A Life Half Lived (Perspective of a Melting Pot & “Between the World and Me” by Ta-Nehisi Coates)

In my previous blog post, I mentioned the two sides of my upbringing.

On one hand, I was submersed in the values of an Eastern upbringing, told tales of immigration and struggle and strife, of coming to a country penniless in hopes of opportunity. And on the other hand, I was exposed to the life of other teenagers around me, went to their houses and met their parents -- who were so easygoing and friendly and open -- and went to their parties. It was fascinating to discover how comfortable some of my friends’ families could be with strangers in their houses, to see how much fun they could have; it was fascinating to see the juxtaposition of the two worlds, and to see that both had their merits, their benefits.

And at the same time, I think of it as normal.

And I think that it’s easier for me. I live in a diverse city, attend a (relatively) culturally diverse school. Within a 50 mile radius of my home, you could probably find at least one of the following: an authentic Japanese cuisine restaurant, an authentic Chinese cuisine restaurant, and authentic Mexican, Italian, Ethiopian, and Indian cuisine restaurants and grocery stores.

Except for some time in elementary school, I’ve never really felt like a minority, because my neighborhood was full of minorities. I knew that there were different people out there, I could see that reflected in my own school, but I was never treated differently.

But as my family went on vacations out of town to much more rural areas, I began to realize what most of America really looked like.

I’m not sure why -- or where I learned this -- but as I grow older, I become more and more aware of my race when I’m aware from home, or away from urban areas (where most people of color in the United States live). But as a person of Asian descent, I don’t even face the worst of discrimination.

There’s no way for me to imagine what more stigmatized people may feel like.

I’ve grown complacent here, in a place where diversity is the norm, in an urban city where diversity flourishes on the corner of every block and in every ethnic restaurant; and in the light of the recent election, I’ve come to realize that I’ve taken so much of my life for granted.

As I mentioned before, as I learn more through my US History class, I recognize more of my own desensitization to many problems in the world.  We learn in history that slavery wasn’t considered illegal in America until more than a century after the Declaration of Independence, but rarely do we approach the subject of racism and discrimination today.

Recently, I joined the Muslim Association at my school, and although I am not a follower of Islam, the students’ discussions were positively livid. They had an open discussion about the outcome of the presidential election, and their knowledge of the election and the candidates thoroughly shocked me; I didn’t think that any high schoolers followed politics that closely, but these students knew, and they were horrified.

And also recently, I began reading a book called Between the World and Me by Ta-Nehisi Coates.

Coates, a black man living in America, writes a letter to his son, explaining the struggles that he went through and goes through as a black man.

Coates refers to race as a label that people have brought upon themselves, that white people aren't really white people, they just call themselves that to put a barrier between blacks and whites. Coates mentions that some slaveholders of the past believed in the one drop rule, believed that their children with blue-eyes might be considered black even though they look just like their parents. In his book, Between the World and Me, Coates reflects upon his own beliefs about being black. Up until his time at Howard University, he believes that being black has a certain sense of nobility. When he comes to university though, he realizes that there are many variations of black, and that even within the black community there is violence and segregation.

Coates refers to the language of the country as violence. Coates as a young man believes in the earlier teachings of Malcolm X; he questions the effectiveness of nonviolence and why, why why why, these civil rights leaders "love the worst things in life -- love the... tear gas that claw[s] at their lungs...the men who raped them, the women who cursed them, love the children who spat on them, the terrorists who bombed them" (32).  Here, I think of the city of thorns, the largest refugee camp in the world in Dadaab, and wonder, if the people living there were violent, would their stories be told?

And the way the Ta-Nehisi Coates delivers his story is refreshingly visceral. He does not glaze over the details and the emotions; Coates emphasizes the fact that slavery should not be viewed as "an indefinable mass of flesh" (69). He names the individual, gives every person a history and a background and a family and a story. He goes on to recognize each black individual described in his book as a person -- describing their habits and their likes and their dislikes -- and not as a vague problem. He brings emotion to an issue we normally address quantitatively: he does not list the names -- Michael Brown, Trayvon Martin, Eric Garner, Tanisha Anderson -- nor does he spew out numbers regarding police shootings.  To conclude this post, here is an excerpt from his novel:

“Prince Jones was the superlative of all my fears... and the plunder was not just of Prince alone. Think of all the love poured into him. Think of all the tuitions for Montessori and music lessons. Think of the gasoline expended, the treads worn carting him to football games, basketball tournaments, Little League. Think of the time spent regulating sleepovers. Think of the surprise birthday parties, the daycare, the reference checks on babysitters....Think of soccer balls, science kits, chemistry sets, racetracks, and model trains. Think of all the embraces, all the private jokes, customs, greetings, names, dreams, all the shared knowledge and capacity of a black family injected into that vessel of flesh and bone. And think of how that vessel was taken, shattered on the concrete, and all its holy contents, all that had gone into him, sent flowing back to the earth. Think of your mother, who had no father. And your grandmother who was abandoned by her father. And your  grandfather who was left behind by his father. And think of how Prince's daughter was now drafted into those solemn ranks and deprived of her birthright -- that vessel which was her father, which brimmed with 25 years of love and was the investment of her grandparents and was to be her legacy.”

