Fight Club

We are a nation obsessed with materialism. In the words of Fight Club’s Tyler Durden, “We’re consumers. We are by-products of a lifestyle obsession. Murder, crime, poverty, these things don’t concern [us]. What concerns [us] are celebrity magazines, television with 500 channels, some guy’s name on my underwear. Rogaine, Viagra, Olestra.”[1] Tyler is sickened by the name brand, possession oriented society in which we live. As a result, he suggests that we all “Fuck off with [our] sofa units and Strinne green stripe patterns,”[2]: things that truly don’t matter. Yet, it is unlikely that we as a culture will ever let go this consumer way of looking at life and its conflicting affects. Material possessions give us both a quantifiable way to measure success and superiority, as well as the sense that we can never have enough—we must constantly be keeping up with the Joneses, yet all that results is the urge to get more. More money, more expensive shit that you don’t need, more compliments, more beauty, because you aren’t, and never will be, good enough. 

NOTHING GOOD EVER COMES OUT OF TRYING TO KEEP UP MATERIALISTICALLY WITH ONE'S NEIGHBORS.

This point is illustrated when Pecola finally gets blue eyes. Instead of being satisfied, she can’t stop from asking if they are “prettier than Joanna’s”[3] and “bluer than Michelena’s”[4]; her reply to the responses of “yes” is simply and self-consciously, “are you sure?” [5]There is the constant thirst to make more money, so that one can have more things, so that one can somehow be dominant over their neighbors. It is a never-ending cycle that ultimately leaves its victims unquenched. 

CONSUMERISM: THE ANTI-GATORADE.

However, materialism is not the only negative obsession in America.

There is a constant quest by both male and female to achieve a cookie-cutter type of beauty, one that is fed to our population by every source of media: television, music, magazines, and the Internet. Our senses are constantly bombarded with people who we are told look beautiful; we inevitably begin to feel as if one must look like these people—these movie stars, athletes, musicians—if we too are to be considered beautiful. Toni Morrison notices this trend in culture, and tells it through the eyes of  “an ugly little girl asking for beauty.”[6] “The Bluest Eye focuses on how what Morrison called the ‘universal’ love of ideal beauty commodified in such dolls enforced by the ‘glazed separateness’ that Pecola saw.”[7] Pecola wants to be beautiful and have blue eyes like the dolls she plays with and white girls, just as people in our society “look in the mirror and see that they are not as beautiful as a movie star, not as beautiful as the television, magazine, and billboard ads tell them they should be, they feel the fear of rejection and abandonment.”[8] 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NDBpavNnPWY&feature=related

"IS THAT WHAT A MAN LOOKS LIKE?"

This idea of wanting to look like famous people brings to mind an MTV show that was on the air while I was in high school called “I Want a Famous Face.” The subject of the show was true to the title—it documented the story of people who wanted to resemble or have the same features of someone famous, and they got plastic surgery to achieve this. 

TWO PARTICIPANTS ON "I WANT A FAMOUS FACE." THEY WANTED TO LOOK LIKE BRAD PITT.

Ironically, about half of the time they ended up looking completely ridiculous and unnatural; there were also always short segments on the show about plastic surgery gone wrong. This show completely encapsulated our society’s obsession with achieving a standard of beauty, to the point that they would be willing to mutilate their bodies to achieve it.

This obsession can’t possibly continue if people are to have any sense of self-esteem. Plus without all thousand dollar makeup artists and hair stylists, famous people aren’t that attractive.

CASE IN POINT.

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[1] Fight Club

[2] Fight Club

[3] Toni Morrison, The Bluest Eye, 201

[4] Morrison, 202

[5] Morrison, 202

[6] Morrison, 174

[7] Jerome Bump, “Racism and Appearance in The Bluest Eye: a Template for Emotive Criticism,” X338

[8] Bump, X341

The Other Side of the Railroad Tracks

Let me tell you a little bit about where I grew up. The town where I lived out the first 18 years of my life was called Crosby. Now, Crosby consisted of three subdivisions: Lake Shadows (the up-scale white neighborhood), Newport (the middle-class white neighborhood, which I grew up in), and Barrett Station (where 90% of Crosby’s African-American population lived). As if this didn’t make my town segregated enough, the layout even echoed of times when racial tensions were high. Newport and Lake Shadows reside on one side of the railroad tracks, with Barrett Station being on the other. 

