What is possible?

What is the moment when something truly becomes possible? Is it when that thing itself is done or when it gets put in motion? And why do certain things seem more impossible than others? Is it because they have been denied for so long, pushed down into the depths so far that it would take ages to bring them back into light. I’m not sure, I’m not even sure if Nelson Mandela is sure of this. There are some things that will always be impossible, like people trying to fly with their arms, so how do we delineate between what seems like it will always be impossible and what will in fact always be impossible? I do not like the word “seem.” It places the fate of a particular situation or concept in the hands of the one looking upon it. Some are less objective than others. I’m sure when segregation was legally outlawed some people believed this to be impossible, on both sides. On one hand, some had hope in the fact that it was impossible, and others placed a deep dread and fear on this same fact. So how do we effectively and objectively classify something as seeming impossible? It is not completely possible. Something may seem impossible to one group of people but another group could see the fire burning in those who wish to stop it, and know that this fire will never go out and therefore they know that this thing does not in fact seem impossible. Hope is what separates what seems from what is. Things will not seem as impossible or hard to accomplish as they may be if one simply has hope for what is to come and what is. Mandela did many “impossible” things in his life time, but he would not have been able to do these things if he thought that they seemed impossible to him. He recognized the very real possibility that those things were not in fact impossible. So maybe he is referring to the other in saying that it seems impossible. Those on the outside will never know if something is actually impossible because they are not fighting on the front lines, they are merely spectators, and those on the outside looking in can never be objective because they are only watching the battle while others are fighting the fight. To them, many things are impossible, but to men like Mandela nothing is impossible if you are armed with the right mentality and spirit.   

-BR

Indians

Ah, the American Indians. How often have I confused the word 'Indian' to be referring to Indian Indians and not the American Indians? Countless times. I still get confused on some occasions. Just as I am confused about this quote. I don't know what to think about it. I think it is because I don't know as much about the history of the Native Americans. I know that White people came and screwed them over, but that's about it. Nor do I relate to them in any way. I mean sure, White people screwed India over too, but the only way I've ever seen Native Americans is as namesakes of the Real Indians. So I beg the question - to sympathise with someone else's history, does one need to relate to it/them? If that were the case then no one would get butthurt about Holocaust jokes. Or jokes about natural calamities, or any war. Or anything related to human tragedy whatsoever. We would be free to joke about anything and everything. The world would be a happier and funnier place.What if no one felt anger? What if humans never had a sense of possession? Would we still have America?

- raj

Equality

Feminazis think equality equals men worshipping women and abiding their every command; submitting to every beck and call. That has come a long way from Lincoln's definition of equality - liberty and justice for all.

In spite of the large difference between the two meanings, equality is something we still haven't been able to achieve. Otherwise everyone would have the same wage, the same house and the same rights. But fact is that our capitalist society sees these things as bad, communist ideals which have the potential to crumble society.

Moreover, would it be true justice to give two people the same wage for different jobs? A lack of motivation is a bad consequence of these ideals, which in turn forces those in power to abuse their power to get work done. Not that it doesn't happen anyway, just that it happens at a smaller scale when the workers are given more money too.

My point is, equality itself is an unachievable ideal. We, as humans, are not capable of achieving equality mainly because we don't want to. We are too materialistic, too envious to ever fully embrace equality.

- raj

We're Not On The Island of Misfit Toys

Let people be who they desire to be. Let people be who they are.

Being a human is no easy task in and of itself, so who is anybody to put a limit on what a person can be? Everybody knows the mind and body contain an astonishing complexity. They are intricate and not fully understood, and at this point, there aren't any ways that we can fully grasp our own inner-workings.