East Meets West (Perspective of a Melting Pot)

In third grade, I brought dumplings to school for the first time. I’d cut them into halves and tucked them into my blue containers in my blue flower lunch box and I was proud. I loved dumplings and I’d never brought them to school before.

During lunch, as I was eating, one of my friends said, “Ew, what is that smell?” and I stayed quiet because I didn’t know what it was.

The second time I brought dumplings to school, another one of my friends said, “Who farted?”

The third time, my only Indian friend -- the only Indian person in the whole school -- leaned in and whispered to me, “I know what the smell is,” and she pointed to the dumplings in my plastic blue container.

There was no fourth time.

In retrospect, I realize that almost my entire elementary school was white. I was the minority. I was the token Asian student. However, I didn’t realize that until I went to a larger middle school, where there were other Asian students.

It wasn’t difficult. I was never bullied or singled out. But after elementary school, I realized that I was different and I became very self-conscious of the actions of my mother and myself.

I’ve come to realize that, even with my Eastern upbringing, there are some aspects of my family and of my values that are rooted in more Western philosophies. In America, my family has brought the best of both worlds -- East and West -- together in a mélange of ideas and ideals that neither are too conservative nor too liberal.

My parents pushed me. I would study hard over the summer -- a time when the rest of my friends were relaxing -- working on problems on the level of the grade I would be entering. And those habits were ingrained in me; just this previous summer, I found myself checking out a Calculus and US history textbook over the summer to prepare for the school year.

I’ll be the first to admit that the work was grueling. The endless practices that I was pushed into for piano and violin were the reasons as to why I became so good at those instruments, but were also the reasons as to why I eventually quit. There is something to be said about doing something for yourself, and learning for yourself whether or not you enjoy something. There is something about being pushed to do something you may enjoy to the point where you no longer enjoy it. The summer work assigned to me was awful and I will never forget having to make flashcards for my multiplication tables in second grade.

When I reached high school, I found new friends. Some of them weren’t remotely interested in school or learning; I soon became jealous of them -- their easygoing demeanor, their casual vibes, and their nights out -- and tried to fit in with them. To an extent, I did. I started going out more, started using more words they used. And now, I have a little of both worlds, studying some nights and going out others.

I think being exposed to both a more Eastern upbringing at home and a Western lifestyle outside makes me a more well-rounded person. There are times when moderation is difficult: often times, the excitement of going out with friends will be all too alluring compared to a night spent studying, and I’ll give in, hang out with my friends instead of working. And other times, the workload of a high school student will seem endless, and I will lose myself in the work, unable to break the cycle.

And there is something to be said about living in a fusion, in a melting pot of ideas, where cultures blend together like oil paints on a palette. It’s such a unique position, to be able to experience the best of both worlds, and it’s something I’ve taken for granted.

I can go over to a friend’s house, order pizza and watch movies on Netflix, chat casually with their parents and say hello to their dog, and then, the very same day, I can come home and eat an authentic, ethnic meal prepared from scratch by my parents. It is the greatest kind of juxtaposition.

And for me, it’s normal. It’s a part of who I am; these Eastern philosophies and this Western upbringing make me into the person I am today, and for that, I am grateful. I am grateful for my parents, of course, and my friends. And since it’s almost Thanksgiving, I might as well say that I am thankful for the place that I call home -- a safe place -- the opportunities with which I’ve grown up with, the people I have around me, and the life that I live today. It’s not perfect, and I am thankful for those flaws as well; these flaws,these people, these cultures, these beliefs, this place around me make me who I am, their reflections evident in my personality and my identity today.

On World War II (Thoughts on Liberty and Desensitization Revisited)

During the second World War, Ernie Pyle was an American journalist who served as a war correspondent. He covered many stories of American involvement in Europe and North Africa. Prior to the war, Pyle was already an established journalist; he’d written for many magazines in the states before. During the war, Pyle covered news from all troops, but focused mostly on infantrymen, whom he believed were the most courageous and resolute of all American troops.

