Ain't I a Human?

Disclaimer: There is a curse word in the paragraph below; I kinda wrote it in the heat of the moment, so sorry if you're someone who is sensitive to that kind of thing, but I don't feel like changing it because it won't get my message across.

I hear all this talk about society's problems and these complaints about people - about us. I think, more than anything, we've led ourselves to this through decades of blind, ubiquitous hatred, clutching onto an everlasting grudge. In the morning, when I want to wear something comfortable, yet it doesn't match, what's got to do with all of the sudden observation? Ain't I a human? Don't I deserve some comfort in my own skin over what some stupid patterns say? When I play my music too loud in my home, and my family members bark for lower volume, am I supposed to obey? Ain't I a human? Don't I deserve to enjoy an atmosphere that calms me most? When I do poor on an assignment, and in the sea of good grades I bring home lay a single, rotten letter, I am barraged with questions, but ain't I a human? We were raised on the beliefs of imperfection, not just in social venues, but in academia, too. When you're out, walking around, and you see someone: wearing striped shirts over their striped pants and their neon yellow socks and their stupid, goddamn hat, listening to that music you hate so freakin' much because of how bad it sounds, and you judge them for being a C+ student...ask yourself: ain't you a human?

Kennedy's Inaugural Mimicry

I do not believe that humanity will end greed - but I do believe that greed will end humanity.

Memoir -- Final Installment (Thank you!)

Author's Note: Seeing as this is my final memoir, it's notably longer than the past four, so prepare for a *relatively* lengthy read. The three things I'm obliged to get out of my way are to identify my ultimate exigency, my purpose, and my audience. First, I just want to clarify that the entire reason I’ve been using these specific stories in my memoirs is to point out the little details in life that can make a larger impact later on. Maybe not life-changing, but larger. Secondly, I really wanted to reach out to people who could see the world in a different light than its given credit for, because they tend to see a little more clearly and realistically, and I like that. Lastly, my exigency, which is a little harder to put into words. I want to – I need to have people see into the meticulousness of others’ lives. I usually envision myself as a generally sheltered student, when in reality, all of these miniature, insignificant, and beautiful adventures have happened to me. It wasn’t a moment of necessity for me, but rather a moment of realization for those who’ve read my memoirs.

Three, two, one, go. Stop. Do it again – just the basics. I could hear myself in my own head, imagining a second attempt, then a third one, and a fourth; the consistent click-click-clicking of the faux metallic bars circumventing in their practically radial motion, the gears switching and lodging into place, following suit; the brakes, ready to cease all motion, to lock it all in place - to stop everything. 

Looking up beneath the shade of my helmet, I could make out the outlines of leaves suppressing the majority of the sun's blinding rays, but every now and then, an eloquent string of light bounced from leaf-to-leaf, tumbling through the tree to the hundreds of blades of grass, resting atop the earth in the green, gradient grotto below, hiding just out of sight of the tall, oak pillars. 

"Is it recording?" beckoned a voice from behind. It was that of my departed neighbor, Paul, holding a classic Sony video camera.

Paul was perhaps the most generous human being I've ever met, and to be honest, I don’t think I've ever seen him not smiling. I remember back when I was a toddler in New York, one night during an exceptionally ugly thunderstorm, I’d managed to waddle from my house to his family’s home in a diaper, nearly a block away. I tapped feebly on their sliding, glass door, and was greeted by Paul, smiling as usual. All I wanted to do was jump on their trampoline.

"I don't know, can you see a red circle?" his wife retorted.

"Oh, there we go," he concluded, "Alright, we're ready, Erik!"

Over my shoulder, my gaze caught up with my father, who had been standing behind me, hands fastened perfectly on the back of the bike to maintain optimal balance. His taller figure had forced me to cock my head backwards in order to catch a glimpse of his face as he looked down towards me.

"Ready, Champ?"

