Below Par

I don't claim to be an excellent golfer, but I certainly do enjoy playing a round here and there with my dad and brother. Golf gives us an opportunity to spend about four hours rolling around in golf carts, chatting and competing with each other. The problem is, golf can be incredibly frustrating at times, especially on an off day. I don't play enough to be consistently good, but every once in a while a shot goes as planned and nothing is more satisfying than watching a golf ball soar into the air and gracefully arc back down onto the fairway. Unfortunately, that doesn't happen nearly as often for us plebeians as you would think after watching a PGA tournament.  

Every once in a while though, you feel like nobody in the world could have made a better shot than you just did. I first experienced this phenomenon when I was 14. My dad and I took the opportunity to spend a mild--for Texas--June day out on the golf course. Things weren't going well through the first seven holes as I was about three or four strokes higher than normal 48 or 50 strokes by the eighth tee. 

As I stepped up to the tee box, the wind picked up from right to left across the fairway. I could see the trees along the left side wavering under the breeze, but it would likely work to my advantage, mitigating my usual slice off the tee. The pin was in the middle of the green, which was nestled in between a pair of bunkers about 370 yards away and slightly to the left of the tee box. 

My dad chimed in after my first practice swing, "Good smooth stroke here Ryan."

After another two practice swings with the driver, I stepped forward, took a breath, and swung. 

"Oh boy! That'll be a good one." Something that my dad said after most of my tee shots, but this time it wasn't said out of a fatherly obligation to be encouraging. The ball sailed off, flying about 190 yards before hooking slightly left and rolling another 20 yards down the fairway. 

We hopped in the golf cart and proceeded down to hit our second shots. I hit a 4-iron pretty solidly on my second shot, with the ball landing in some tall grass just to the right of the right bunker. By this point in my life, I had only made par on a par 4 a couple of times before, so I was reasonably excited at the opportunity to chip the ball on the green and hopefully sink the first putt to make par. 

Pulling my pitching wedge and putter out of my bag, I walked over to my ball and waited for my dad to take his shot. He chipped it from about 50 yards away, landed near the top of the green and had enough back spin on the ball to roll back to within 10 feet of the pin. If I could match his shot, I'd set myself up for a doable putt to make par. 

Deep breath.

Smooth swing.

I definitely one-upped my dad this time. The ball lazily cleared the bunker, landed just above the pin and rolled back down the hill to drop into the hole. I had a birdie on a par 4 for the first time in my life, without even putting. Shots like that make you want to keep playing, no matter how many balls you lose to the water or how many triple bogeys windup on your scorecard. I haven't made a better shot than that since, but I know I have it in me, and that keeps me going through all of the rough times spent in the rough.

Leave to Stay

"How much longer Mom?"

"It'll just be a little bit longer, maybe another hour or so, then we'll get our bags and be on our way."

If she only knew...

I asked that question almost ten hours ago, when I was looking out of the window of a Boeing 777 at the verdant landscape below. We were in the final portion of the 9-hour flight across the Atlantic from Dallas to London. The patchwork arrangement of the rolling fields below, separated by dark green hedgerows, reminded me of a quilt that laid out on the foot of my sister's bed at home. I was homesick before I even set foot in England. My parents got divorced a month earlier, and now my mother was embarking on a new adventure. At the age of 9, I was along for the ride.

Other than a tearful goodbye to my dad, sister and brother at the airport, the trip had been uneventful so far. About an hour into the overnight flight, dinner was served and I began planning out which in-flight movies I would watch and ignoring my mom's claim that I would be unable to stay awake the entire flight. Turns out she was right all along--I fell asleep halfway into the first movie only to wake up when breakfast was being served before landing.

After taxiing to the terminal, we got our carry-on bags and proceeded down what seemed like a mile of hallways before reaching Immigration. The whole process seemed absolutely daunting to me when really it's no different than a bank teller. We simply had to walk up, answer a few questions, show our passports and go about our business. So why were we now sitting in a white hallway amidst British Immigration officials? Because of a simple answer to a ridiculous question.

After waiting in a long line of groggy-eyed travelers, it was finally our turn to step up to the counter and pass through as we had watched tens of people do before us. My mom led with a smile and offered a chipper "Hello" to the official as she handed our passports over. A series of questions about our reason to visit England and if we had any contraband items in our luggage (like fruit or illegal imports) followed without any hiccup. Problems started to snowball when the woman behind the counter asked what day we would be returning to the United States. It being 6:00 AM and after a long night of travel, my mom could not recall the exact date from memory, so she pulled out her computer to look at the return ticket. My mom's uncertainty must have raised suspicions because the official followed up with another question.

"Is that a work laptop?"

"I do work on it, yes" my mom replied.

"I see that you have a tourist visa here. You cannot work while on a tourist visa."

"I know that."

"Yet you have your work laptop with you."

"Yes I do."

"I'm going to ask the two of you to step over to those chairs and have a seat while I go see my supervisor."

And with that, she closed her lane and went off into a door behind her. We sat there for a good twenty minutes, unsure of what was happening before being called into a room for more questions. My mom explained that she was just flustered when answering the questions and that she had no intention to do any work while in England, but the supervisor wasn't convinced. He explained that we did not have leave to stay in Britain and that we were going to have to return to Dallas on the next flight and speak to the British Consulate about a more comprehensive visa.

So here we were, waiting to be put back on the next flight with seats available. I fought back the urge to ask how much longer we had to wait and instead focused on my Gameboy. I guess some times adventures don't turn out the way you plan all the time.

Final Meeting

My sixth meeting with Haya (which took place this past Tuesday) went quite well. It had been several weeks since we had met because of a string of inopportune occurrences. I had to cancel a meeting because of an increasing workload in one of my classes and she was sick on one occasion. The difficulties of reconciling two schedules to allow for our meeting at a time other than the normal Tuesday at 3pm prevented any "make-up" meetings.

We talked about what each of us had been doing over the past month, catching each other up through the hiatus in our meetings, before speaking of Saudi culture again, specifically the misconception that women in the Arab world have little power. Haya explained to me that quite the opposite is true. She said that women could be quite influential when needed, but that they typically deferred to men on most decisions because, as she put it, "man is man." By this, I believe she meant that men like to take charge of a situation and steer it towards the expected result. A woman's deference to her husband was not a sign of subservience, but rather an opportunity to allow the man to feel powerful. As evidence of this, she pointed out that before getting married, a man must provide a dowry to the bride's family. After the marriage, the man is then obligated to provide for his wife. In a sense, the wife has power over the husband because he is culturally required to provide her every need. I think this facet of Saudi culture is misinterpreted in Western society and I'm glad Haya corrected my perspective of her culture.