THE RAILROAD TRACKS SEPARATED TWO PARTS OF TOWN: TWO WALKS OF LIFE.

In fact, the parts of town are so separate that there was a time when Barrett was not a part of Crosby ISD. Crosby was even one of the last schools in the state of Texas to integrate. Needless to say, this dichotomy made for an interesting environment to grow up in.

            I don’t want to give the impression that blacks and whites didn’t get along in Crosby—they did. However, it was very easy to observe the different cultures and lifestyles led by the different races. The greatest example of such contrasts that I can think of was my good friend Qualan Bolds.

            I have known Qualan since about the fifth grade. From that time on, I had Qualan in at least one of my classes every year, as we were both in the accelerated or AP classes. Interestingly enough, Qualan was one of 3 black kids, out of about 60, to be in these classes (he eventually graduated in the top 10%). When we were younger, Qualan didn’t get teased all that much. He was pretty much left alone, and just accepted as a peer, an equal, and a friend by all. However, that all changed once we got into high school.

            Ironically, the teasing didn’t come from any white kids; rather, all the mocking came from his black friends. And the comments were always the same: something along the lines of “white boy” or “college boy.” 

FOR SOME REASON, BEING SMART IS ASSOCIATED WITH BEING WHITE.

And it is something that I never understood. He was ridiculed by his black peers for being smart, as if that was a bad thing. It was a situation very much akin to the one found in The Bluest Eye, if Pecola instead of “Each night, without fail, pray[ing] for blue eyes”[1] she prayed for no one to ever have blue eyes—for no one to ever be different or stand out. Personally, I just don’t get it. “Jealousy [I] understood and thought naturally—a desire to have what somebody else had; but envy was strange.”[2] 

THIS WAS ESSENTIALLY THE ATTITUDE OF SOME OF QUALAN'S PEERS.

For some reason the blacks at my school associated intelligence with skin color, and for that Qualan was made to feel like he was betraying his roots. At first, he acted as though the constant pestering didn’t faze him. Yet, by the end of senior year, it was apparent that the remarks were taking a toll on him. He took fewer AP classes, and the ones that he did take he made Cs in. He pretty much stopped doing homework, and slept in class quite a bit. Though he still decided to go to college, his choices went from UT and Texas A and M to Prairie View A and M.

            To me I can’t understand why he was treated the way he was. It’s not like he was a real bookworm, aloof, or didn’t fit in with the black kids. He did, but he was always resented for being intelligent. On the other hand, none of the white kids in the top 10% were ever made fun of. It is negative attitudes such as this that hold the black culture back, at least that is the case in my town. As long as such opinions persist, as long as being educated is a reason to be ashamed rather than to be proud, the residents of Barrett Station will continue to, in the words of Martin Luther King Jr., “live on a lonely island of poverty in the midst of a vast ocean of material prosperity.”[3]

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[1] Toni Morrison, The Bluest Eye, 47

[2] Morrison, 74

[3] Martin Luther King Jr., “I Have a Dream”, 325

TO HELP, OR NOT TO HELP...

 When reading Ram Dass’s How Can I Help, a much more interesting, self-revealing question was brought to my attention: “Why do or don’t I help?”

            I like to think of myself as a pretty nice person. I try my best to do the right thing and display manners. Yet, there are times when, due to a bad mood on my part or some slight miscommunication, I can be rather selfish and unhelpful. The truth is “sometimes I help, and sometimes I don’t,”[1] and I am not exactly sure why that is or what that says about me. In attempts to help better understand this, I am going to analyze two daily activities that constantly give me the option to help others or not: opening doors for people and walking down the drag.

