Cliché of the Day: Twenty-somethings and Technology

Technology: the ever present, ever whined about convenience and nuisance that I use now to communicate with a wee audience. But, it is sooo annoying, says the Original English Major.

Even Upworthy has become tiresome. It is time sucked away that could be used otherwise, that is lost forever. We don’t get this moment back. Ever. 

Upworthy, so long as we’re on the topic, is indeed worthy. One can learn about happenings of which s/he is otherwise ignorant: stop and frisk, on-line sexual slavery, etc. These things are outraging. The movements in response are the fruit of well-managed anger.

But do we do anything? Enough to keep Upworthy running. Is it a feel-good thing? The disconnect between humans that has come with technology has harmed our ability to feel, to relate, to communicate, to engage in legitimate understanding. Are media outlets such as Upworthy and Change.org successful for some generated feeling of connection, of participation? They are the news’ sources. Instead of reading the NY Times or SF Chronicle, we watch Upworthy or vote on Change and feel informed and involved; we feel something.

The generation tired of apathy, tired of the postmodern blahs, finds in these media a pseudo-connection. It is, though, the same generation that is heading the initiatives. Is it not? At least it is an effort to make connection, to interact.

I, too, subscribe to Upworthy, receive e-mails from Change and Avaaz and sometimes even 350.org and CREDO Action. How I wound up on all these mailing lists, I don’t know; why I haven’t unsubscribed, well, as it is I feel guilty for skipping over petitions or ignoring videos. Especially if I skip petitions solely for my lack of knowledge regarding the cause, the event, the likely relevant issue at hand. Instead of researching, I guilt trip myself while, oops, deleting the e-mail.

Yet it is too easy to simply click yes, this I support, to click “add my name to the proposal,” to “sign the petition.” We become lazy. Instead of researching for ourselves, we rely on others; we don’t dirty our hands.

“I’ll write a check. I support art; I just don’t have to see it,” says Ouiser.

That is how I’ve begun to feel about Change.org, Upworthy, et. al. Even World Vision. Even the Mentoring Project, to which I’ve sent many a hard-earned dollar meant for tuition.

I write a check. I click “yes.” I support change. I just don’t have to do it. I’ll give you my two to ten minutes of passion—for however long your filmed or written vignette may be— leave the rest to you. Good luck. 

Cliché of the Day: A cliché topic, the "-ists"

You’ve probably heard it: “My best friend is black.” “My best friend is gay.” Ad nauseam. If you haven’t, well, you’re blessed. (Yep, I could’ve helped that cliché.)

Now, I haven’t heard “My best friend is Mexican” or latino or Asian or Middle Eastern or African;  I don’t doubt that people say such things. But, it probably stays there, rather than using more specific language: Guatemalan, Peruvian, Uruguayan, Honduran, Columbian; Cambodian, Vietnamese, Japanese, Korean, Chinese, Hmong; Indian, Pakistani, Israeli, Iraqi, Palestinian; Malagasy, Nigerian, Sudanese, Rwandan, Ghanan, Ethiopian, Mauritanian, etc. You probably mean your best friend is American, or s/he isn’t “one of your best friends,” as the person’s actual ethnicity is beyond memory.

My closer and older friends are white. White, straight, females. I have a close friend who is first generation American; her father is Dutch. I have a wonderful friend who is Peruvian, who studied and is currently working in the U.S. There are people dear to me who are Spaniards. And family that is Mexican. One friend who is gay. (And, guess what? He is a white American.) End of story. Nope. Not too diversified, my life. To boot, most of them are Christians.

 

There’s one not heard: “My best friend is a Christian.” (Add to that “and not an asshole,” and then it might be a reasonable thing to say. Probably not.) 

I’ll say it again: my closer and older friends are white, straight, Christian women. Does that make me racist? No. Am I racist? Probably.