On June 6th, 1944, the Allied forces invaded Normandy Beach, signifying the beginning of the ending of the war. The shore and the countryside were secured by Allied powers, but the first day of the invasion – which later came to be known as D-Day – was one of the bloodiest days of the war. As a report, Ernie Pyle went to Normandy Beach following the first day of the Allied invasion to write about the success of the operation as well as reflect upon its casualties. Both the tactical success of the beach and the staggering loss of soldiers served as the exigence to Ernie’s reflections on WWII and D-Day. His thoughts culminate in a series of three D-Day columns.

In his piece, Pyle touches upon both the emotional and factual aspects of the war. He describes the carnage before him in a rather detached and desensitized way; he simply lists what he sees and offers little emotional narrative other than a few choice words such as “vast,” “startling,” and “lonesome.” When describing Normandy Beach, Pyle simply lists the things and the wreckage on the beach. He uses variations of the phrase ‘there were’ to list the things scattered on the beach. He says that “there were… trucks… there were tanks… there were jeeps… there were big derricks… there were LCTs… there were boats;” this anaphora emphasizes both the vastness of the wreckage and the clinical way that Pyle approaches the situation.

Additionally, Pyle completely avoids describing gore. Instead, he refers to the lost men as parts of machinery, “expended and sufficient,” as if they were just tools to be used and pieces to be discarded. Pyle lists the soldier’s personal paraphernalia but does so in the same clinical, factual way. He sees “the socks and shoe polish, sewing kits, diaries, Bibles, hand grenades,” but fails to add any emotional insight to his objective point of view. Moreover, Pyle repeatedly uses the phrase “I don’t know” and “I have no idea,” adding to his desensitized tone and lack of emotion.

To his audience, Pyle’s underrepresentation of gore and emotion must have been a relief from the stream of media and news covering the war. To readers at home, news of the war was constantly saturated with pathos and lurid violence, startling images of death and destruction.

And yet, Pyle’s seemingly emotionless piece evokes as much emotion as the other news pieces provide – if not more. After seeing so many graphic depictions of the war, people in the States became desensitized. The same arguments and the same appeals to emotion over and over again became trite. Pyle’s detached tone and his numbness – his lack of feelings – towards the scene on Normandy Beach understate the gravity and the emotional weight of the situation. But this lack of emotion is the very thing that forces his audience to realize that there is emotion in this situation. The invasion of Normandy Beach – D-Day in particular – remains one of the most graphic and emotive moments out of the entire war; and yet, many people stateside back then – and even now, after seeing so many graphic renditions of the infamous operation on television and in movies – couldn’t truly understand the weight of the situation.

By using a clinical and objective tone, Pyle evokes a very complicated response from his audience. He describes things that would normally be used as props in an appeal to pathos – things like personal photos, religion, innocent animals – in an objective way to evoke emotion from the audience, instead of forcing emotion onto the audience. Pyle’s readers will come to terms with their own emotions when faced with the stark reality of the situation; Pyle only gives his readers a skeleton of what really happened, but he focuses in on specific details – “bloody, abandoned shoes,” “a pocket Bible with a soldier’s name in it,” “a banjo,” “bank abandoned pages [meant for] writing… letters.” Given this, his readers bring their own emotions to the situation, extrapolating from what Pyle gives to them.

In a previous post about the contradictions in America, I mentioned that there comes a sense of desensitization that follows an overexposure to something. There is a multitude of psychological and biological studies that prove and disprove this idea, but often times, I see that I, myself become desensitized to these things. And yet, as I read more and more, I recognize when my own emotions and thoughts have become numb due to overstimulation; identifying the problem is half of the solution, and now I can work to push these barriers and acknowledge serious problems as they are.

Pyle's writings can be found here, here, and here.

Sources:

www.pbs.org/weta/reportingamericaatwar

www.biography.com/people/ernie-pyle

www.mediaschool.indiana.edu/erniepyle

www.history.com/world-war-ii

All photos from here.

Don’t Give Up the Ship! (Thoughts & Review on US Naval Academy)

A few weeks ago, I had the wonderful opportunity of visiting the US Naval Academy in Annapolis, Maryland. I participated in a Candidate Visit weekend, which was an opportunity for me to actually spend two days living in the dorms at the USNA shadowing another student, which at the USNA is referred to as a midshipman.