            When approaching a door with others, whom I may or may not know, “I hold the door open for one behind me, or I rush through preoccupied in thought.”[2] Now, I usually open the door for people, probably more than most. However, I am not always pleased and sometimes surprised by people’s responses. 

HOLDING THE DOOR: A SIMPLE GESTURE THAT DOESN'T ALWAYS GO TOO WELL.

For starters, every girlfriend I have ever had has always made it extremely difficult to open doors for them. One minute we’ll be walking side by side, and, as soon as the door is in sight, she’ll speed up. In that case, I’d have to do something really rude (like hold her back or shove her to the side) in order to do something kind of nice (hold the door open). Other times, when I would beat them to the door and hold it open, they would simply open the adjacent door, leaving me to look like a complete jackass. I can never figure out why that was. Was it pride? Was it just wanting to be the first one to the door? Or is ours a society in which girls no longer expect doors to be held open for them? Other times, people simply take advantage of the door holder. My intention will be to hold it for a friend, and I end up standing there for a minute or two while tons of people scurry off. And don’t even get me started on the awkwardness that comes with pulling out a girl’s chair for her.

 PULLING OUT CHAIRS IS ALSO A FEAT THAT I HAVE YET TO CONSISTENTLY--AND SUCCESSFULLY--ACCOMPLISH.

I think I am probably 1 for 20 on that one. Maybe I am just doing it wrong. Hell, maybe girls just like deciding where to sit. These may seem like silly little instances, but they definitely discourage me from trying to help others, for “painful, then, are the moments in which we feel cut off from one another, when we reach out to help or be helped and don’t quite meet.”[3] However, I think a true test of one’s desire to help people, as well as their definition of “help”, is walking down the social experiment that is Guadalupe Street.

            THE DRAG WOULD BE THE PERFECT LOCATION FOR A SOCIAL EXPERIMENT, FOR THE PEOPLE WHO WALK IT OFTEN CONTRAST ONE ANOTHER.

Everyone who has ever walked down the drag has gone through the same experience: “Up comes a stranger and asks, ‘Can you spare a quarter?’” I would say this has happened to me about five times. I have given change only one time, which was also the first time I was asked. It is always such a strange, awkward experience. Part of me feels bad and wants to help; I certainly don’t want anyone to be hungry or suffer. Yet, I can’t help but feel like these people are reaping what they sew. They are most likely homeless because of their own actions and decisions. If I gave them money, I can’t help but feel that “[I’d] only be making things worse,”[4] -- helping to feed their addictions. 

AT LEAST HE IS HONEST.

However, I have found a way to avoid this type of situation entirely: I don’t look the bums in the eye, mainly because “[I] find it hard to look them in the eye.”[5] If I don’t look them in the eye, I don’t have to be faced with their pain or addiction, and they can’t see that I’m a sucker who just wants to do the right thing. At the end of the day though, no matter what you are doing, when it comes to helping people, “you do the best you can.”[6]

           

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[1] Ram Dass, How Can I Help?, 11

[2] Ram Dass, How Can I Help?, 9

[3] Ram Dass, How Can I Help?,

[4] Ram Dass, How Can I Help?, 13

[5] Ram Dass, How Can I Help?,  13

[6] Ram Dass, How Can I Help?, 11

 

P4

Young Tyler Joseph sits at his dorm-room desk. He has been staring at his computer screen in attempts to crumble his writer’s block for so long that his eyes are starting to cross. He looks out his window in hopes of finding some inspiration. As he peers into the gloomy nothingness, he contemplates whether all the hard work he has done throughout his life, all the difficult life lessons he has learned, the relationships he has formed, and the strength of character he has created will be enough for him to “turn out to be the hero of his own life.”[1]

JUST ANOTHER COLLEGE NIGHT FOR TYLER JOSEPH.