We have traditional norms in most cultures and societies. Because of this, we also have outcasts, misfits, those who "don't belong." But hey, here's a newsflash for you: EVERYBODY IS DIFFERENT. EVERY BODY IS DIFFERENT. Take the time to understand and appreciate that the human condition is not limited to you alone. Every single person has their struggles, their highs, their lows. Every person strives to understand who they are and where they fit. Here's another newsflash: We all fit. We all experience the human experience. We all collectively share emotions, moments, love, hate. All of it. There is no legitimate reason to worry about breaking traditional norms. They're bullshit. They are a construct of a past time, and the times, they are a changin'. Psychology, genetics, love, passion, emotion. That stuff is real. That's not bullshit. 

Being a human is no easy task, but when the day comes where we can all be humans and be truly together, embracing the fact that we are all one in our differences and similarities, the outcasts, the misfits, the traditionals, well, maybe things will be a bit simpler. Because guess what...

We all belong.

Indian Moral

Prompt:“The most vicious cowboy has more moral principle than the average Indian… I don’t go so far as to think that the only good Indians are the dead Indians, but I believe every 9 out of 10 are.” - Theodore Roosevelt

The cowboys broke into the Indian’s world without an invitation, and later require the Indians to adhere to their moral principle.

People tend to think it is easy to judge good or bad, moral or not. It is so easy that they forget that those standards are constructed by themselves. We believe that slaughtering animals for food is a moral thing to do when it fills our stomach. The victims probably wouldn’t agree if they get to speak. I am glad that at least human are not requiring the animals to recognize that being killed is a moral thing for them. However, here we are, asking the Indians to follow our moral standards. We tell ourselves that we do so because we are more civilized than the Indians, that the Indians should also appreciate the opportunity we generously offer. In fact, we are doing this only because we are more experienced with the brutal violence. We tell them what is the civilized thing to do because we are better at killing our own kind.

I guess killing cowboys is also probably a moral thing for the Indians. They just don’t tell the cowboys.

-Leon

“The most vicious cowboy has more moral principle than the average Indian… I don’t go so far as to think that the only good Indians are the dead Indians, but I believe every 9 out of 10 are.” - Theodore Roosevelt

I will bet any one of you, right now, the entirety of my savings account ($350) that I am the only Native American in this room. It’s a fun little secret I have. With my light hair, light eyes, and light skin I sure don’t look like it. But what do you think I should look like? The Washington Redskins logo? The wooden warrior with the feather headdress outside the pawn shop on Broadway?

I would also bet that I’m the first Native American you’ve ever met. I make this wager with a little less confidence, but still enough to be depressing. As a matter of fact, I’m one of the only Native Americans I know, aside from my family. The vices one normally associates with us Natives, the ones you see in the story we read this week (What You Pawn I Will Redeem by Sherman Alexie), are slowly picking us off. When I was born, I had 30 cousins. 19 years later, 6 of us remain. Not to mention the loss of our numbers through old age. Roosevelt must be thrilled.

Mikayla ᎡᎶᎯ Hodge

Silence

No shade, but if this were my baby daddy I would turn too. I’m going to just go ahead and completely disregard the photo because I honestly have no kind things to say about it. I’m gunna go ahead and direct my efforts to talk about this piece, which I really enjoyed by the way. First and foremost the fact that you could seriously turn a labor story political… that takes skill. I mean she steered back and forth from having her baby and talking about futurism I mean it was a compelling piece, in my opinion. All I remember thinking about, throughout the entire time I read this, was how I once saw some clown try to compare labor pains to being kicked in the genitals. 