The campus of the US Naval Academy is often referred to as the Yard. I’m not sure why, but regardless, the Yard is a beautiful place to spend four years. As soon as I drove onto it, I saw dozens of midshipmen wearing PT gear, running through green lawns and on russet brick paths. The school itself is framed by the Atlantic ocean, and is full of lush greenery and trees. When I arrived on a late Thursday afternoon, I was ushered into Mitscher Hall for an introduction and briefing. Tired and jetlagged, I bid farewell to my parents after more than an hour of watching videos of plebe summer and listening to the admissions process at USNA.

I was escorted down another wing, and as I lugged on my things – a suitcase and a rather heavy backpack – I was introduced to the company that I would be staying with: first company.

The midshipmen at USNA are assigned to one of thirty coed companies. In my time at the USNA, I would come to learn that one’s company represented one’s family. As one midshipman told me, family is who you’re forced to bond with. I discovered that most midshipmen spent most of their time with their company – which makes sense. As I walked through the Yard, to the housing buildings, and into first company, I found midshipmen joking with each other, plebes sticking their heads into other plebes’ rooms, plebes joking with upperclassmen. As strange and hierarchical as some customs were – such as plebes addressing upperclassmen as Mr. or Ms., and plebes marching around corners and saying ‘good afternoon, sir’ – there was a sense of camaraderie within the company, even across the four classes.

Inside of company one, all the hallways looked the same. All doors were polished wood, labeled with the names of the midshipmen who resided within the room. Every room was clean and tidy on account of weekly inspections, and each room had a single shower and sink. Most rooms housed two or three midshipmen.

As a candidate visitor, I was often referred to as a ‘drag.’ I followed my midshipman into the company and was teasingly introduced as the drag to each room of plebes in Company One. I was shocked by the friendliness in every midshipman I was introduced to; the plebes genuinely included me in their conversations and their discussions, something which I had worried about before. I, of course, wasn’t their first drag that year, but I was treated very well. That first night I and a group of other drags were taken to the USNA’s library, where we settled in at the cafe at the back. When we finally came back, I was exhausted after only an afternoon of learning about the rules and regulations for plebes. Plebes had to refer to upperclassmen by Mr or Ms. Plebes had to wear a complete uniform when in hallways. Plebes always had to carry around a book of professional knowledge – ‘pro-no.’ Plebes had to march around corners. Plebes had to greet all upperclassmen in hallways. All students had to check in at the end of the night for something called ‘taps,’ which was essentially attendance to ensure all midshipmen were in their companies at lights-out.

I brushed my teeth and set up a cot on the floor of my midshipmen’s room and quickly settled in. The room was rather cold – I was forced to wear a sweater to bed – but the midshipmen I roomed with were accommodating and kind. I fell asleep within minutes.

The next day, my midshipmen were awake before I was. They had to follow a very regimented schedule. Here is an example of a daily schedule of the life of a midshipman:

5:30 a.m. Arise for personal fitness workout (optional)

6:30 a.m. Reveille (all hands out of bed)

6:30 - 7:00 a.m. Special instruction period for plebes

7:00 a.m. Morning meal formation

7:15 a.m. Morning meal

7:55 - 11:45 a.m. Four class periods, 50 minutes each

12:05 p.m. Noon meal formation

12:10 p.m. Noon meal

12:50 - 1:20 p.m. Company training time

1:30 - 3:30 p.m. Fifth and sixth class periods

3:45 - 6:00 p.m. Varsity and intramural athletics, extracurricular and personal activities; drill and parades twice weekly in the fall and spring

6:30 - 7:15 p.m. Evening Meal

8:00 - 11:00 p.m. Study period

Midnight. Taps for all midshipmen

That day I went to morning formation with my plebe, where each company stood in formation to report in – in uniform. We went down to breakfast in the enormous hall, where midshipmen of all classes mingled regardless of company, and then to class. In the mornings, the air at the USNA was cool and crisp, refreshingly sharp as we walked to class, surrounded by a sea of midshipmen in their blues.

At the USNA, all midshipmen have their tuition and cost of living paid for; in fact, midshipmen, as employees of the government, are paid monthly stipends. All midshipmen had the same black bookbags and laptops, and they all wore the same black uniform to classes.

The classes I attended were all taught by military personnel of some sort: I went to Cyber, a class on computer security, calculus, and English.

The USNA offers a variety of classes and clubs, but I found the core classes to be rather interesting. Calculus in particular was my favorite class – partially because I could understand the material, and partially because I too learned in the class. The instructor covered Taylor polynomials, teaching the class in a very interactive, hands-on way. The classrooms were well equipped and rather modern.

Unlike breakfast, lunch is mandatory. Midshipmen line up in formation before the meal, and stand at attention before tucking in. At lunch, all midshipmen sit with their assigned company.