Outside his window sits the University of Texas campus. It is a dark, ominous spring night, with the only illumination coming from the tower’s office windows. There is a fog covering the buildings like a blanket. A gentle breeze weaves its way in between the man-made and the natural. Neither student nor professor nor friendly squirrel are anywhere in sight. It is the perfect night, the kind of night that The Bad Side—the amplifier of anxiety, the dasher of dreams, the quintessential quitter, the fantastic failure, the prototypical procrastinator—has been waiting for. Tonight is the night he shall finally confront his arch nemesis: Mr. WhoIWantToBe.  

            Using his evil-doing powers, The Bad Side does all he can to wreck havoc on the students at UT. Every television on campus turns on to people’s favorite shows, like Tool Academy or Grey’s Anatomy, distracting all viewers from their studies. He destroys everyone’s alarm clock, causing them to be so scared of missing class that they don’t sleep. He orders his band of cronies (frat guys) to turn the “Bro-a-meter” to “double-kegger” levels, resulting in a level of douchiness that even they thought to be unreachable. Thanks to his Jedi-mind trick-like powers, he convinces the President Harvey Powers to move all finals to the next week. He even crossed the line: he changed Facebook.com’s layout, causing every single student to cry out in frustration.

            Stress levels immediately began to rise. Kids were getting in fights at J2 cafeteria’s salad bar because people weren’t choosing toppings fast enough. Laptops were being thrown and tossed and yelled at and broken. No fun was being had. Kirby Lane was closing its doors at 7 PM. DBs were going unwritten, even by Dana Zweibel—a sure sign that things were going horribly wrong in Austin.

            Amidst all the commotion, tension, and confusion, one young woman knew just what to do. Hannah, Mr. WhoIWantToBe’s Lois Lane, sprinted out of her dorm room as fast as she could. As she navigated her way across campus, she could hear the high-pitched laughter of The Bad Side echoing throughout campus. It sent chills down her spine. Finally, she made it to the turtle pond and, more importantly, the Shell Signal. With the flick of a switch, a humongous scallop shell was projected into the night sky, just above Jester East. 

ALAS, THE SHELL SIGNAL!

She could now rest easy, for she knew Mr. WhoIWantToBe was on his way.

            He arrived on the scene in just a few moments, his scallop shell proudly displayed on his chest. Hannah filled him in on the devastation that was consuming the student body. Mr. WhoIWantToBe knew what he must do.

            “It ends tonight,” he said, and in a flash he headed towards the six-pack to confront his enemy. When he arrived, The Bad Side was waiting for him.

            The two fiercely stared each other down.

            “So, we meet at last,” said The Bad Side. “I have heard stories about you, Mr. WhoIWantToBe. Are the legends true: that you can get into medical school in a single attempt, can produce relaxation inducing hammocks out of thin air, can get into frat parties without any hot chicks by your side, are Colt McCoy’s other roommate, and can balance being a good student, being involved, and a social life without ever breaking a sweat? Well, I guess we shall soon find out.”

            And with that last annunciation, The Bad Side ran toward Mr. WhoIWantToBe, unsheathing his Axe of Anxiety along the way. With all his might, he swung the humongous blade right at his rival’s neck. It was a glorious swing; one that The Bad Side was sure would connect with its target. Yet, instead of the smooth sound of metal cleaving flesh, there was a shrill “clang!” instead. Mr. WhoIWantToBe, always cool under pressure, took out his Sword of Success at the last possible second and blocked the attack.

            The battle raged on for what seemed like hours, with neither opponent able to get the upper hand. Mr. WhoIWantToBe was shooting out perfect papers and throwing his A+ shaped daggers, though The Bad Side was able to knock them all away with his Procrastination Pole. It was truly an even match—a tug of war that seemed like it could go on for eternity; however, both sides continued to attack relentlessly. 

MR. WHOIWANTTOBE LANDS A DEVESTATING PUNCH!

After much grunting and clanging and punching and kicking, the two combatants noticed that they had an observer.