Lets talk about that. I don't care what that feels like for a guy, cause obviously, I don't have to worry about that. But I’ve heard it said that when a woman gives birth she is feeling the equivalent of breaking 20 bones in one instant. What angers me is the fact that someone seriously took time out of their day, a bias someone obviously, to even make the equivalencies. Now secondly, lets talk about Nelson. She makes this claim that well we basically need to stop making babies because all it does is feed the capitalist pigs’ pockets. She makes a good point in saying that “we” are left scrambling for crumbs like roaches while they stuff their pockets and scream opportunity. I always knew there was a problem with the economy of today. I always addressed and acknowledged the fact that America, although otherwise known as the land of opportunity, does not leave much room for rising stars. I mean, it doesn't make sense. Why is it that some immigrants come here and they prosper, say Antonio’s family, yet others don’t, like Antonio. Why is it that for those to prosper others must fall? Last semester, I took a class and it was quite troubling because this professor is up there talking about communism and how we should all just turn to it… And communism is this big dark cloud that we look back to and cant really decipher. What the heck is it? I could read a textbook from start to finish on what it meant and what it wanted and I still don't get it. All America decided to focus on was the fact that it gave birth to those Nazis. And I have a feeling that there might be something good to come out of it because the best kinds of things aren’t in the books. The biggest histories are the ones scarcely told. Like Comfort woman and Zelda Fitzgerald’s celebrity. It is disgusting the things you would find when you look out of those textbooks written by white conservative men in Texas. Disgusting and silenced.

                                              - Vanessa Hernandez

A Violence Poem

This poem kind of disturbed me. I liked the imagery in the beginning but the ending was creepy and pessimistic. When I write poems, they are generally filled with things important to me, like traveling and particular turning points in my life, whether they are traumatic or positive. But, I can’t seem to relate to this poem at all. It touches on all of the problems one might have in their life-- particularly family issues regarding children and loneliness and the disconnection from a woman and her parents, in particular a relationship between daughter and father, and also the seemingly large disconnect between mother and father.

This poem uses a lot of particular rhetoric that sets me off and adds to the disturbing element: high pitched yowls, stubborn shard, barren nesting doll, sick burning, its own hell, and ending with a a generally upsetting image of a body withstanding a flame, that could be metaphorical, but a mind suffering.

There is a really dark undertone in this poem, and the message might represent an abusive relationship, whether it be sexually or mentally, between father and daughter, because the writer describes a relatively upset woman connecting her present state to her past, relating her father t her doll, who does not smile, or believe that she is his daughter. The final image of the sick burning of the body and mind could very well connect to her relationship with her father, presenting it as an abusive one to not only the body but also the mind.

This poem freaks me out.  

Sophie Kohler

America

As an immigrant, I have a different view of America than the "born and bred" Americans I've met since moving here. Sure, I got my American citizenship, but I also have an outside perspective. My first U.S. passport actually arrived at my mom’s home in Los Angeles on the day of the election. But I’ve never felt like an American. Not when I came here on a visa. Not when I became a green card holder. And I still don’t feel like an American even though I technically am one. An American citizenship didn’t change anything for me.  I still have my Polish citizenship. Poland is still my home and the only country I feel connected to (even though I’m not planning to live there ever again). I go back to visit: my family is there, my friends are there, my identity is still there. The only thing about getting an American passport is that I now feel responsible not only for one country, but for two. And I can’t forget the fact that I “became” an America on the same day Donald Trump was elected president. Now I’m responsible and worried about the political situation in two countries. And it doesn’t help that both of them are turning to shit. Poland got screwed by a far-right government–they are pushing ridiculous laws and trying to completely re-invent the country. It makes me feel ashamed that a country which was once a perfect example of progress and modernity in a post-communism era is now moving backwards. And now I also have to worry about Trump doing to America what the far-right government did to Poland. And even though I’m planning to leave the U.S. after I graduate, I will still feel responsible. And that responsibility, just like my citizenship, will stay with me forever. The responsibility for both of “my” countries. And when I move to a new place, a new responsibility will be added.

                                                                                                 -Malwina Bak

 

Passed Down Through the Generations

              I want to know who said this and why this person needed to give an explanation about his family’s background. Did his grandfather’s actions come back to haunt this person? Usually, when it comes to the Civil War, everyone had a side, but the grandfather didn’t. The line that impacted me the most was the last one where he says, “He didn’t see anything wrong with it, and I guess I didn’t either.” I’m not sure if it was placed strategically at the end or if it was just coincidence. But it made me kind of sad. Those words lingered in my mind as I started typing.