After a filling lunch, my midshipman took me on a run through the Yard. Unlike many other public or private schools, during my time at the USNA, I saw many students taking advantage of the beautiful Yard and the physical activity time offered. There were midshipmen running along the bay in PT clothes, midshipmen swimming in an indoor pool, midshipmen fencing, midshipmen doing yoga and midshipmen playing football. I couldn’t help but think, even though their lives are very regimented, they balance between school and sports; midshipmen are required to play sports at their time at the USNA. Even during my short time at the USNA, I came to recognize a certain rhythm in the lifestyle of these students. The midshipmen told me that the first few weeks were always the hardest, but when I visited in October, the plebes had mostly acclimated to the school already; there was a cadence that every midshipmen followed, one that sang of both activity and productivity.

Prior to the candidate visit, I wasn’t really sure what I had expected: perhaps a very regimented school with very serious, dedicated midshipmen.

In part, yes, I did find that the students there were hard-working and motivated. Looking at an example of a schedule is evidence enough. Shadowing a plebe showed me firsthand how intensely these students worked. They went to classes every day, physically worked out every day, and came back to their dorms only to memorize military and naval knowledge for daily quizzes. The stress and the workload of these students – and maybe all college students in general – was unbelievable; one of the midshipmen I dormed with came close to a mental breakdown when I was in the room. She had to turn in an online homework assignment due at 12pm and snapped out at a few of her fellow plebes in the room who were trying to help her. All of the plebes involved in the situation were very kind, but the stress that they were forced to take on often grated their nerves, causing them to lash out at their friends and fellow plebes. Seeing as I visited in the beginning of the year, I can’t even imagine what their lives would be like as finals approached.

I was at liberty to visit any of the plebes in Company One, and I often did. However, most midshipmen in their rooms were on their laptops, working on homework or studying. Lights out is at 11pm but one of the midshipmen in my room stayed up until 2am working on homework assignments. I slept at 11pm and woke up the same time they did, but still was tired. On top of their homework and naval knowledge, the midshipmen were often physically strained as well. Midshipmen are required to pass a fitness test – the PR – every semester; there is no room to slack off at the USNA.

But, there were definitely moments where the midshipmen could have their own fun.

The plebes in Company One ordered out on Friday night. Plebes aren’t allowed to leave the Yard or spend nights away from the dorm (unless they have the liberty, which is referred to as a ‘weekend’), so the plebes in Company One decided to have their own fun. They ordered Japanese yakisoba and dumplings and sat on the floor in one of the plebes’ rooms, sitting around and chatting as they ate. I, along with a few other drags, was included. More than anything, that night I felt like I was part of something much more intimate than a gang of freshmen students; these were plebes, this was a company, this was a family.

That same night I followed my group of plebes to a concert at Alumni Hall. The USNA got Hunter Hayes, Andy Grammer, and American Authors (pop artists) to perform in a concert specifically for the midshipmen. Although no alcohol was allowed at the concert – or on the Yard in general – the midshipmen definitely had their own fun; after a long week of schoolwork, they were allowed to have fun at a concert and let out their stress.

I vividly remember discussing the topic of personality with one particular plebe. She told me that she believed, before attending candidate weekend, she thought that there would be no room for her personality at the USNA. She, as I had, believed the USNA was full of dedicated, hardcore students working rigorously to achieve their goals. And yet, coming to the USNA disproved that notion – for both her and myself.

The regimented scheduling at the USNA may seem like it would encroach a student’s freedom of choice; suddenly, attending the USNA takes away your power to make decisions: your classes are chosen for you, your clothes are given to you, your sleeping and eating times are dictated. I thought that the USNA was only for people concentrated on getting into the military, but many midshipmen told me that they only planned to pursue the mandatory five years of service before returning to civilian life.

Even though each dorm room must follow cleanliness regulations, there were personal touches: corkboards and polaroids, love letters and prom photos. Even though the USNA requires that each midshipman take core classes, the midshipmen are free to choose from a plethora of other extracurricular activities and clubs: Glee club, dance, yoga, Arabic club.

The midshipmen that I was assigned to told me that she believed it was worth it. At the USNA, midshipmen graduate with no student debts, a guaranteed job, and leadership experience. At the same time, it offers a very productive, very balanced lifestyle. I’m not sure if it’s the lifestyle for me, but the candidate weekend has offered me insight into a world that I thought I knew.

