even knew some Tobago citizens that lived on farms.

My coworker looked at me and said 'What?', like I was the most ignorant person alive. Luckily, my supervisor changed the subject because we had more things to cover.


I've been aware of word usage because of the experience I've had with others. During training one year the group of resident assistants was discussing why prejudice is so common. Someone responded 'Because people do not realize what is being passed on to them and they don't know any better.' Someone else responded 'That's an ignorant way of thinking. Everyone is responsible for their own actions and can't blame 'being raised that way'".

His use of the word 'ignorant', though correctly in context upset the entire group. When I spoke to him later about how to certain words, he responded 'It's not my fault people aren't educated enough to understand the true meaning of the word.' One word seemed to offended an entire group, despite the stories being shared with derogatory terms.

If misunderstandings can be had between people of the same age, socio-economical group, and education of course they can be had across cultures, nations , and continents. Even gestures are considered to mean different things when you go around the world. Everyone has a different context and when two, or more, people come together unaware or unaccepting of this difference misunderstandings and conflicts arise.

Whose Media Is It?

As a busy college student, the biggest reason I don't have a self centered lifestyle is because of my job. I am constantly required to assist, care for, and support thirty-three other individuals while keeping my own life in check. I've become very accustomed and comfortable to my everyday schedule. Each day is preceded by another which was just as or more mundane as the other.

Completing this assignment was more fun than the blackout assignment. Instead of having to grapple with the incessant rambling of my mind I was able to literally, be someone else.
Before this assignment I never understood why people follow television shows religiously, listen to the radio when CDs and MP3 connections are available, or buy the magazines at the grocery store checkout counter. Now I understand the reason is escape.

Knowing the words to every single song in my iPod I fall into a pattern each time I hop into my car; turn car on, plug in iPod, find playlist, hit shuffle, then pull off. My partner divulged that she listens to the radio while driving and I realized how the simple things in life bring happiness. Listening to people be phone pranked offered me the best laugh I've had in weeks.

When I went grocery shopping I bought a Cosmopolitan magazine which opened my eyes to the different things to do to a man's body. Being a VIP member of the 'V Club', I had no use for the sex tips but the Carrie Underwood article was interesting. I dived into a world I shrugged off and passed every time I went to Publix to get food. It was nice to worry about what 'he's really saying in his texts' rather than event deadlines, meetings, or residents pounding down my door at one in the morning.

Sadly, due to my staff meeting, I was not able to watch Lost but during the 48 hours during this assignment I sat down at 6pm to watch cable news. It was hard to stop cleaning, emailing, or social networking for that hour but I prided myself on being able to complete the task.

After returning to my media consumption life I can't keep my eyes of the magazine I wrote, and radio conversations actually interest me. It's amazing how we view information, based on where it comes from. If I felt magazines were a waste of time then I wouldn't value the information within it, no matter how accurate or beneficial.

As news consumers we must be able to evaluate ALL types of media to be able to receive information, no matter what the vehicle.

Blackout

Do we have to stop to think or can we think while we keep consuming?

Solitude: Contemporary Lonliness

When reading the Deresiewicz article I found myself agreeing with all his points, yet realizing I did all those things. One of my favorite artists once said 'It's sad when we have to result to keyboards as a means of making relations', which made me realize how much of my time isn't really mine. I always hear my classmates, co-workers, and friends complaining how there just isn't enough time in the day; however, they send and receive at least a thousand texts a day.

As a Resident Assistant on campus, I have to check my email multiple times a day. When I first began I always missed deadlines or was left out of the loop because I never had a reason to check my email on a regular basis. But now, I can't go an entire two hours without itching to type in panthermail.fiu.edu.

This too has happened in reference to this class. I rarely read a news paper, flipped past television news, or factual spoke about world news. Now, I've gotten used to consuming the New York Times on a regular basis. Once the assignment began I found myself longing to grab a school newspaper on my way to the elevator in my housing hall.

News is a necessary intrusion because it breaks through our mental solitude. As we grow up we are 'programmed' with the beliefs and ideals of our church, family, and culture. We are ignorant to things different from us because we have not experienced them. News pushes past our comfortable barriers and forces information into our faces.

If evaluated properly, this invasion can be used to create positive action. News must intrude, in order to make us think for ourselves.

Aristotle vs Plato: Who Is More Responsible For Contemporary Discourse

As I scanned through multiple scholarly articles about Aristotle and Plato's lives and views I thought I would never find what I was looking for. Many of the articles used jargon I had heard only in high school during my honors philosophy class.

Plato was Aristotle's teacher who felt that "every rational human being, given a choice, will prefer a life that is moderately thoughtful and moderately pleasant to a life that is utterly thoughtless or utterly pleasureless." Plato valued the truth and knowledge in rhetoric. He didn't feel that it was okay to persuade someone just for personal gain but that it should benefit society as a whole. Since truth can not be refuted it helps the argument that is being made. To Plato, you must appeal to beliefs in order to change emotions.

Aristotle valued the truthfulness of the rhetoric, just as his mentor Plato did. He viewed emotion arousal as a technical proof of rhetoric. To Aristotle, "emotions are intelligent and discriminating parts of the personality, closely related to beliefs of a certain sort and therefore responsive to cognitive modification." Facts are facts; however, people have different 'truths' that can be changed. If I feel I've been disrespected, my truth is that I have been wronged, but if I speak to the person that has wronged me and found that there was no malice or negligence on their part, my truth can be altered.

I think Aristotle has the most influence on contemporary discourse due to the emphasize on emotional responses. Right after September 11th Americans were hurt, angry, and confused. Aristotle speaks about emotions having a target, and if done correctly rhetoric will change that target. While Americans were emotionally vulnerable the government used rhetoric to gain support of upcoming wars: the conflict in Afghanistan and Iraq.

Once American anger faded and opinions changed Barack Obama's campaign slogan appealed to the change the public wanted to see.
Even if something is completely logical and truthful, if it is not delivered in a way that will eventually affect emotions people will not be moved to act.

Why We Write Things Down

Ideas are in existence but not concrete until they are written down. Information can be passed down in a multitude of ways; however, it has been proven that information that is written lasts longer than when spoken. Once something is printed it can not be altered without destructive measures. You don't see "white out" in any of the holy books or your newly purchase course textbooks.

We write things down because we can always go back to that exact moment in time. Teenagers write in journals to express things they feel can not be said and years after laugh about what seemed so important at the time. Organization construct documents with by laws which would easily be changed or forgotten about if relying only on word of mouth.

A perfect example would be European or Chinese history versus African history. Historical texts allow people to see into a past world. Since African historians handed down information orally, today's world doesn't know as much about the African way of life as we do of the ancient European or Chinese way of life.

We write things down because it makes our thoughts real, tangible. Books are written because someone felt their research or creatively needed to be shared. Written information goes further: a book can be sold internationally; whereas, a spoken story will probably only circulate among friends. Personally, I enjoy reading through my old journals and diaries to see how far I have come. When I'm writing in the journal now I wonder how I'll view myself in the future when I read through it.