It was young Tyler Joseph, out for some fresh air, in awe of the great competition he had been witnessing. Yet, he couldn’t decide whom he wanted to win this epic battle, for he could relate to both sides. In high school, Tyler was very much like Mr. WhoIWantToBe. In that four-year span, Tyler found that he could do no wrong. He was involved in athletics, academic competitions, and his church, was a very good student, and had a lively social life. He did all he could in high school, and was successful. On the other hand, he also was able to empathize with The Bad Side. This is because since arriving at college, Tyler now understands the true meaning of stress and pressure. While he has a close group of friends, he is no longer the big man on campus—rather, he is merely just another student in the crowd of 60,000. His grades, while still good, require much more effort, and he often feels like things don’t come to him as easily as they do to his peers. Ah, decisions, decisions. Yet, something strange happened as he was considering whom to root for.

Without any warning at all, both Mr. WhoIWantToBe and The Bad Side began to approach him. They were walking at first, but their pace soon quickened. Suddenly, they were in full stride, apparently no longer aware of each other. Tyler closed his eyes in anticipation of the impact, but one never came. When he finally mustered up the courage to open his eyes he realized that the two men were nowhere in sight. He frantically swiveled his head in all directions, trying to find any trace of them. And that is when he understood what happened.

            The two men had gone somewhere all right—right under Tyler’s nose. They had somehow merged with him, leaving him with a combination of each person’s powers. He felt different. Hell, he even was dressed differently. He was now in an orange and white spandex suit, with a giant question mark printed on his chest. The torch had been passed, and it was now up to Tyler to decide which path he would take, to decide whether or not he would be the hero of his own life or the villain…

A NEW HERO (OR VILLAIN) IS BORN!

The following serves as a metaphor for the struggle I face when answering the question “Who are you?” The truth is, I really thought I knew who I was before I came to college. I had no doubts about it. I was the golden boy, the do everything kid. If you needed something done, I’d do it, and I’d kick its ass. More importantly, I was able to put a lot of things on my plate and handle them while remaining rather stress free. Also, I always felt in high school that I was of very high character. I was respectful to my elders, my teachers, my coaches, I never once got disciplined in school, I never made less than an A in any class, and I went to church every single Sunday. However, in college, I have found that some chinks exist in my integrity, while other portions remain durable.

I fear that I am no longer able to juggle as much as I once could. While in high school I was always playing a sport and doing UIL competitions, such is not the case now. I have joined two organizations (Texas Rugby and Texas Wranglers) and subsequently quit them both. It wasn’t that I didn’t like them—I loved them both. Yet, they both demanded so much time (about fifteen hours a week), time that I felt I needed for studying, since school doesn’t come as easy as it once did. Being involved was fun, but in the end the stress they caused greatly outweighed any pros. These are also the first things I have ever quit in my life. This fact is made exponentially worse by the fact that I have always despised quitters. As a result, I have been able to realize that I sincerely enjoy being able to do nothing, to be able to decide for myself what I do during the day, to take a nap, or to watch a show (after so many years of being busy all the time, it is pretty nice to be free of responsibility). Although these activities don’t help my production, they keep me relaxed and, ultimately, happy. I continue to do well in the classroom, but I am haunted by the idea that making good grades isn’t enough. I desperately want to be involved on this campus; I want to be a somebody here. I just haven’t been able to figure out how

I am at a crossroads in my life right now, having to choose between reinvigorating the do-it-all personality of my past and further strengthening my character (the much harder choice), or taking up a new life path consisting of mainly reading, writing, and relaxation (the lazy route). Only time will tell which path I will choose. Whether I will choose to be the person I long to be (busy, involved, and happy) or the person I continually find myself becoming (calm and just another student). Whether I will be who I want to be, or let my bad side take over. My goal is to figure out (soon) how to combine the two, so that I can be an important student while not allowing the extra work to weigh me down. Then and only then would I truly be the hero of my own life.

 

 

WORD  COUNT: 1768 WORDS

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[1] Charles Dickens, David Copperfield, from E603B course website.

all drawings done by me

Off With His Floaties!