While Haya undoubtedly garnered more from our conversations than I, it was certainly a mutually beneficial pairing. She has come a long way in her grasp of English, with the capability to carry on complex conversations now. I'm sure that cannot be solely attributed to our meetings, but I hope (and believe) they played some small role.

On the other hand, I learned quite a bit about Saudi culture and Islam that I didn't know previously. Haya corrected many of my misconceptions about Muslims and their practice of religion, not to mention Arabic culture itself. Through these meetings, I have gained a new, more accurate perspective of the world--realizing that at the most fundamental of levels, all cultures and countries share commonalities. We live in tumultuous times, but I think the waters would be a little calmer if we all took the time to deeply understand each other first-hand, asking for clarification and keeping an open mind. Maybe that's naive of me to wish for, but surely it couldn't hurt.

Haya and I are meeting for the last time tomorrow to wrap things up. She wants to read all of these blog posts to ensure that I have accurately portrayed her as well as her culture. Hopefully I did, and if not, I'm sure she'll correct me again tomorrow.

Spring Break

My fifth meeting with Haya was the week after spring break, and therefore was primarily centered around what each of us did over the break. I spent the first half of the break camping before returning home to finish out the break working and catching up on all of my classes. She went on a trip to Los Angeles with her sister, staying there the entire break.

After exchanging pleasantries, she began showing me pictures of all of the places she visited while on vacation. The majority of the pictures were from Disneyland, which I found surprising. Out of the twenty or so pictures she cycled through, perhaps 12 of them were from Disneyland, with about 7 of those being pictures of her and her sister wearing Minnie Mouse ears. Haya was absolutely fascinated by Minnie Mouse--the ears, polka dot bow, everything. At one point she even pulled out a pencil with the eraser in the shape of Minnie Mouse ears.

I probably shouldn't be surprised at this, but her fascination with Minnie Mouse seemed totally American in nature. It completely caught me off-guard. For whatever reason, I never would have considered a foreigner being so enthralled with a character that seemed (at the time) purely American. I guess I thought that because Haya grew up thousands of miles away from America and spoke a language that wasn't just unfamiliar to me, but that didn't even use the Latin alphabet, she would have no notion of Disney characters.

Disneyland seems so quintessentially American, yet she liked Disneyland and Minnie Mouse just as much, if not more, than many Americans I've met. I'm sure thousands of college kids have travelled to Los Angeles for spring break, visiting Disneyland along the way, but Haya's enthusiasm reminded me that even with all of the cultural differences between us, we really are the same at some basic level.

If anything, there might be an argument that Haya is more American than I am in at least one way: I haven't been to Disneyland.

Now that is somewhat of a fallacious argument, as there is more to life than going to Disneyland, but it's an interesting thought. I think it shows how pervasive American culture is throughout the rest of the world. For example, I lived in England for 5 years, and the depth of knowledge about American culture was quite powerful. (Please excuse my gross generalization following.) Yet we, as Americans, don't seem to have much knowledge about other cultures. And to the extent that we do is superficial at best, constructed from stereotypes and movies.

With so many countries looking at us, learning our culture, and visiting our attractions, shouldn't we make an attempt to do the same in return? Most foreigners I've met have already had a pretty accurate picture of what life in America was like (excluding the usual "do Texans ride horses to school?" question that crops up), but I doubt the same could be said the other way. I certainly don't have a detailed knowledge of culture outside of America and England, and even then I only know about England because I lived there for 5 years.

Maybe we should put more focus on learning about other cultures.

The New Yorker

My second foray into the library went about as well as the first. I am thoroughly convinced that the periodicals section is designed to be as confusing as possible. A simple alphabetical organization seems the simplest to me, but I'm sure the system used is eminently more useful to those who are more knowledgable. After about ten minutes, I managed to find the row with volumes of TIME on one side, pulled down a volume covering the summer of 1963 and began to search through its pages for a suitable story.

Unable to find anything other than news reports (none of which suitably embodied a coming of age theme), I glanced around to find another magazine that I might be able to find an article in. Thankfully, The New Yorker was on the row opposite TIME and I quickly pulled down a volume containing issues from September to November of 1963. I settled on an article about taking care of plants and picking furniture for a house. The article was written from the point of view of a early 20's man, newly out into the world and unexperienced.

Being a young man myself, I understand the rigors involved with moving into a house not owned by your parents. I didn't realize just how much furniture it takes to fill up a house. A couch, TV stand and small coffee table certainly doesn't fill up a large living room.

Gathering furniture is part of growing up--a rite of passage even for some. Without a well-furnished house, some might think less of you upon seeing your house. When was the last time someone said "I really like what you didn't do with this space"? And how can you expect to throw a dinner party at your house with only two chairs and four plates to your name? Adulthood involves having more dishes and furniture than anyone could possibly use in a single day, and the author makes a point of that.

However, the article isn't confined only to matters of furniture. The author also dives into horticulture. He speaks of a 5-week class for amateur gardeners he attended whilst house-sitting for some friends. The plants in the house he was watching had begun wilting under his care, so he decided it was necessary to learn something about the proper care of plants. He was unable to attend the first night of class, but on the second day he noticed just how much the other students seemed to know. Eventually, he asked a woman in the class if she had done any gardening before. She told him that before the first day of class, she was hopeless with plants, but the first lesson had been quite good.

Nine classes later, he agreed. Plants flourished under his care, so much so that he even began gardening at his own home.

Plants require an immense amount of attention, more than some cats. Responsibility is a hallmark of adulthood, and maintaining a garden isn't exactly fun for most of us. But when done well, a garden can look exquisite and compliments a well-furnished house.

The article shows how much of an emphasis was placed on appearances in the 60's, just like the 20's. Today, magazine articles deal more with the practicality of building projects than the wood with the best grain or the nicest species of flower. "How-to" is emphasized over "How-it-used-to-be-done-in-English-manors."

I think that's a good trend.

House on Mango Street

Cheated. That's how I feel now that I've finished Sandra Cisneros' House on Mango Street. My copy of the book is a deceptive 108 pages long, but without all of the white space separating chapters, I doubt it would be longer than 65. A hour after I started, I was finished. Sunday editions of newspapers have taken me longer to peruse for only a few dollars compared to the $11 cost of Mango Street. If I didn't have a conscience, I probably would have just sat in the bookstore to read it without buying it. The book simply seems too short to get value from, but that assumes that value increases with length.