The majority of people are racist and/or prejudice in some way against some people group. White people need to stop defending themselves. We are not a post-racial or post sexist, or post homophobic society, and having, or claiming to have, a (best) friend from these fields does not change that.

So stop it. It sounds racist. It is defensive. And what are we defending? The fear of being labeled with an ist, no doubt. Perhaps that fear has grounds, perhaps it doesn’t. White Americans are obsessed with race, and it is disturbing. The obsession tends towards abstract conversations of color, of race, of ethnicity, and of self-protection, instead of conversations about people and the roots of their plight. It is no different when speaking of LGBT+ rights or women’s rights or immigration. Let us listen to people. Then let us speak of and with people, not concepts. Not money. Not numbers. Just people. With love.

Cliché of the Day: Death

Or not. Perhaps the language used regarding death is what gives off that stench of cliché. Passed on. Empty. Gap. Will be missed. The person who . . . fillintheblankwithsomething-positive. In a better place. So unexpected. So unfortunate. So heart-breaking.

And yes, Professor Vande Kopple’s death was unexpected. While pancreatic cancer tends to be a death sentence, a week isn’t enough time on death row. Then Bob died in surgery—unfortunate. His health considered, not surprising. Unfortunate. Gordon’s murder? Yes, heart-breaking.

Cold-blooded: a favored cliché to describe the actions of murderers and perhaps transferable to cancer. Except cancer doesn’t have blood. The cliché is that cancer sucks. Well. No shit. Murderers? Are people. People who murder? Aren’t cold-blooded, uncaring. Someone cared quite a bit about Gordon. Sure as heck wish s/he wouldnt’ve. But even a sociopath has some splintered sliver of light inside.

Three deaths and three staph infections: the great and the insignificant. Shall that describe 2013? Two births and two saving graces: Ashlyn and Eva, Debra and Irene. Shall these describe 2013? 

Or rather, indebted to the Book of Common Prayer: “. . . to have and to holde from this day forwarde, for better, for woorse, for richer, for poorer, in sickenes and in health, to love and to cherishe, til death us departe . . .”

Beat Poetry: a post-post modern's literary platform

There’s a new Upworthy clip; a father wrote and performed a poem for his son. His son has down-syndrome. The word he mentions, against which he speaks is retarded. The poem’s literary quality is wanting, but his eyes tell the of the desire; that’s what kept me listening.

I’m a little critical of such videos. Just say what you mean. The verse is convoluted. It gets in the way of the message, an important message, and is not well written or performed.

I love poetry. The beat poetry movement is really something; for me, it’s mostly a reminder of the verbal side of poetry, of the part after writing, the part I like to ignore, the performance. The beat movement takes a submerged topic and blends it with a head snapping style that is culturally appealing. It is exciting. It is passionate.

Do I enjoy the beat poetry? It’s okay.

But it seems forced. Angry sometimes. Too fast. The tones often disagree with the subject matter. But perhaps the escalating emotion is what has kept it living and growing through the 20teens. The mellow is drowned out by the dramatic. The generation tiring of the jaded postmodernism latches to open emotion, latches to those who say “fuck it” as a rallying cry rather than a sigh of cynicism. It’s hip. Hipsters are gradually handing it over to pop culture. (Says I.)

My generation’s pull for openness is frazzling for one who paired well with the skeptical, jaded mode of being. Of course, there is a balance to be found; the beat poets make me think of the pendulum metaphor, with Annie-on-Autopilot on the other side: why the hell would anyone want to “embrace their emotions” and unfurl them for the world??

My counselor, Reagan once said, “I’m going to go religious on you. Jesus got ticked in the temple. If the Son of God can get pissed, I think it’s probably okay for you to feel anger.” Okay, okay. Perhaps beat poetry is something people find to be an expression of righteous anger. (However, I think the poets could take some lessons from Eminem on breathing while keeping the desired emotion palpable.)

As for the subject matter—keep at it. Father of the wonderful son who happens to have down-syndrome, don’t stop.