 Growing up, I experienced two very different types of parenting: compassionate parenting, and compassionate yet detached parenting (essentially tough love). My parents were usually working during my days at home, and I was a pretty well behaved child, so the majority of love I received from them was of the compassionate type. I seldom talked back or didn’t accomplish what they asked of me. For the most part, they would be supportive and interested in what I was doing and would from often tell me how proud they were of me. Due to the fact that I rarely did anything out of line, I was hardly ever disciplined. The only times I think I was ever yelled at was when my room became excessively messy. Like Siddhartha and his son, they did not “force [me], beat [me], and give [me] orders.”[1] I would definitely say that my parents did not give me that much tough love. 

MY PARENTS WERE ALWAYS VERY KIND AND NICE TO ME...

However, my older brothers were a different story.

            When it came to the relationship I had with my brothers (who are 9 and 10 years older than I am), they didn’t really care that my close pin was always in the green region at school, that I had perfect attendance, or that I always did what I was told. They were more concerned about the level of toughness (a very low level) I displayed, which was probably a result of all the compassion I had been receiving from my parents for so long. 

...BUT MY BROTHERS HELPED TOUGHEN ME UP.

My parents “shackled [me] with [their] love.”[2]When I was a kid, I cried a lot, often because I was scared of something and I knew that if I cried I could run to my mom and she would protect me. I cried if I thought I would have to go swimming without my floaties on. I cried at the mere thought of getting on a roller coaster. I cried when the training wheels were taken off my bike. I cried when I heard about a tornado warning on the news. I cried when I watched a scary movie. I cried when I played—and usually failed—at sports. 

I NEVER WANTED TO GO SWIMMING WITHOUT MY FLOATIES ON, AND MY PARENTS NEVER FORCED ME TO TAKE THEM OFF.

Yet every time I cried my parents were there to comfort me, to let me know that everything was going to be okay. However, my brothers soon got tired of this act, for they didn’t want to have a pansy as a younger brother, and decided to put me through “tough training.” They understood that I “would [not] be spared because [my parents] love [me] and want to keep [me] form suffering pain, and disappointment.”[3] Since they babysat me so much as a young kid, they both acted as a set of second parents, and they specialized in compassion with detachment. They would take me to the pool and force me to swim without my floaties. They would dress up and scare the bejesus out of me about once a week. They would force me to wrestle with them, and wouldn’t let up no matter how much I screamed. They refused to put my training wheels back on no matter how much I begged them. I hated them at the time for forcing me to endure these things, when all I wanted to do was go cry to my mom—but I couldn’t. They wouldn’t allow it. My brothers knew what they were doing was in my best interest. Like Siddhartha, they “waited for a long time—many [years]—to see [their brother] understand [them], accept [their] love, or perhaps reciprocate it.” [4] And when I finally did understand the reason for their actions (I was about 12) I realized that it was the most loving, beneficial thing that anyone has ever done for me.

            I simply don’t want to imagine the type of person I would have been had my brothers not intervened. 

WHAT I WOULD BE WITHOUT MY BROTHERS' INFLUENCE: A PANSY.

I know I wouldn’t have played sports and I probably would have been a socially awkward whiner, not to mention a crybaby. Without their emphasis on toughness, there is no way that I would have been able to withstand some of the things I went through in high school. I certainly wouldn’t have been able to make it here at UT. Their tough love made gave me confidence, a sense of competitiveness, and helped me become more of a man. This for of compassion truly helped shape who I am today.

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[1] Herman Hesse, Siddhartha, 111

[2] Herman Hesse, Siddhartha, 111

[3] Herman Hesse, Siddhartha, 113

[4] Herman Hesse, Siddhartha, 110

OMMMMMMMMM

I am a “Cradle Catholic.” I went to church every Sunday, attended all the holy days of obligation, was an alter boy for a few years, and was a leader in my youth group. Catholicism always has been, and I expect always will be, a big part of my life. 

I WAS BORN AND RAISED CATHOLIC.