The format is certainly intriguing--a series of vignettes (or snapshots) of a childhood--but the discontinuity created by this style left me craving flowcharts and diagrams. Almost all of the "chapters" were written just like a child was trying to verbally tell an adult a story at an exasperated, breathless pace. At the end of many, I was unsure of exactly what happened or how it affected the characters. While many novels build on previous events to give a deeper understanding, most of the events in Mango Street are seemingly unconnected. At one point, the main character Esperanza Cordero describes the first day at her first job, then doesn't refer to any other events at the job for the rest of the book. Life doesn't progress discretely, rather it's continuous with events (work, sleep, food, visiting with a good friend, etc.) reoccurring.

Looking back on the book, it reads like a Facebook timeline. Each event or portion of Esperanza's life gets 15 seconds of fame before being relegated to posterity. The shortness of each section precludes a deeper understanding of Esperanza. I know all of the major events, but not what happens in between. If that were enough to understand a story, then why would I want to watch a movie after seeing a trailer?

With that being said, there is a definite change in Esperanza's demeanor. At the beginning of the story, she is obviously still lost in the innocence of childhood. One of the hallmarks of childhood is an inability to develop cause and effect relationships when making decisions and she doesn't seem to understand the implications of some of her actions. For example, when she decides she wants to eat lunch at school in the "canteen," she doesn't think about her food being cold by that time. Before, her lunch was always warm because her mom made it fresh when she returned for lunch. Instead, she suffered through a cold lunch after asking her mother to lie to the nuns at the school about why she had to eat in the canteen rather than go home.

In the latter half of the book, she suddenly becomes more of an adult when facing the mature concepts of sexuality and the death of loved ones. Her friend Sally obviously is not a child anymore and by hanging out with her, Esperanza gets dragged into adulthood. This change happens in just a few pages with little clear delineation between childhood and young adulthood. With a longer novel, the change would have been more gradual and comprehensible. Thirty pages after eating lunch at the school, Esperanza faces the concept of sexual assault first-hand.

In my mind, a longer version of Esperanza's story would be more enjoyable and impactful. She obviously changes over the course of the novel, but it happens so quickly that there is little time to develop the distinctions between child and adult. Maybe the quick change is why the novel is so acclaimed, but I would prefer a more comprehensive version of the story.

All Tied Up

The world had an odd red tint to it. Beyond this though, I wasn't even able to stand up in my current predicament. Try as I might, I could only flop around the living room, trying to find something to brace myself against. My brother Tim had taken sibling rivalry to a whole new level. I was currently in a red mesh laundry bag after trying to tag along when he went to Sonic with his best friend, Jack.

While seemingly cruel, he insists to this day that it was a justifiable escalation in our brotherly feud. Tim was nine years my elder and a sophomore in high school. He had a car, a Nintendo, and a computer: all enviable possessions. Although I had no shortage of action figures and Nerf guns, the grass is always greener.

While he spent hours playing video games in his room, I would attempt to convince him to let me watch, swearing that I would be quiet. When that failed, I thought it necessary to bang on his door with the hope he would let me in to shut me up. What appears peevish to most seemed like a perfect course of action to my 7-year-old self. He didn't agree.

On one occasion, he used a door club (a metal bar with a rubber pad on the bottom to prevent the opening of a door, even when unlocked) in an attempt to keep me out. In retaliation, I began to shoulder bash the door, permanently deforming the door handle on the other side. I suppose being stuck in a mesh laundry bag wasn't that bad considering the amount of harassment I directed towards Tim.

I spent another fifteen minutes or so trying to put myself in the position to undo the drawstring, but eventually relented in the face of futility. With nothing else to do, I just sat there in the living room, waiting for someone to come to the rescue.

This wasn't even the first time he had gotten back at me for my annoying behavior. A few weeks before the laundry bag, Tim decided to tie me to the coffee table. Although in that instance, I was able to escape by lifting the table leg up and slipping my binds underneath. Before that, he convinced me that climbing into the front-loading dryer would be entertaining, although he didn't mention who for.

After what felt like an eternity, I heard a key go into the door lock. In my struggle to free myself from the bag, I wound up out of sight of the front door, but I knew it was about the time that my dad typically got home from work. No luck though--my brother was back. Now, I've made him out to be somewhat abusive, a bully even, but honestly he was and still can be rather nice--as evidenced by the root beer float with my name on it. He conditioned my release on me promising not to be annoying for at least a few hours and after a moment of indecision, I agreed to the truce.

Our relationship changed as soon as we weren't living under the same roof. Looking back, I'm glad that  he put me in my place. I realized the necessity for earning respect and acting mature. I certainly didn't become a cool little brother overnight afterwards, but I think he would agree that I am more palatable now than ever. Now we go weeks or months before he tries to lock me in a chest.

Not Taking Sides

Before that April day, Sunday afternoons consisted of my dad dozing off on the couch while watching the final round of a golf tournament, my mom concocting something for dinner and my brother finding every excuse not to do anything for the school week ahead. In this idyllic scene, I, being a typical eight-year-old, would stake out a corner of the living room to build a large pillow fort or work on honing my Pokemon skills like every other kid in America at the time (you know who you are).

Then my view of the world flipped upside down... or at least it would have if I had been able to realize the ramifications of that short sentence, delivered like a traffic report on the morning news.

"Your mother and I are getting a divorce," he said to the three (my sister had come back from college for the weekend) of us sitting on the bed in the master bedroom.

I looked around at my sister--she must have already known because I didn't see a hint of surprise, just tears rolling down her face. My brother's face looked vacant and forlorn, like someone told him that the sun wouldn't rise in the east ever again. And there I was, completely lost as to what was happening around me. After all, it's not like kids talked about divorce while playing tag at recess.

"I want you all to understand that this was in no way influenced by any of you. We simply fell out of love with each other." My dad said as he slipped into work mode, talking deliberately to ensure he conveyed his point with clarity.

Up until that point, the only big change in my life had been my sister going off to college. Although I did switch little league baseball teams in second grade--that seemed pretty major. Fortunately, nobody in my life had passed away, not even a family pet. Heck, I hadn't even broken any bones. Nothing "bad" ever happened to my family, or at least not that I was aware of.

Now everything was changing simultaneously.

I figure my sister probably had it the best, being several years into college by this time. While she obviously still would be effected by the divorce itself, she hadn't spent every day of the 3 years prior around the house. Instead, she was geographically detached from the situation, providing a slight buffer. Similarly, as my brother neared graduation, he already faced a major change in the coming months--going off to college.