The Yard

Students heading to class

The Dining Hall

Students wearing their blues

A Consequence of Compliance (Thoughts on Slavery and Desensitization)

In the beginning of the year, when I started my AP US History course, my teacher warned me that there would many things in the history of the United States that would contradict what we’ve grown up believing, that there are many United States actions and decisions have been and are questionable. At the time, I thought I knew that there were many flaws in American history — things like Benghazi and Abu Ghraib — but as I learn more and more, US History presents itself as much more complicated than that.

As we delve into the history of antebellum America, I’ve begun to realize that there are many things that have been glazed over and romanticized in mainstream culture and the media’s portrayal of the American nation. For example, Thomas Jefferson, one of the country’s Founding Fathers, was one of the country’s greatest contradictions. He, a Democratic-Republican, had many Democratic-Republican values (this party is unrelated to any contemporary political parties): he had little faith in a strong central government, westward expansion, and loose interpretation of the Constitution (he believed that all government powers were explicitly stated in the Constitution; one could not claim any implied powers from the Constitution); he believed in personal liberties and in the common man. And yet, Jefferson doubled the size of the country in the famous Louisiana Purchase; he took many liberties in said purchase, since the Constitution did not explicitly grant the President the power to seal negotiations.

This last week, we began covering a subject that’s been a topic of debate since the Articles of Confederation were ratified: slavery.

In class, we don’t often watch videos or documentaries. When we do, students tend to doze off, or work on other homework. Understandably, many of my classmates look forward to such days where we do watch documentaries.

This past Thursday a few of my friends who had history the period before I did warned me that the documentary we would be watching in class would be “so boring.” They said they fell asleep during class.

And so, I walked into class expecting a dry documentary that would lull me to sleep. But instead, my teacher put on a documentary about slavery: this one in particular dealt with the journey of Solomon Northup and the life of Harriet Ann Jacob. I didn’t fall asleep during the class; in fact, I hardly felt sleepy at all. Watching the documentary made an ugly knot of an unidentifiable emotion swell in my chest; I couldn’t stop shaking my leg like an analeptic; my blood began to boil and when a few students in the back of the class began laughing — they weren’t paying any attention to the documentary; they were off joking about their own things — I suddenly grew very irritated.

And the strangest thing was that, for some reason, I didn’t know why I became upset.

Perhaps I reacted this way because I believed that I should have. Perhaps I thought that, as a well-read, mature, and morally conscious sixteen-year-old, I was required to feel angry. Perhaps I thought that, since I knew slavery was wrong, I should feel angry.

Perhaps I reacted this way because the idea of slavery — the idea of having your freedom forcibly taken away from you — is so abstract to me. As a citizen born and raised in 21st century America, I’ve dealt with very little prejudice before. Even as a child of an immigrant — a child of someone who fled their home country in search of that freedom — I still can’t imagine living without freedom; it’s something I’ve taken for granted.

It’s hard to conceptualize the idea that creating something like a Bill of Rights was radical at the time of the Founding Fathers. It’s hard for me to imagine life without these basic liberties: the rights to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. Before this class, I’ve heard these words so often before. At school, at home, on the Internet, on the TV. But really, at the time of the founding of America, these words were radical.

Perhaps I reacted because I wanted to understand, and because I couldn’t understand. And I can’t — I can’t really wrap my head around the idea of slavery and the idea of these guaranteed liberties.

But I do know that over time, I’ve become desensitized to these ideas. I’ve heard the phrase “Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness” so many times now that the phrase that was once radical and sharp is now dull and trite, well-worn and smooth around the edges from being handled too many times. I’ve seen the cover of Uncle Tom’s Cabin. I’ve seen the photos of “whipped Peter” more times than I can count.

And yet, after seeing these things so many times, I’ve become accustomed to them. I’ve grown complacent in my understanding of history; I’ve begun taking things for granted. The severity of these ideas and these events have lost their sting.

We learn about slavery in class; we read passages about women’s suffrage and Jim Crow laws and abolition and disenfranchisement and “I Have a Dream” but every time Martin Luther King day rolls around, the only real and genuine recognition it gets is because students get a day off. I think that we’ve become numb to these things after seeing them so often and so graphic.

Even so, taking a US history course has really opened my eyes. Now, I see America as the greatest contradiction: the land of the free and the home of the brave — yes, but slavery wasn’t abolished until nearly a hundred years after the Declaration of Independence was signed; by the people and for the people — well yes, but politicians are still entrenched in their positions today, and common men do not hold office (unlike what many Founding Fathers envisioned); all men are created equal — I suppose, but even after the Civil War, and even after Martin Luther King Jr, the remnants of racism and prejudice are still prevalent in our society today. Fredrick Douglass’ Fourth of July speech highlights the contradiction upon which America was built: the virtues of personal liberties and the vices of supporting slavery. There are many things that represent this kind of irony, the greatest kind of juxtaposition.