The Grinch that Stole Passion

Passion. It’s a funny concept. Passion, calling, gift, vocation . . . over-used, lackluster terms nearing a drought of meaning. Calling and gift smack of evangelical necessities.

Vocation may follow in suit.

Passion? Passion is intense.

Left with passion and vocation, I judge one intense and the other stoic.

‘Tis my vocation . . . Serious business.

What is your passion? Extroverted interrogation to find the inner key to a happy, successful, meaningful life. Passion. My passion? Passion. Compassion. I get that.

Passion. Phooey. Vocation. Phbt. Life?

Life without either, oh probably slow and unfulfilling. Bugging about disinterested and tired. 

With? Don’t ask me; I don’t know.

Do you like green eggs and ham?

Yep, that’s what I hear when asked for a passion presumably packaged in my pocket.

No. I do not like green eggs and ham. 

I do not like them, Sam I am. 

Cliché but True

            It has been a while since I last wrote—at least for the blog. But between last post and now, I’ve graduated (or “commenced”) from Calvin College: four years of strenuous studying, of passionate and inspiring professors, of learning, of being loved, of struggling, of being cheered on through it all. Four years, and I have graduated with a bachelor’s degree in English and a minor in Spanish. Four years and I’ve left bits of my heart scattered at Calvin, throughout Grand Rapids, in Michigan. Four years, four CAM/walking boots, one semester in Spain and one semester on academic leave, three communication classes, two psychology classes, countless books (the beginning of a mini-library), three semesters with a solid, wonderful counselor, one Festival of Faith and Writing (and a hankering for more), four years. It has been, as goes the cliché, good, and it has been hard.

            So now what? The always present question, the unoriginal question, for “educated young adults”: now what? Oh, I don’t know. Nor do I mind not knowing. I’m not God. (Who would’ve thought?) Part-time work. Lounging around Felton and Santa Cruz, fat and happy. Writing. Living as a "wordsmith,” however that may be made manifest in the employment I see this year. A little fun wouldn’t hurt either. :)

Quiet Company

Quiet mornings . . . I’m a sucker for them. And I try to draw them out as long as possible. It’s almost ten, and I’m still calling it “my quiet morning.” Meaning, I have put very little effort into starting into a project, homework, getting out of my PJs. Meaning, I have put my efforts into coffee, food, and chill music. So maybe Miranda Lambert’s “Kerosene” doesn’t qualify as chill.

I need my quiet. We all do. Need. Just as we all need people, dammit. It stinks—quiet, solitude, what you will, is torture for some people. People, noise, talk (that nasty impossibility called “small talk”), interaction—that is torture for others.

But that quiet is also the most conducive for reading, writing, being a student. The quiet without the music, that is. The quiet whose music is a snowflake, a blue sky, a breeze, a shuffling of papers, a scratching pen, a clicking keyboard.

Quiet is dangerous. No. Aloneness is dangerous. Prolonged aloneness. Days. Hours for some. It depends on the person and her situation. But she always has her breath; truly, she is not alone. Her breath is always there. The internet is lonely. It is a dead complexity. The breath is company. It is a live simplicity.

Jesus, you say, Jesus is company. So send Him to my pal over there. He doesn’t disbelieve you; he’s just waiting for the tap on the shoulder. And is Jesus, or God, pleasant company? What if he wants Him to go away? That young man would say He already has, if He was around in the first place. God kneeling and wiping the tears from his face is an image of beauty and compassion. And it is a cruel joke. Where is He? “Do not be afraid. I am with you.” Oh really?

This is when solitude can be torture. When company is emptiness. When alone in a crowd. As if crowds weren’t bad enough, not a soul is familiar. Already panicked, the promised company to see you through is nowhere to be found. So this is what I get for trusting.

Returning to the breath is much more comforting. It is always there. It is not disruptive in solitude nor does it desert one in need of company. Here I am, it whispers. Here I am.