Yet I had a solid eight years before I left the nest. I would be effected the most, especially since my mom decided to follow somewhat of a pipe dream to live in England. There would be no alternating weekends with each parent, not with thousands of miles of open ocean separating Dallas, where my dad chose to stay, and England. Which meant that no matter who I ended up staying with, I would always be on a different continent than one of my parents. As you can imagine, this left me in quite a quandary. Should I go with my mom on an adventure to England? Or should I stay with my dad and the surroundings I knew well? I had no idea how to even choose. I must have been in some state of shock because I couldn't comprehend why the choice even existed in the first place.

That's when my dad pulled me aside: "I want you to go with your mother." Tears began to well up in the corner of his eye. "I want you to be there for her."

As if I wasn't confused enough, now I momentarily thought that he didn't want me to stay with him. Did he not love me? How could he just let me go with her and not see me every day?

He must have known what I was thinking because he quickly headed those thoughts off. "And don't think I don't want you to stay here."

Looking back, he must have thought that my mom shouldn't be away from all three of her children. My brother and sister were both going to be in college just 40 miles from our house. If I stayed with him, we would all be together while my mom was living an ocean away. I guess he wanted me to keep her company, and in doing so was putting some responsibility on my shoulders.

Throughout that day, I felt like I was thrown into the deep end of the adult world, but I think that might be the best way to grow up.

Soccer Camp

"Hey Ryan, get up! It's almost time to go to your soccer camp!" I think my dad took a little too much pleasure in startling me awake with a booming voice. I rolled out of bed and while stumbling into the kitchen to get some breakfast, I passed my dad eating his customary oatmeal. 

"There's some oatmeal out there in the kitchen for you if you want it." I didn't. "I'll stick with cereal, but thanks," I replied while rubbing the last vestiges of sleep from my eyes. Today was the first day of a two-day soccer camp hosted by several British soccer players. No big names, but for an 8-year-old, everyone taller than you is cool so I was noticeably excited. 

When I sat back down at the table, he took the opportunity to pester me in my sleepy state. "When you're done eating, we'll head over to the field." 

After finishing my bowl of cereal a few minutes later, we headed to the car. Minutes after that, I was getting out of the car at the park, grabbing water and my soccer ball from the back seat. 

"Have a great day bud, I'll be back to pick you up around 4." 

"Okay, I'll see you then." I replied, beginning to jog over to the group of kids. 

We started with some dribbling drills, running with the ball through a tight slalom of cones. Then we moved onto passing drills and the three-man weave. The ball control drills continued the whole day, with the coaches encouraging us along the way. It's hard to convince kids that passing skills are more important  than shooting prowess, but the coaches stuck with it until we fully understood that soccer is a team sport. Tomorrow, they promised, we would work on shooting and round out the camp with a large scrimmage. 

True to his word, when 4 o'clock rolled around,  my dad was waiting in the parking lot.

"How was it?" He asked as I closed the door behind me. "Good. We're playing a scrimmage tomorrow to finish camp, but we're all supposed to bring a flag from a country that plays soccer. I'm supposed to bring a flag from the Dominican Republic." 

"Okay, are you supposed to make it or buy one?" 

"The coach said painting it on like a white towel or something was fine."

"I've got some old modeling paint that might work." 

And so our evening plans had been made. After dinner, my dad cut up a white undershirt to make a rectangular canvas for the flag. We sat down at the table, laid out some newspaper and began to paint the flag. He had some old paint he used in modeling scenery, but it was in glass jars and the paint had hardened around the rim, making them difficult to open. When we finished painting all of the blue on the flag, I went to return the paint to his craft chest while he started opening the red paint. Upon my return I noticed that he had spilt paint all over the table and appeared to be trying to wash it off his hand with a dish towel. 

It took several seconds to realize that the glass jar had broken as he was trying to open it, slicing the web between his thumb and index finger on his right hand wide open. What I thought was paint all over the table and his hand was actually blood. We were the only ones at home, so he told me to run over to our neighbors and ask one of them to drive him to the hospital. 

I sprinted out of the house and across our lawn to the next house over, knocked somewhat frantically on the door. Carrie, the teenage girl that lived there answered and I breathlessly tried to explain that my dad had cut his hand pretty bad and couldn't drive himself to the hospital. She followed me back over to our house and we all got in the car to go to the hospital. 

We got to the hospital and my dad got stitched up pretty fast. Twelve years later, the scar is barely noticeable. While the incident left little impact on my dad, that day I faced the startling realization that he was not immortal. 

To Kill a Mockingbird

This is not my first encounter with Harper Lee's classic novel. During my sophomore year of high school, we skimmed parts of the novel before watching portions of the 1960's film to cement the court scenes in our head. We focused almost entirely on the racial issues involved with Tom Robinson's trial and took no more than a cursory glance at the summer antics of Scout, Jem and Dill, let alone the entire Boo Radley storyline. I would have preferred to spend more time studying the novel instead of rushing through in an effort to increase the total number of books we "read." Reading through the novel again, I realize just how much we glossed over that first time through--effectively butchering the novel itself.

I sat down to read the novel over the break and really became engrossed in the simple innocence of the summers before the trial. Jem, Scout and Dill spending all day outside re-enacting books and letting their imaginations run wild. While I never got to the point of inventing stories of crazy murderers living down the street during my childhood, the story definitely provides a relatable experience. I remember spending hours outside playing with neighborhood kids until the street lights came on, serving as the signal to return home. Now instead of spending hours outside fooling around I spend most of my time sitting at a desk working. Such is the life of an adult.

After reading the first part of "To Kill a Mockingbird," I found myself wishing I could return to the life of a seven-year-old. A life unencumbered by responsibility and filled with simple answers to questions that now ignite lengthy debates. A time when parents were the final authority on everything--and therefore were seen as infallible--and when nap time in school was still a recent memory. Ironically, reading over spring break put me in a similar mindset to Scout. My week off seemed akin to her summers. But just as Scout had to deal with all of the adult themes surrounding her as she grew up, I am faced with the reality of returning to school, with all of the associated responsibilities--such as this post--included.

The revelations of Atticus' character and past as the novel progresses parallels what I have experienced with my parents. Just as Scout and Jem find out that Atticus is an excellent shot, I have come to develop a fuller picture of the life my parents led before me. Stories come out, often over dinner with cousins, aunts, and uncles of the times my dad played pranks on his little brother or got a speeding ticket racing a buddy down a farm road. Not exactly the stories parents would tell their children when they are young, but in knowing them, I have a better sense of the human side of them, not just the parental facade.