However, I have always done my best to keep an open mind when it comes to other religions and faiths. I think it is so interesting to learn what other people believe and why they believe it. While another religion may seem weird or completely unbelievable at first, discovering them really helps put my own religion in perspective. After all, I believe that a woman was impregnated without the help of a man, that some old guy parted a sea, and that a carpenter was able to walk on water and come back from the dead. My religion can sound pretty crazy too. One very fascinating (and fun) thing that I like to do when researching these other religions is comparing and contrasting them with my own religion. Common themes and parallel ideas are everywhere, as are major differences. This is true for Catholicism and Buddhism, specifically when comparing the lives of Jesus and Siddhartha (Buddha).

            Each man grew up having very different lifestyles. Jesus was a poor carpenter, while Buddha was a prince. 

JESUS AND BUDDHA HAD TO VERY DIFFERENT UPBRINGINGS, BUT BOTH BECAME GREAT MEN.

Yet, despite his lavish upbriniging, which easily could have led him to be spoiled and tyrannical at heart, Buddha came to the same conclusion as Jesus. Upon witnessing his cousin shoot a swan, Buddha decided “that [he] shall teach compassion unto men and be a speechless world’s interpreter.”[1] This incident “began his works of mercy.”[2] This calls to mind Jesus’ teaching of the “golden rule,”—that one should treat others as he/she would like to be treated.

            Both men set out to fix the problems they saw in the world as well, though they went about it in different ways. Just as Jesus was witness to all the sin around him, so too did Buddha notice “the thorns which grow upon this rose of life”[3]—the realization that “life [is] living upon death.”[4] While considering this, Buddha “first began to mediate the deep disease of life”[5] and went on to spread his techniques. Jesus, on the other hand, sacrificed himself for his people, in order to free them of their sins.

            Another interesting parallel between the two religions is their use of certain animals and their symbolism. In Christianity, the serpent is a symbol of evil, for that is the shape the devil took when he convinced Eve to sin in the Garden of Eden. Similarly, Buddha encounters a woman whose baby has encountered “that kiss mark of the serpent.”[6] 

IN BOTH RELIGIONS, SNAKES HAVE A CONNOTATION OF BEING EVIL....

In the Bible, Jesus often talks about how he is the shepherd, and his followers are the sheep. Buddha makes use of the same analogy when he states “Alas! For all my sheep which have no shepherd; wandering in the night with none to guide them,”[7] and eventually convinces the king to declare that “henceforth none shall spill the blood of life nor taste of flesh.”[8]

           ...WHILE SHEEP HAVE A CONNOTATION OF NEEDING A GUIDANCE AND PROTECTION.

 One other interesting point that Buddhism made me think about was Siddhartha’s opinion of certain rituals. Siddhartha admits that “the purifications were nice, but they were just water, and didn’t wash away sins,”[9] and “sacrifices and invocations to the gods were superb—but were the sufficient?”[10] Such observations have led me to consider my own faith’s traditions and realize that more important than any ritual is one’s actual relationship with God.

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[1] Edwin Arnold, The Light of Asia, X240

[2] Edwin Arnold, The Light of Asia, X240

[3] Edwin Arnold, The Light of Asia, X241

[4]Edwin Arnold, The Light of Asia, X241

[5] Edwin Arnold, The Light of Asia, X241

[6] Edwin Arnold, The Light of Asia, X242

[7] Edwin Arnold, The Light of Asia, X244

[8] Edwin Arnold, The Light of Asia, X244

[9] Herman Hesse, Siddhartha, 7

[10] Herman Hesse, Siddhartha, 7

When Llamas Attack

 I spent this past weekend going on a retreat to Camp Balcones Springs with my fellow Summer 2009 Camp Texas Counselors. 

AN ARIEL VIEW OF CAMP BALCONES SPRINGS.