I nodded, and mere moments afterwards, I had begun to feel time and space alter everything around me: The trees with puncturing light that landed on the sea of grass zoomed by, the asphalt runway upon which I had been sitting seemed to pull out from under me, the rows of houses sank into the corners of my eyes as I, a pioneer in curiosity, had sought out to achieve faster means of transportation.  Now full of euphoric scenery, I had directed my eyesight to what lay ahead: a lattice pattern of small, thin pines, parting a botanic sea specifically for my presence. My hands, vice in grip on the rubber handlebars, had prepared their whole life for this moment, or so it had seemed.

One, then two, then four trees passed me by before I realized that my hands would not move from their position, practically locking my direction in place. The bike's gears roaring and chugging, it was unstoppable, whistling past even more rows of trees that grew smaller and smaller, while simultaneously heading towards those that had started to get larger and larger. Panicking, I had screamed out for help! Help, anyone! I couldn't stop, I couldn't turn - I was helpless!

Inevitably, the trees had reached their peak size, and what was once my foreign-manufactured Chariot of Pride, soon became a dirty, matte slew of metal and rubber - a disgrace - not only through the eyes of other bikes, but also to myself. I lay there on the ground as the whoosh  of sneakers through the grass came to my body. An entire panorama of faces appeared within my peripheral, a couple chuckling here, a few laughing there. Reaching out to my father's extended arm, I was hoisted up and tried again.

It wasn't until a few days ago that I realized that one of the first days I had ever driven a bike, or about as much as a panicked, frozen child could drive one, was very much akin to my life now. The world is so caught up in perfection and societal norms that it doesn't understand exactly what it's passing. There are potentially infinite blurs that have sped past its eyes - precious moments it had missed. Seldom do people pick out the meticulous details of life that they didn't even bother to identify until now. Some have gone their entire lives without a change of pace, while many have tried time and again to improve their experience of the beautiful journey of life. I'll never forget a quote from one of my favorite authors:

“We can spend our lives letting the world tell us who we are. Sane or insane. Saints or sex addicts. Heroes or victims. Letting history tell us how good or bad we are. Letting our past decide our future. Or we can decide for ourselves. And maybe it's our job to invent something better.”

I simply encourage adventure and awe, memories in risk and reward in danger, because as cliché as it truly is, life is too short to ignore the blurs and fasten yourself to the handlebars. Falling off the bike is that little push we all need.

Memoir -- Installment Four

Life in New York never really changed much; routines were a part of life, especially during the week. I don't remember much about my school there, or what I did during the daily commutes, but I do remember what I would do every single day...over and over and over again for at least two years: Wake up at 5 o'clock in the morning, pour a gratuitously large bowl of cereal, determine the proper cereal-to-milk-ratio, then watch Your Regularly Scheduled Program of Family Matters, a personal favorite. Most kids my age awoke around 7 o'clock, seeing as school didn't start until 8, but I enjoyed sneaking down the stairs and tip-toeing across the obnoxiously loud hardwood kitchen floor. The sense of waking up before everyone else incited some amateur adrenaline - a sense of petty accomplishment. Obviously, over time, these habits went away (I've reciprocated my sleeping schedule almost entirely), but for whatever reason, I've cherished, in some crazy, minute way, that I was able to rise so early and carry that much energy throughout the day. And even then, as I helplessly felt myself become more and more of a late-night person, I realized that many things, on numerous scales and levels can change for the better or the worse. For me, it has to do entirely with perspective.

In the Summer of 2009, after the hardest hit of the economic recession, my dad was met with an incredible socioeconomic decision: he could either leave his somewhat-executive job and search for another in New York's already-crumbling economy or move out to Wisconsin, where his current job would be waiting for him. For months, my sisters and I were very reluctant at the idea: moving to an entirely foreign area of the country to us, having to adjust to a slew of new friends. None of it sounded beyond a burden, but I grew to realize that a change of scenery might not have been the worst thing in the world.

Well, soon enough, we did move in September of 2009. Suddenly, every thing I disdained or disliked seemed so petty: the fight between Jeff, Arden and me, waking up early, redundant commutes to and from school. It all seemed so distant, and as the exit for Pewaukee grew larger and larger, an entire lifestyle had shriveled and disappeared in the blink of an eye.

Memoir -- Installment Three

"I hate how our stop is the last one of the day."

"Yeah, it takes like an hour to get like three miles."

"I love it - gives me more time to sleep."