I'm of the mind that all great literature should be read at least twice throughout a lifetime. I can't think of a book that I have re-read without noticing more details and connecting more dots together. This makes sense as if you understand what meaningful events take place throughout a work, you gain a deeper appreciation of the hints and foreshadowing that are present. Even the most methodical reader couldn't hope to fully understand all of the messages in a novel on the first reading. For me, new dimensions to characters continue to appear in a good work as I read through again. (Watching a film adaptation often has the same effect by giving a different perspective.)

Progress

Our fourth meeting took place last Tuesday, but rather than going into the details of what we talked about, I would like to use this post to convey how our conversations have changed over the past month. After all, the main reason behind these meetings is to assist Haya with her comprehension of colloquial English and all of the associated idioms and cliches--it seems silly not to at least touch on her progress.

When I first met Haya, our conversations seemed somewhat arduous. We got the point across, but often had to restate an idea or event several times before finally succeeding. I never realized how colloquially I spoke, using common sayings or phrases as simply as taking a breath. Unfortunately though, English--or any other language for that matter, isn't taught as it is spoken. The proper form of the language is always taught from textbooks--leaving somewhat of a disconnect between native and foreign speakers. A gap that can only be bridged by conversation and time. Before our first meeting, I never thought of conversations as something that would leave me exhausted, at least mentally. Being in engineering, I'm used to feeling somewhat drained after a long day of math and complex concepts, but a conversation about where someone is from causing the same feeling was certainly a new experience to me.

Several times in that first meeting, I found myself searching for a fundamental way to explain an idea to Haya. Feeling lost in your own language is immensely discomforting, I can't imagine how Haya felt trying to follow my discontinuous sentences as I searched for a simple way to convey an idea. Language exists purely to facilitate communication, so it seems reasonable for there to be a difficulty in understanding someone who has only been regularly speaking your language for several months or conversely someone who has been speaking a language you hardly know for all his life.

Over the past few meetings I noticed a gradual change in our conversations. Haya was tripped up by fewer words and we began to converse more naturally. I don't know if this was more of a product of growing more comfortable in our meetings (which it certainly is for me) or if she was getting a better grasp on the language as a whole. I suppose it is probably a combination of the two as I think conversations generally become less forced as you become more accustomed to whomever you're speaking too, but I'd hope our conversations are having a positive effect on her studies.

In the first meeting  she paused eight or nine times to type an Arabic word into a translation app on her phone to help me understand what she was talking about. Now though, she only refers to her phone once or twice a meeting, instead using context and other words she knows for certain to develop an idea to the point where I can guess the right word she is searching for. I think this might be one of the more helpful consequences of our meetings, after all, it's rather hard to get an online translator to guess at what you are trying to say and even if it wasn't, that certainly wouldn't be the way to learn a language.

I do believe our conversations are helping Haya when it comes to learning more about how Americans speak the language. She speaks more naturally now that a month ago, and seemingly with more comfort.  The conversations offer an experience that would be irreplicable in a classroom full of students learning English as a second or third language. And for me, the conversations give insight into Saudi culture. Our conversations are obviously mutually beneficial and I hope they remain so as we continue.

Respect, Part 2

I met with Haya again last Tuesday. Our meetings were becoming somewhat routine, we usually spend the first five or so minutes making small talk before finally settling into a conversation. On this occasion we went back to the subject of our last conversation--respect.

During our previous meeting, we talked about how different people should respect each other and refrain from trying to prove the fallacies of their beliefs. Haya had related a story about how two individuals questioned her religious conviction based on a superficial (by its very nature) aspect. She wears a hijab, or a cloth covering her hair, but not all muslim women do and these individuals were questioning why she wears one when others obviously do not take it to be a requirement of Islam.

This past week we talked about a sign of (dis)respect that was much more mundane. About five minutes into our meeting, I crossed my legs so that my ankle was resting on my knee. A seemingly innocuous motion to me launched a thirty minute dialogue concerning the proper etiquette for foot position. She explained to me that in Saudi Arabia, her mother taught her to take care not to ever direct the sole of her shoe toward a stranger or somebody that was not a close friend. The bottom of the shoe becomes quite dirty over the course of even a single day and thus it can be taken as a sign of disrespect if you have the bottom of your shoe directed towards someone you do not know well. I hadn't ever thought about the small details of body posture being a sign of disrespect. I guess the idiom about 90% of communication being unspoken might have some truth behind it.

Now, after she explained this custom, the idea made perfect sense to me. For example, I would not consider it to be respectful (and certainly not professional) if I walked into the an office and propped my feet up on the desk before beginning a conversation. While that example is somewhat extreme, I believe that describes how Haya would feel if even one foot was resting on a table pointed in her direction.

Not everyone in Saudi Arabia follows this behavior though. According to Haya, some take no umbrage when soles are directed their way--although I'm sure tempers would flare if taken to the limit. She assured me that many would take offense to a sole directed at them. Regardless, I think that this small aspect of life in Saudi Arabia shows that their culture is much more detail-oriented than our own. From the three conversations I have had with Haya so far, it seems as if she was raised in a much more structured environment than me and my peers--to no detriment to either side.

Although I understand the concept now, I doubt I would have developed the same sensibilities myself. Maybe I'm not thoughtful when it comes to others, or maybe Haya's upbringing leaves a tendency to think about every aspect of appearance to minimize any possible faux pas. Don't think that I have anything against her way of things, but instead realize that we all place different importance on different actions or objects. The sooner we understand this concept as a society, smaller the world will be and the fewer problems we will have. With that being said, becoming homogenous as a society should not be a goal. The goal should be comprehending that in our differences, we are all the same, no matter our upbringing or nationality.

Stick(ing) to it

"It's perfect," I said to my mom seconds after seeing what would become my first car. I had already spent hours pouring over internet listings and reviews of different makes and models of car before settling on this one--a green 2000 VW Jetta GLX. Front-wheel drive, a 2.8L VR6, sunroof, premium sound system, leather seats, and only 82,000 miles. I had lobbied for a rear-wheel drive V8, but my dad's caution forced the V6 compromise. When you're 16, the car is the ultimate symbol of freedom (for suburbia at least.)  Few things compare to being able to go places without having to rely on another person for transportation.

My mom got the car inspected and when everything checked out, we started haggling with the man selling it, settling on a reasonable price in a few minutes. It seemed as if the stars had aligned and I was about to taste freedom, but one little thing stood in my way--I didn't know how to drive a standard.