The point of this retreat was to teach me and my fellow counselors how to facilitate activities and discussions, while also giving us a way to truly bond with one another. It was an amazing weekend, one void of the burdens of homework, stress, and bad food. We were outdoors a lot, honing our leadership skills, working together in teams, and were simply enjoying each other’s company. In my opinion, it couldn’t have been better. However, there was another experience that I took away from camp, and it was one that I did not expect at all—an experience that revealed to me up close why, throughout human history, “beasts have been feared, loved, beaten, caressed, starved, stuffed, and ignored.”[1]

            For those of you who have never been to Camp Balcones Springs, it is a very, very large outdoor area, the majority of which is just open fields. Amidst the basketball and volley courts, there are random animals (mainly llamas) roaming free, which is quite a site to behold.

THERE WERE ANIMALS ROAMING EVERYWHERE!

It is definitely a place where “animals have lived intimately with man.”[2] As a result, most of us were able to get really close to, and even pet the llamas. They seemed to have no problem with us, and we coexisted well. Yet, this all changed on Saturday afternoon.

            While I wasn’t able to see it, this story spread like wild fire throughout the campsite. Jon, one of the counselors, was minding his own business—just waling through the beach volleyball court. Unbeknownst to Jon, one of the llamas had spent all morning in that same exact area, apparently claiming it. So, one minute Jon is leisurely walking through the sand, and the next he is knocked over from behind by a llama, falls to the ground, is stepped on by the llama, and is finally able to break free, punch the llama in the nose, and then run away. 

I IMAGINE THIS IS SIMILAR TO WHAT THE MAIN EVENT LOOK LIKED.

I was reminded of this when reading about the elephant that had gone “must,” which led it to “suddenly come upon [a man] round the corner of the hut, caught him with its truck, put its foot on his back and ground him to the earth.”[3] Lucky for Jon, llamas don’t weigh that much. News soon spread that the llama would no longer be staying at Camp Balcones Springs.

            I found this occurrence so interesting because of how it perfectly fits into our course theme at the moment, and it also raised several ethical questions within myself. Did the llama deserve to be removed? Will the llama be killed? Did the  llama act with malicious intent, or was it merely claiming its area? I think that sometimes we as humans forget, or simply don’t want to believe, that a fluffy, goofy looking animal can be aggressive. Thus, when it does, we feel betrayed and respond with aggression. As for this particular example, I admire the camp for letting animals roam free, but they shouldn’t allow it when they have more than 70 human visitors. This creates too many opportunities for conflict. This is just one example of how humans have come to interact—and continue to misunderstand and abuse—with animals.

            I grew up in a fairly large community that was definitely pro-hunting and fishing. I would say more than half of my male classmates, and quite a few female classmates, had killed an animal with some type of projectile for fun. Personally, I disagree with hunting on a number of levels (though I definitely don’t agree with those that would say “I’d sooner, except the penalties, kill a man than a hawk”[4]). For one, I cannot stand it when people call it a sport. It isn’t. Hunting takes no athletic ability, doesn’t use a ball of any kind, it is done sitting down, and the odds are no where near being fair. While I understand how “compelling the more romantic violent, and dangerous process of confrontation and conquest”[5]can be, I fail to comprehend how shooting an unsuspecting animal is remotely competitive. Also, I can’t for the life of me figure out why self-respecting human being would want to get up at four in the morning, cover their faces with grease paint, carry around animal urine, and sit out in the freezing cold in complete silence for hours upon hours. It sounds like a pretty boring day to me.

 DO THEY REALIZE HOW DUMB THEY LOOK? I DOUBT IT.

Finally, I don’t agree with the amount of pride hunters have in their “prizes.” It’s like “You pulled a trigger on a piece of machinery to kill a living thing so that you can hang it up in your already creepy living room—congratulations.” I can’t help but believe that hunting is a selfish and completely asinine “sport.”

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[1] James Turner, “Reckoning with the Beast,” X170B

[2] James Turner, “Reckoning with the Beast,” X170B

[3] George Orwell, “Shooting an Elephant,” X218

[4] Robinson Jeffers, “Hurt Hawks,” X215

[5] Ritvo, “The Thrill of the Chase,” X194