"You don't do homework?"

"Nah, I can do that tonight."

The bus hummed and rumbled through the streets on this particularly wintry day, even for New York. A bright yellow tube, contrasting the gray snow and slush on the ground as well as the blurred collage of clouds painting the sky, leaving the sun to appear as only a dull, whitish hue of light. Most of the trees are dead, or in the process of dying; withering branches howl in a light breeze that passes through the corridors and hallways of woodland in our own backyards. It seemed a dead, alien world, impossible of ever harboring any life, yet it was so close to home.

"I always try to finish homework so I can play the rest of the day," one childish voice piped up.

"Yeah, but that means you gotta do it right when you get home," retorted another.

The voices were those of my two good friends, Jeff and Arden, sitting across the aisle from me, who was in an especially bad mood for whatever reason. Maybe I was tired - I don't remember.

"Hey, how close are we?"

"To where?"

"Our street, duh."

"Oh, I dunno...about five minutes?"

"Cool."

Meandering past rows of suburban ranches and a seemingly endless amount of culdesacs, all piled high with snow, shoveled freshly that morning, I turned my head towards the outside world, tuning out of the conversation going on next to me. Through the fogged window, I could see little, but what I did manage to point out was nothing special: a few kids donning winter coats here and there, playing in the snow or chucking the occasional snowball, a fellow suburbanite, scraping obtrusive frost and hardened snow - unwelcome guests - off the windshields and mirrors their car had, the occasional bus passing ours, like a split image of ourselves, waving back to us, as well as dormant trees waiting for Spring so incredibly patiently. I could never be that patient, I thought.

Finally, the bus halted to a stop for the umpteenth time. The doors, creaking open, exposed us to the bitter, thin air outside. Shuffling down the line of other kids who, too, were wearing multiple layers and rubber snow boots, I could finally hop down off the last step of the bus, bidding adieu to the driver as I usually did. Now Jeff, Arden, and I lived in another duplicate culdesac, the scenery no different than the dozens I passed each day. Another series of Cape Cod-styled homes, painted with a bland palette of colors. Another set of families, following the exact same routine, day by day by day. The sun hung low in the sky, falling steadily, but slow enough to notice no difference; we trotted slowly down the street, making our way home, stopping in Arden's driveway: a heavily sloped and notably icy surface. To break the boredom, we decided to engage in a snowball fight, as most kids usually would in our suburb this time of year. Hastily packing one and shipping the other to our foe, it was relatively fast-paced - exhilarating, up to the point of which I slipped backwards on the icy driveway, landing hard on my back. It wasn't much of a hassle to get back up usually, but since I was in about four layers of thick clothing, head facing down on the slant, it was exponentially more difficult than I was used to. Arden saw this as a ideal comedic opportunity. While I was in the process of getting back up, Arden manages to slip the boot off my right foot, leaving it in only a sock that was gradually getting wetter, colder, and damper from the ice and snow scattering the area. After successfully regaining my balance, the snowball fight quickly transitioned to a keep-away kind of game. As Jeff and Arden (who were exceptionally taller than I) joyfully passed the boot back and forth to each other, up and down the driveway, I finally gave up; I would simply have to come back for it later. My home was only about one hundred feet away, so it wouldn't be an uncomfortable trek.

Hurriedly nonetheless, I finally made it to my house, debriefed my dad on where my missing boot was, and was instantly send back out to retrieve it, only my tolerance for this keep-away game was rapidly declining. In a fit of rage, I stormed back to Arden's home to find Jeff and him, still playing catch with the boot. As Jeff caught it, I snagged it from his grip, and punched him as hard as my arm would allow, directly into the bridge of his nose. Blood flowing out, I momentarily felt victorious, but also greatly saddened by what I had just done. It truly was the first time I've ever punched anyone, but even then, it reflected my character. Character which had acted poorly in my fit of anger and annoyance. This annoyance, I would later blame, to be from being overly tired that day.

Eventually, I apologized to them, despite an unspoken grudge that postponed our friendship for a few days. It's funny how a few, petty days seem so earth-shattering to children, when they are nothing compared to months, or even years of going without ever bonding with someone. Ironically, I bonded with Arden and Jeff more as I grew up in New York, but it would practically die when I moved to Wisconsin, but I'll save that story.