I knew the concept behind driving a stick, but translating a mental idea into precise foot control was easier said than done. I had never needed to control anything to within a few millimeters before, especially not  with my feet, adding to the pressure for a reasonably new driver. Furthermore, when you make a mistake driving a stick, your failure is immediately and gut-wrenchingly apparent to those inside and outside the vehicle. The car will suddenly lurch forward as the momentum of the engine is transferred into the driveshaft all at once before stalling. After this, it takes several seconds to restart the engine and ready yourself for another try, just to fail again. The whole ordeal can become pretty demoralizing after missing a turn signal because of your own inability to get the car moving.

But, as with most things in life, the only way to become proficient is through practice. With this in mind, my dad took me out to a secluded industrial park the weekend after purchasing the Jetta to work on accelerating from a stop.

"Just let the clutch out slowly as you press the gas," he said. "Remember to be smooth."


Vrrrrrrrrrrrrrrklunk... Silence.

"That's okay, everyone stalls the first time. Try again," he said encouragingly.
Clutch in, put it in gear, start revving the engine... a simple checklist that kept running through my head as I readied myself for a second try.


Vrrrrrrrrscreeeech...

Too much gas. We lurched forward as the tires struggled to catch up to the now mechanically-connected over-revved engine. Not the best way to start, but at least we were moving. Except that because I had been so focused on getting going, I completely forgot how to actually drive once moving. I gripped the steering wheel tight in my sweaty hands as we trundled down the deserted street, the engine barely above idle. Aside from manually shifting, a car with a standard transmission is identical to an automatic--which I had been driving the months before--yet the whole experience seemed so foreign.

Over the next thirty seconds, my dad tried to convince me I should stop the car and try starting again.
"Starting is the hardest part, once you have that down, the rest is easy. Besides, you're going to have to stop eventually, unless you plan on driving this slow for the rest of time."

He was right. I would pass through several lights and stop signs on the three mile drive to school each day, let alone the countless lights I would hit driving anywhere else. With this realization, I became determined to master the manual transmission and gain my freedom once and for all. I came to a stop, started revving the engine again, slowly let the clutch slip...

Vrrrrrrrthuddd....


"You know, riding a bike isn't so bad. Good exercise, you don't have to pay for gas... maybe I'll just stick to that," I said bitterly.
"Try it again," he said optimistically, worried about the financial consequences of me giving up I'm sure. I restarted the car, began revving the engine again, wincing in anticipation of another cacophony of rapidly colliding metal components.

Vrrrrrrrrooooooommmmm...

Not quite perfect, but certainly sufficient for anyone. With this, I proved to myself that I could do, and that I only needed to keep practicing to get a feel for the point at which the clutch starts to bite and how much gas is needed to accelerate through the additional resistance smoothly.

We spent another couple of hours driving up and down that industrial road, pausing only for a root beer float break (my dad's favorite.) I stalled many more times, was the cause of more horrific sounds that I care to remember, but I started getting the hang of it--succeeding more often than not by the end of the day.

Today, driving that same Jetta has become second nature. I can accelerate smoother than most automatics without thinking and I enjoy the added control I have over the vehicle. Now, I can't imagine driving anything other than a manual on a daily basis. It just seems so natural. And all I needed was some encouragement and confidence in myself.

Respect

After a little confusion on the date and time of our second meeting, Haya and I eventually met up again last Tuesday. We had been slated to meet the Tuesday before, but she said that she mixed up the days of the week. We spent about the first ten minutes of our meeting talking about how she had thought it was Monday when in fact it had been Tuesday so instead of meeting with me she had been napping. I can't say I wouldn't have done the same if I thought my schedule was free.

When we did meet for the second time last Tuesday, she apologized profusely, saying that I must think all Saudis don't believe in punctuality because of her mistake. By itself, her worries wouldn't seem remarkable--I would do the same if the roles were reversed--but she earnestly believes that one should always be respectful. After my repeated assurances that her absence was quite alright, that it had given me a chance to relax and read the newspaper, she began to tell me a story about respect. 

She didn't divulge many details, but at some point since arriving in America, two individuals questioned why she wore a hijab (from my understanding, a headdress worn by many Islamic women to maintain their modesty as they are instructed to do so in the Koran) when other Muslim women do not necessarily do the same. They were inquiring, rather forcibly as Haya tells it, why she felt she had to wear a hijab when it obviously wasn't a strict requirement of her religion. Haya then dove into a long explanation of how her choice to wear a hijab was between "her and god," no one else. Her parents do not force her to wear it, her friends do not force her to wear it, she chooses to. She even went on to say that during a recent trip to Houston, she ventured out several times without her headdress and did not feel bad about doing so, only that she felt more comfortable with it on. 

Haya surprised me with how annoyed she was at the questioning of her beliefs. The notion that others would question and attempt to develop fallacies within her beliefs completely went against what her parents had taught her as a child. Not necessarily that the beliefs of others should be accepted without thought, but that we should have respect for one another's thoughts and practices. Haya believed that the actions of those two individuals was demeaning to her and she even went on to say that their actions were despicable. In fact, because she wanted to make sure that I understood her completely, she even took the time to choose the right word in Arabic that would describe her feelings before translating it to "despicable."

However, through all of this she didn't even think of trying to correct their actions with information about her religion. She told me that because she is not in her own country, she should not attempt to change what anyone else believes. Instead, she understands that there will be differences largely because of the culture gap and strives to maintain respect towards all opinions. 

I'm still struggling with whether I believe her choice to move away from confrontation rather than informing them of the reasons for her choices was "correct," but either way her choice not to lash back at the individuals should be admired. 

Experiences with Huck Finn

Huck Finn Experienced?

1. Have you read the novel –Huck Finn- before?  If so where and why?

Yes, I read Huck Finn my junior year of high school for English.

Answer either 2 or 3 depending on your answer to 1.

2. If you have not read Huck Finn before, surely you know something about the novel and character from references and allusions in popular culture.  What do you know about either the novel and/or character?

3. What was your response to reading Huck Finn, and what do you remember from your reading?  Also, did you actually read the whole novel, or just parts of it?  Did you read Cliff Notes or Monarch Notes instead?

Looking back on my first experience with Huck Finn, I don't remember much other than major plot points. I can recall some of the relationship Huck develops with Jim, but I did not remember all of the occurrences on the river, such as finding the wrecked steamboat. I did read the whole novel, and it did not seem as deep of a story four years ago. I definitely noticed more details this reading. 

4. If you were assigned to read Huck Finn in a previous class, either here or in high school, how did your class as a whole react to the novel?  Why do you think your instructor assigned the novel?  How did he or she try to “teach” the novel?