And I think, in a sense, these things are to be expected. There is no way to erase prejudice and racism; people like people who look like them, who talk like them, who eat like them. Humans are creatures of patterns and we are quick to try and find patterns to predict the future. These habits often culminate in very ugly forms of stereotypes and prejudice, but they are human faults. Unavoidable, perhaps, but we should also recognize them, and strive to avoid them.

There’s so much I don’t know. There are so many people who have come before me. Sometimes, I think it’s impossible to accurately record history; there are so many stories untold and so many things that are left out of textbooks — emotions and anecdotes and motives that eventually are edited out to make history clean and concise. And many of their stories are being written today; there are still people out there, fighting for what I take for granted every single day.

And I think, in some ways, I am a product of all of those people and their suffering. I am a product of every woman who fights for suffrage; I am a product of every person of color who pushes for more opportunities; I am a product of every citizen demands equality and justice; I am a product of all of their pain and their efforts. And most of the time, I take this for granted; I don’t really understand — what wars have been fought, what movements have been advocated, what protests have taken place — for me to be where and who I am today.

Perhaps I won’t ever know what having my liberty taken away feels like, but I can continue to read and learn. I will continue to grow as an individual and as a daughter and as a citizen, and perhaps eventually, I’ll be able to understand the injustices that so many before me have had to suffer so that I can live the life I do.

Between Sound and Silence (Thoughts & Review on “Sonic Sea” Revisited)

A while ago, I posted a review of the film Sonic Sea, which featured the resounding impact of sound pollution in our oceans. The film eventually served as an exigence for my poem Between Sound and Silence, a piece that reflects upon the changes that our oceans have undergone after the industrial revolutions and the boom of the naval age. Here is the poem in its entirety:

Between Sound and Silence

In the beginning,

There is serenity

The seas are a constant undulation

Of soft sounds and quiet calls

A mélange of mellifluous noises

Made by animals to hunt, to mate, to survive

In the beginning,

The waters of Norwegian Sea are deep and dark

Their recesses quartering flora and fauna alike

The black blot of a bird soars over the sea, as rocky cliffs

Dig their dull faces into the belly of the gray sky

The waters are quiet from the sky

And yet

There is sound in the water

Whistling –  

As they maneuver through the waters,

A harbinger of the predator to come

Clicking –  

Pulses of sound

Bouncing off of

Bits of shell, off of

Wrinkled kelp, off of

A school of silver fish

Killer whales roam here,

Murky waves rippling over their sleek skins

Bodies perfectly aerodynamic

As they snake through the choppy waters

Their lilting calls fill the sea,

Sound waves bouncing

Back and forth

Back and forth

Reverberating as they stalk florid octopus

The water is dark and dangerous underneath their

Powerful fins and thick jaws,

The perfect killer

In the beginning,

The Indian Ocean is an oasis

Teeming with life and color and diversity

Here, through turquoise waters,

Swims the bottlenose dolphin in a pod

Sunlight refracts through crystalline water,

Shards of sun glinting on gray skin

Lively clicking,

Cheerful whistling  

As they communicate with each other

Signals that bounce

Back and forth

Back and forth

In the beginning,  

Monterey Bay houses youthful porpoises

Here, they call out incessantly

Using echolocation

To see

To navigate toward friend

And away  

From foe

They chirp ebulliently,  

The sound travelling  

Four times as fast through water

Than it ever could

Through air

Centuries come and go,

Regimes rise and fall,

And the sea still hurls her waves

Onto the unrelenting shore

After a time, there is steam

There is heat and fire and smoke

And there is noise

Ships cut through the ocean

Iron hulls plow through blunt waves

Leaving oil and angry white foam in their wake

At first the man-made clamor

Is inconsequential – low rumblings and quiet hissings –

Until it is not

Until there are submarines and

Battlecruisers and

Aircraft carriers and

And

And

Their gray bellies hold a lethal cocktail

Of man, metal, and fire

They rip their way through the seas by sheer force,

Carving a path of steel and strength

They carry airguns in their stomachs,

Machines that blast compressed waves of sound Into the quiet waters,

Surveying the benthic zone

Compressed air  

Travelling like a bullet

Ricocheting off of the dusty ocean floor

Compressed air

Moving as quick as lightning

Cracking the serene blue

Into pieces

Reverberating

Back and forth

Back and forth

Sound travels four times as fast

Through water

Than it ever can  

On land

Sonar is invisible

The perfect killer

And there are

Commercial ships with their rusty engines,

Lumbering across murky waters

Carrying cargo from country to country

The noises fall

Like pallid ashes

In the beginning,

They are innocuous

Flakes of pale sound,

Filtering through the sea

But now,

There is a maelstrom of white noise

Swirling with the tides, echoing  

Back and forth

Back and forth

The song of the sea cannot be heard –  

Not over the angry rumbling of an engine

Over the dull rasping of propeller blades

Where there was once

Quiet clicking off of

Bits of shell, off of

Sleek fish

There are now streams of white noise

Clouding the ocean, polluting the waters

The sounds are choking

The hissing and rumbling and noise of the humans

Overpowers

The clicking and whistling and communication of the animals

It is a cacophony – there is screeching

And screaming and wailing and it is incessant

The orcas – they cannot hunt,

The dolphins – they cannot speak,

The porpoises – they cannot see,

The whales – they cannot sing

But all sounds are temporary

Sound waves vibrate, oscillate,

Back and forth

Back and forth

Grow smaller with each cycle

Until they are infinitesimal

The perfect killer

Has been identified

Sound travels four times as fast

Through water

Than it ever can  

On land

And yet,

These noises can dissipate

They are not permanent

This problem can be  

Rectified

In the beginning,

There was serenity

There was the mellifluous serenading of whales,

The sharp clicking of quick-witted porpoises,

The joyous chirping of dolphins,

The ominous whistling of killer whales

Then they were drowned

Their calls muffled by metal engines,  

Muffled by man

And they stumble in the dark

They are in a world  

That has taken away

Their eyes, their ears, their hands

Their peace

But

Given time, and given cooperation,

In the future,

There can be serenity

Once more

Bibliography

"Killer Whales - Communication & Echolocation." SeaWorld Parks & Entertainment. SeaWorld Parks & Entertainment, 2016. Web. 11 May 2016.

"How Does Shipping Affect Ocean Sound Levels?" Discovery of Sound in the Sea. University of Rhode Island, 2015. Web. 12 May 2016.

"Ocean Noise." Center for Biological Diversity. N.p., n.d. Web. 11 May 2016.

Jordan, Jason, and Shannon Jordan. "Noise Pollution In The Ocean." See the Sea. N.p., 2012. Web. 16 May 2016.

Kovacs, Kit M., and Christian Lydersen. "Killer Whale (Orcinus Orca)." Norwegian Polar Institute. N.p., n.d. Web. 15 May 2016.

"Dolphin Communication." Dolphin Research Center. N.p., n.d. Web. 20 May 2016.

"Seismic Airgun Blasting." Oceana USA. N.p., n.d. Web. 4 June 2016.

Schiffman, Richard. "How Ocean Noise Pollution Wreaks Havoc on Marine Life." Yale Environment  360. Yale University, 31 Mar. 2016. Web. 11 June 2016.

Reflection

One evening, several years ago, while in my father’s computer room, I stumbled

upon old magazines with photos depicting numerous whale strandings. The horrific

images shocked me – I wondered, why did this happen? And why weren’t more

people talking about it? The shocking images were burned into my memory, and ever

since then, I’ve been fascinated by whale beachings.  

My initial question led me to several answers, one of which was noise pollution in

the ocean. Oceanic noise pollution is an issue often neglected, in the shadow of more

palpable problems, like oil spills and plastic waste. However, even though it is invisible,

this auditory pollution creates many problems in marine wildlife today.

I’ve read many cases surrounding oceanic noise in my research, and wanted to

write something simpler and more visceral than numbers and facts, portraying what I

believed to be the ocean’s perspective. And more importantly, I wanted to call

attention to the problem that I’d stumbled upon in my father’s old magazines so many

years ago.

After my research, I’ve concluded that although noise pollution is a serious issue,

there have been many efforts to reduce underwater noise produced from marine

vessels. For example, rules and regulations are being written to mitigate the destruction

of wakes of ships, and noise-reduction propellers are being designed. Hopefully, in the

future, the sea will return to its serenity once more, and man and marine can coexist in

harmony.

I entered this poem in the Bow Seat Ocean Awareness contest and was fortunate enough to receive a gold award in the poetry category! I’m very grateful for this opportunity to share my poem and spread awareness of sound pollution and the fragility of our ocean’s ecosystem. Many thanks to the Bow Seat Ocean Awareness Programs.

You can find my piece here: http://fromthebowseat.org/winners-2016-hs.php