Memoir -- Installment Two

"Where is she, where is she?"

Hurriedly, the palm-sized dress shoes carried me to the giant maple doors. Laden with round, iron handles and ornate dips and curves, it truly was worth its price. Struggling, my entire body opposing the weight of this wooden gate, it began to move, permitting me inside the building. It was nothing like my home, or any of the places I was used to. There was an eerie, hollow presence about the corridors, itching between marble pillars and tiled floors. Fine,  partially used candles perch themselves idly on the  white plaster walls, waiting to be relit, as the clack-clack-clacking of rubber soles danced up and down the bright hallways. To my left, sewn, decorated couches bide company to a cement mantle -- dead, too, like the candles; to my front, a long, marble floor, still unsure if it is to use white or black rhombuses, lit only by the brass-supported chandeliers dangling above. Where the hallway led, I'm still unsure; perhaps some more rooms -- other gatherings.

"Are you coming?" echoed a voice from behind me. It was that of my dad, with a slight break in his tone.

"Yeah, Dad!" I shouted, trotting over to our family's convoy.

We stood behind a long line of black ties and white dress shoes for what seemed like hours. Soft whispers and the occasional weeping encompassed the room, disappearing among groups of two or three people near the front of the line, huddled into tiny circles, talking casually. When we finally got to the front of the line, I wasn't tall enough to see over the case, so my dad hoisted my into his arms. Looking down, I got a clear shot of her: she lay on her back, hands together, fingers intertwined, donning a soft yellow/baby blue dress. Her eyes were closed, yet she did not seem to breathe. She was infamous for having larger cheeks, but I wasn't old enough to tell.

"Is she eating a muffin?" I ask to my dad who, with glassy eyes, finally smiles and forces out a 'no'. She was at peace with closure, pristine in her presence of that world. Unmarked. Healthy. Untouched.

Some eight or nine years later I'd remind myself to pray for her every night. It's ironic: I'd completely forgotten until now, but it doesn't bother me, because I've reassured myself that death is bittersweet: "Bitter in the death, sweet in the salvation." How truer could it be?


"I told him I would never lose faith in him. And I promised myself I never would" (Walls 79).

Memoir -- Installment One

"Christian, are you coming?" Mom shouted from across the parking lot with a hint of haste in her voice. She wasn't usually in this much of a hurry.

"Yeah!" I shouted back, thinking nothing of where we were going, or what we were doing here.

Near-post-infancy in small towns are routinely mundane. It goes like this: Wake up at 9 o'clock, get dressed, eat cereal (or some other sugary treat), watch whatever palette of colors amazed me on the television, spend a couple hours at the local preschool, go home, eat 'supper,' then head to bed.

Wash. Rinse. Repeat.

 The sun crept between the unique cracks and crevices of the trees, yielding a series a godly rays on a secluded structure, beneath an oak canopy that almost omitted the cloudless sky above. I was too young to even remember the time of day, let alone care. Like I said, I didn't know what we were doing here - it simply wasn't important to a three-year-old. I let my parents take care of the adult-business kind of stuff - they were better at it, anyway. The parking lot presented itself  in a manner that I wasn't usually exposed to: a wide, open lot, free to run around in, with the 1-story structure overlooking the two or three cars parked there.

I had been awoken especially early for some event or meeting at the preschool my parents enrolled me in, so naturally, a spite-filled three-year-old me tended to slow down his routine noticeably: two extra minutes to get dressed...an extra minute or so brushing my teeth, even if I didn't like the overbearing taste of mint; I didn't care, it was worth showing what waking me up early meant. An extra four or five minutes getting dressed and dragging myself down the stairs, only to eat cereal at the nautical velocity of a multi-ton cargo ship. By the time the last drop of milk left my bowl, we were practically already on our way out to the car.
By the time we'd arrived, we were noticeably late. Restless as usual, I hopped out of our car, proceeding to skip towards the school entrance which, obviously, yielded more efficient speeds than walking.