From what I can remember, the class reacted as many students around the country do when reading. Some are shocked by the racism and dark side of humanity, some think it's a great adventure story, and others don't take the time to read it. I'm sure it was assigned because the teacher thought that all students should experience the novel at some time during their education, but she did not attempt to censor the story whatsoever.

5. If you were required to read Huck Finn in a previous class, what sort of assignments were you required to complete, and what exactly did you do during the classes when

Huck Finn was being discussed.

I honestly don't remember any specific assignments involving Huck Finn. I'm sure there were reading quizzes and some sort of essay or final test on the novel. During class, we would often spend thirty minutes or so each day talking about some event in the novel, usually while going over the answers reading quiz--using it as a springboard for discussion.

6. Huck Finn is still one of the most controversial and most banned books in America.  Why is it so controversial? 

I think any work that spends much more time focusing on the greed and immorality present in even the "good" characters is likely to be controversial. Highlighting the dark side of humanity is liable to rub some Americans the wrong way.

7. Is Huck Finn still relevant to you as college student today?  Should it continue to be taught in college classrooms?

I do think it is still relevant.Not only does the novel reminds us of a time in American history where there was not freedom for all, but it depicts a life full of adventure that most of us wish we could live at least in part. Besides, college is an adventure itself--it's only fitting to study an adventure novel while in college. 

8.  The general consensus among critics is that Huck Finn is a brilliant and powerful novel, but also a flawed and problematic novel.  What do you think might be flawed and/or problematic about the novel?

I think, while adding to the atmosphere of the novel, some of the dialogue can be a bit inaccessible at times. Beyond this trite flaw though, I believe the dearth of lasting consequences throughout make the story seem somewhat unrealistic.

Adventures of (Reading) Huckleberry Finn

This wasn't my first experience with Huck Finn's narrative of his journey down the Mississippi river in search of freedom and adventure. My first encounter with Mark Twain's so-called "Great American Story" was near the end of my junior year of high school, right before a slew of AP tests, so I didn't allow myself the opportunity to really sit down and read it. Huck Finn is certainly not the type of book that can be skimmed or read quickly and have almost the same impact. You have to pay attention to what is happening in the story and how the characters develop for the story to hit home. Twain's constant use of heavy southern dialects can be unwieldy at times, but it certainly caused me to slow down immensely and on occasion I even had to pause to actually speak the lines to figure out what someone was trying to say. (Which I'm sure drew some odd looks from those sitting around me the few times I was reading the book in between classes, but oh well.)

Frustrating readers with complex dialect probably wasn't Twain's objective though--instead he intended to give an insight into the South for all of those people who weren't able to experience it first-hand. There were no televisions, no internet, and many people never left the area immediately surrounding their place of birth. Thousands in the North probably had no experience of slavery or what life in the South was like. Yet just two decades before the publishing of Huck Finn, America was ripped in twain (too good of a pun to pass up) by a horrendous civil war which was, at least partially, caused by the issue of slavery. Even though he grew up in Missouri and even "fought" for the Confederacy (albeit only for two weeks or so) during the Civil War, Twain obviously tries to paint slavery and those who own slaves as a blemish on human society. Many times Huck wrestles with reconciling his ideas of what makes a person good with being surrounded by slavery, which Huck eventually decides is immoral.

Although much of the controversy surrounding Huck Finn deals with slavery and racism, we cannot forget another major theme in the novel--adventure. I think just about every boy wants to go on adventures when he is 13, I know I did. However, parents (especially moms) always seem to ruin all of the fun in the name of safety. Navigating hundreds of miles down one of the largest and most heavily-trafficked rivers in the world, encountering unsavory personalities all the way, what could possibly happen? I suppose it's probably for the best Huck didn't have a mother around to prevent the story from becoming reality rather than a dream. Although now that I think about it, that would have been a wonderful ending--300 pages of Huck floating down the Mississippi living the life of a boy with no mother around to tell him to wash his hands and stop doubling the weight of his clothes with mud each day, only to end with Huck waking up an realizing the whole thing was merely a dream and he was still back in Widow Douglas' house, being "sivilized."

Not that the actual ending is much better. Aside from the resolution of Jim's quest for freedom, the rest of the story ends rather weakly in my opinion. Several chapters are consumed with the ludicrousness of Tom's plans, with little connection to the rest of the story except to remind us that Huck is a pragmatist at heart and not a dreamer like Tom. Eventually though, the plan is enacted and seemingly as a plot device, Tom's antics almost get himself killed so that Jim prove he is a human being in the eyes of the Phelps' before being informed of his freedom. Then the book wraps up with what became a running theme throughout: Huck decides to just keep on moving, west instead of south this time, to get away from any of the corruption and immorality that develops in human society. In a sense, Twain posits that continually moving is better than planting yourself somewhere and actually making a change in society.

I don't agree.

Falling Out of Vogue

When I walked into the library's periodicals section, I honestly hadn't put any thought into which magazine I would start looking through. Figuring I would just walk down the aisles and be able to pick out a good volume to look through, I began in the basement wading through rows and rows of academic journals before I noticed a shelf full of Vogue, seemingly untouched for years. Why I pulled a volume of a magazine I had never opened before off the shelf, I couldn't say, but surely I could find a good candidate from the 12 issues within the tome. After about ten minutes of flipping through pages replete with pictures of women's fashion of the time, I started to lose hope of finding anything that I could enjoy reading through and then write about.

Eventually though, I did find an article from the series Vogue Essays on Etiquette concerning the proper way to write invitations, which the author seemed to think was a dying art in July of 1922. The article--along with the rest of the magazine--was definitely catering toward upper-class women who would soon be hosting parties themselves. I think one constant throughout many magazines (no matter the date of publication) is an emphasis on how-to articles. A plan for a model airplane, instructions for wreath making, installing new software, et cetera. All with the common purpose of educating the reader on a topic that the author decides is either a fun hobby or one of the necessities of coming-of-age and the added responsibility that coincides with getting older. 

In this case, knowing the proper ways to correspond with others and how to invite them to dinner were deemed a necessity for every young woman to learn when coming-of-age so she would not commit a faux pas when out in the world on her own. To me, how to address someone in an invitation or the terminology used to indicate whether an R.S.V.P. is expected does not seem to be a necessary skill. Obviously times have changed enormously since 1922, with invitations being one of the less noticeable differences behind other changes like say the Internet and television. Coming-of-age today is more about learning to drive and getting a job than learning that it is inappropriate to add a title to one's signature under any circumstance. 