At this point, it should be noted that the school decorated the patio near the front entrance with a cactus to display; yet, balancing on the concrete bricks surrounding the cactus was a very inviting thought. Naturally, I did.

And I fell. Into the cactus.

I woke up a few hours later, strapped to a hospital bed, with a series of nurses wielding tweezers pulling each individual needle out of my body, and, despite the incredible pain, led me to one of my first life lessons: if something can go wrong, it will almost always go wrong.

Within a few more hours, I was released from the hospital and returned home.

Wash. Rinse Repeat.

Memoir Topic Choice

After some thinking on what kind of topics I'd like to discuss in our assigned memoirs, I've decided I'm going to talk about my thoughts on whether or not "everything happens for a reason" from certain events in my life, and more specifically, why.

Perception is the New Black

“The pen is mightier than the sword.” No doubt, this is an unmistakably true statement, especially if you’re an avid writer. And when it’s fleshed out, a new perception comes to light: the pen is in fact the sword. Maybe it’s not the Excalibur we’ve all been waiting for, but it certainly performs in a similar manner: a few swift motions, proper handling, and a little practice, and out comes the result of a work of art, and like the sword itself, the pen can excrete the raw emotion and power of the human mind; good and evil’s purest forms come to light on both ends of the spectrum. The only difference, however, is whose hand the pen is in.

When George Orwell wrote 1984, he conceived this oppressive, inhumanly totalitarian world. With War of the Worlds, H.G. had a similar mindset; albeit no human had ever met a living, existing Martian, his perceptions of good and evil could be pitted against each other in a juxtaposed world of beauty, mystery, sanctuary, and redemption, and there was no one to tell him otherwise. Realistically, he very well could have ended War of the Worlds by saying “The Martians were actually really nice and everyone lived happily ever after,” but why would he? Where’s the fun in a Science Fiction (fiction is the key word) if there’s an ounce of anticlimax? In this scenario, the pen creates, spoon-feeds, and kills the life of the story. Consequently, the author does, too. Personally, my literary influences revolve around macabre themes; so theoretically, my own creative writing will reflect that, which in comparison puts me in control of my own pen – my own sword. Each sword is different, as it pertains to each person; some ‘swords’ alter their respective universes for the better, some for the worse – some times, neither at all. My point is: the sword and the author’s intentions on how to use the sword are the primary, and crucial factors to how a story is born, how it lives, how it dies, and most importantly, how the reader remembers it. So next time you sit down with your sword, and your infinitely running amounts of papyrus (in layman talk, that’s Microsoft Word!), think, in the long scheme of things, what kind of cut or gash your sword will make in your audiences’ mind. Good or bad, you want it to be remembered for many moments after. King Arthur didn’t make a few dents in history by swinging Excalibur with a few hearty threats. He acted upon his intentions, and you should too. Each author, their own king, each pen their sword, and each document, their Round Table. Choose your knights carefully, or they may leave your kingdom in the ashes of yesteryear.

Shameless plug of mimicked text excerpt below:

“…it is chaos, and to this chaos the author says “go!” allowing the world to flicker and fuse.” (Nabokov 2)

Rhetorical Analysis of the Cheddar Samurai

For those who don't know what I'm referring to when I mention the Cheddar Samurai, check this out. Today, I'll be doing a 2 paragraph rhetorical analysis of the 2010 Doritos commercial known for its [coined phrase] Cheddar Samurai, so I'll get right to it.


The main point of this (and any) commercial, really, is for the marketing company - which in this case is the Doritos company - to advertise their product in a way that incites a "Need/Want" psyche in the viewer, who more than often, is the average consumer. But because viewers of any given commercial can be of almost any age, the target group is specified towards both those who are able to understand the humor in the commercial (hence excluding younger children) and those who are able to purchase it, narrowing it down (for a lack of better phrasing) to teenagers and adults. The commercial is set in a gym, which again, can connect to a wide amount of adults and teens, adding a sense of sentimentality, although subtle. At the time of this commercial's airing, the XLIV Superbowl was underway. As the most viewed sports event in America, a society bustling with athletic activity, Doritos aimed to air this commercial when it had an immaculately large number of viewers, widely increasing the probability of more customers; and for many companies that paid an extra fee per second during the superbowl, this commercial can, in itself, be considered a commercial success. As I've said before, the commercial takes place in a gym. In the commercial, two friends discuss over a bag of Doritos Friend #1 stole from Friend #3's locker. Friend #2 (sorry for the confusion.), hysterically reluctant, demands Friend #1 put the Doritos back before Friend #3 discovers. When asked why, it is stated that Friend #3 "loves Doritos," and through the use of comedic humor, Friend #2 is struck down, a Dorito lodged in his neck. Friend #1 looks over to see Friend #3, the original owner of the Doritos bag, donning a full bodysuit made out of Doritos, swinging a flail which, too, is made out of Doritos, screaming barbarically, and then the commercial ends, bringing up the company's logo. This abrupt shot of the screaming friend and the overdramatized acting and dialogue all add up to create a vision in the commercial that "everybody wants this product," or "this product is so great, look how much these people are fighting over it."

Personally, I think whoever 'created' this commercial pulled it off successfully, because each time I watch it,  I laugh and suddenly crave Doritos at the same time. Their exaggeration of the Want-or-Need-now mentality brings a whole new perspective of lively characters into this elaborate yet incredibly simplistic mesh of hunger, humor, love and loss. The creative uses of the product (Dorito shuriken, Dorito flail, Dorito armor) to promote that same product is something I don't see often, let alone at all anymore. Whoever they are, the director, I'm really hoping they were paid in more than just a bag of Doritos.

A Crucial Quality of Exceptional Writing

Long before Genghis Khan, before King Arthur, before Martin Luther, there was writing. Before wheels, gears, or electricity, there were stories. From basic scriptures and monotheistic symbols, to novels and volumes of regurgitated knowledge, humanity has come to embrace reading and storytelling as a second language – the key to knowledge.

Aesop, who used his fables of altruistic animals and shockingly concise scenarios to clarify and metaphorically reciprocate human morals and selflessness, was notorious for his oral stories from his days as a slave in Samos, Greece. But it was not his life that engraved his name in history’s books; it was his stories. For thousands of centuries, his stories had passed through word of mouth to paper, which can now be found in many libraries and other literary structures. Yet how does this relate to writing, the act of tangible letters and symbols? Although he wasn't able to place his stories on paper, his vocal imagery can be considered a form of writing, as it was a story, created in his mind, to enthrall a user in wisdom and knowledge. His stories alone are the reason he is remembered today.

Obviously, not many writers today will be remembered for as long as Aesop has, if any. So what, exactly, makes a writer so ‘good’, that they prolong their existence by thousands of years? Take a look at an excerpt from Edgar Allan Poe’s short story, The Duc de L’Omelette, in which a royal Duke denies the Devil his presence in Hell:

“You have no intention of putting such – such – barbarous threats into execution.”

“No what?” said his majesty [The Devil] – “come, sir, strip!”

“Strip, indeed!—very pretty i’ faith!—no, sir, I shall not strip. Who are you, pay, that I, Duc De L’Omelette, Price de Foie-Gras, just come of age, author of the Mazurkiad, and Member of the Academy, should divest myself at your bidding of the sweetest pantaloons ever made by Bourdon, the daintiest robe-de-chambre ever put together by Rombê­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­rt – to say nothing of the taking my hair out of paper – not to mention the trouble I should have in drawing off my gloves?” (120)

What Poe has just described – a man, a mortal, with the ego large enough to deny the Devil himself of puppetry – has obviously never happened before, and can be identified as blatant fiction. This, however, doesn't take away from its intrigue. Many people read stories that they can connect to (or maybe ones they can’t). But sometimes, a good book about humans doing the extraordinary, the supernatural, the extreme – things the reader nor the author would never even dare to act upon – is one that pulls us in and inadvertently forces us to continue reading. And isn’t the point of a good book (and possibly, an even better author) to capture us in the moment of its occurrences, while attempting to simultaneously distract us from the reality of life flowing constantly around us? This near-poetical, subconscious manipulation is truly what I believe to be one of, if not the sole quality that determines the fine line between good writing, and exceptional history.

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