However, in the 20's there must have been quite an emphasis placed on maintaining the proprieties of Victorian England, at least in the upper-classes (to which Vogue was seemingly marketed). Throughout the pages, there were numerous advertisements for boarding schools and many of the dresses and accouterments pictured looked as if they belonged at Windsor Castle. Nowadays I think the emphasis is on being trendy and new rather than posh and traditional. 

Nevertheless, if my sister's love of calligraphy and formal invitations is a good indication of the rest of American women these days, some of the guidelines laid out in Vogue's article seemed to have had a lasting impact. While invitations to a dinner are more likely to be sent via text than hand delivered by a butler, I rarely see a wedding invitation that does not at least aspire to evoke some sense of attending a great Victorian event. 

Coming-of-age has definitely changed over the past 90 years. Instead of focusing on the formalities and grooming of an individual into one who will meet society's expectations, the emphasis is now on the acceptance of responsibility and becoming self-reliant. 

Left to Right ... tfeL ot thgiR

When agreeing on a time and place to meet is difficult--not because of a pair of busy schedules, but rather because of fragmented emails caused by a definite language barrier--it seemed only natural to be leery of how the first meeting with Haya would go. I expected to muddle through an hour-long conversation akin to digging a truck out of a swamp, but I found myself surprised just a few minutes into our conversation. 

Haya is from Saudi Arabia, a culture that I soon realized is much different than our own. She has spent the last three months or so at TCU learning English through the IEP before continuing on with her studies here in a different field. Both her older sister and twin brother also are a part of the program, though I don't think they have conversation partners themselves. We talked a little about how the culture shock was mitigated a little bit by having family nearby, but she still mentioned being saddened by being unable to spend time with the other members of her family (3 sisters, 3 brothers, and a mother) back in Saudi Arabia. We discussed music briefly: she doesn't like American music because she does not understand the meaning of the lyrics, much like I would feel about Arabian music I'm sure. 

 

So far her life seemed to be close to what I imagined mine would be if I moved to a country with a different language and alphabet altogether. Maybe this is a gross generalization, but the majority of the time I hear about Saudi Arabia from a westerner, it is a land of strictness and a supremely patriarchal society. Halfway through our hour, I found no support of this idea from her attitude or demeanor. 

That's not to say there aren't major differences in the cultures though. For instance, in Saudi Arabia, Haya (and all other women) are forbidden from driving. Instead, many families will hire drivers from a large pool of immigrants hailing from countries such as India and Pakistan. Haya's family actually has two such drivers who tote the female members of her family around. This might seem like an impediment to some of us, but not the way Haya explains it. She doesn't mind being unable to drive, reminding me that she is just as able to get around as I am, but from the comfort of a passenger seat instead. 

The conversation soon turned to the Arabic language itself or more specifically, the challenges of writing from right to left. Perhaps I was somewhat unprepared for our first meeting, this being the most major facet of Arabian life I have any certainty in my knowledge of. She told me that she had no problem switching to writing from left to right whenever she wrote in English. I soon decided that I would be unable to feel the same writing in the opposite direction than I have been for almost two decades, evidenced by the fact that it took me a full minute just to type "Right to Left" in backwards for the title of this post. I have been promised lessons in writing the Arabic alphabet (25 letters, with "e" and "u" being represented by one letter in Arabic) at our meeting next week along with traditional Arabic coffee, which seems to be like espresso after Haya's explanation. 

Frankly, I did not expect this project to be anything other than a burden on my already hectic academic schedule. Now I expect the project to be an interesting way to learn more about another culture somewhat different from our own in a mutualistic way. 

Candidly Desensitized

Wow. Normally I would strive to compare Voltaire's work with some other piece of literary work, but frankly I don't think I've encountered anything that so bluntly wades into a morass of death (well at least for the nameless masses), theft, corruption, rape, and vehement attacks on the author's peers.

The list of misfortunes Candide is witness to left me wanting the same bullet he begged for a mere four pages into the book after being flogged 4,000 times by his Bulgarian comrades. I do not know what injustices befell Voltaire personally to cause him to offer up such a string of calamities, but he certainly wasted no ink on frivolities such as character development and rising conflict. Throughout, he lingered on a topic just long enough to allow the reader to begin to comprehend the enormity of the incident before moving along to the next, like a UPS guy delivers packages the week before Christmas--the good old "throw it hard enough so the force of the package hitting the door alerts the residents of the package's arrival" routine that we all know and love.

Lest you think that I am somehow exaggerating--as Voltaire does in Candide--let us look at the events in just the first five chapters. By the time of the Lisbon earthquake, Candide has already seen a gruesome battle take place, witnessed at least two villages pillaged by the opposing armies of the Bulgarians and the Abares, been whipped excessively for exercising free will, watched his one-time savior drown saving an ungrateful sailor, and to top it all off Candide then watches as one of the great cities in Western Europe is decimated by an act of God. For any being to experience just one of these events would be emotionally devastating. Candide experiences all of them intimately and almost shrugs them off in the innocent belief that it was all for the best.

To me, the only way one could possibly consider this chain of events to be "for the best" would be to imply that desensitization to emotional trauma is what humanity needs to elevate to a better existence. This is where the irony is at work, because emotions and the reactions to trauma are what make us human. Without emotion and thought, what are we other than an organized collection of atoms? Yet Voltaire sarcastically implies that desensitization is essential to the betterment of humanity, that our inability to rationally interpret and plot a course of action no matter the circumstances causes us to remain distant from our full potential as a race.

This implication is Voltaire's ultimate attack on his peers during the Age of Reason. At a time when other intellectuals are emphasizing rational thought as the way to progress society, Voltaire shows that the purely rational removes the human element, which in turn, runs contrary to the actual progression of humanity. After all, what is humanity without human?

Reading through Candide reminded me of watching the evening news--a succession of often tragic events related to an audience in quick snippets without any emotion from the anchors. Hearing all of the terrible things in the world that happen each day effectively removes the immense significance of many events. The story of a murder can be relayed to an audience in mere seconds, but no sense of the effect on the lives of those close to the murder can be developed in such a short time. Candide kills both the Jew and the Inquisitor in a few sentences because of the absence of immediate remorse. Devoid of emotion, it was so easy to kill once that he might as well do it again to ensure his future.

After finishing the book, I was not desensitized enough to read through the it again, but I definitely empathized with Voltaire's worry of what humanity could become if we all forgot what it means to be human in the quest for rationality and answers to the world around us.

Now to enjoy some chocolate.