The Civil War was fought over the issue of slavery, so it’s a good thing that he went from fighting for the South to fighting for the North. But the reason for that is troubling. If the grandfather started out with the South, it must mean that he was pro-slavery. Yes, he ended up fighting against them, but I can’t help but think about this person’s morals. It just seems like the grandfather only cares about himself because he didn’t want to be on the losing side. He probably didn’t do it from some noble sentiment instilled in him to free those who were seen as less valuable than other people.

The values of parents are passed down to their children. I guess this explains why the speaker and his father do not see what’s wrong with what the grandfather did. It made me think about how children are affected to some degree by their parents, whether it’s good or bad.

-SG

Loyalty

Loyalty in a very abstract concept, and yet it pervades so much of our lives. Loyalty to friends, family, boyfriends, girlfriends, country, and maybe even God. Some loyalties are considered more important than others, like the loyalty to family. In our culture, it seems as if loyalty is something that is drilled into our bones, the highest of highest of cardinal virtues. you can be who you want, do whatever fucked up things you want, and as long as you did it out of some sort of sense of loyalty, all can be forgiven. As it should. But is that really what I think or what our society has taught me to think? Maybe it's neither. Perhaps the reason we hold loyalty so high is that it transcends culture and society. Loyalty is one of the few things treasured amongst all world cultures, one of the few things that binds together humanity. To be loyal is to be human, and maybe because we have no way to fight that urge we put it on a pedestal, even when it destroys us. Maybe it has to destroy us. Isn't that the truest test of loyalty, to be completely and utterly broken because of your loyalty to another? And isn't it beautiful? Because at the core of it, loyalty isn't futile. It's love enacted, love as an action, love as a tangible effect.

-EB

Muthafucka

The place of slang and casual language in culture is one that is continuously evolving.  I used to be scared that if I uttered the word "fuck" it would make me seem lower or lesser than those around me. My language lacked color because I took all of the personality out of it.  I spoke only in prose, not in poetry.  I spoke formally to everyone so as not to jeopardize my standing with peers, parents, teachers, or friends.  Then one day I went into work and my manager walked up to me and said, "can you believe this motherfucker over here?"  She did not mean anything against this man, but simple pronouns, watered down language, was not enough to describe the scene that was unfolding,  She could paint with her words and slang was the paintbrush of her choice.  Replacing typical pronouns with words such as "muthafucka" allows for a more expressive form of language. One that does not hold back. These pronouns don't hide behind decadence, they demand attention. They make us question why they were hidden from us at such a young age.  I remember the first time I saw the word "fuck." It was scribbled on the wall of a bathroom stall in my elementary school.  I so desperately wanted to know what it meant.  But these words do not have one clear cut meaning.  They are versatile, able to move from one situation to the next while still retaining the same inherent qualities. So why if someone says "muthafucka" are those around them puzzled by this expression? These words are a more colorful way to express ourselves through language, and the bad connotations places on them are a form of societal oppression of language, are they not? A word is just a word, a grouping of syllables, until we apply meaning to it.

-BR

Mothafucka and "Words, Words, Words"

It seems that now I have to write down nearly every thought I have, like each one that slips by flirts with my fingertips, falling into verse, into stanza, into words—oh, wonderful words! Hamlet was so wrong when he dismissed those "words, words, words." I feel that I can fall in love with syllables without even trying. The vernacular, the rhymed, the beaten, the misused orphaned, the sesquipedalian—I think I could love it all.

"Love." Now, that a word on the tip of my tongue. It's origami-ed, folded into a perfect paper heart, leaning and longing to be unfurled. Love. "Love loves to love love," James Joyce once wrote. (In Ulyrsses, I believe.) And I, lover of words, love those words, because I, the cataclysmically romantic I am, love to love love, or perhaps just the idea of it.

I'm not sure if I truly know where or what true love is or will be—love is a stranger whose face I would not be able to recognize in a crowd, let alone two inches before my lips. Love is a friend I have not met yet. I don't know why, but some days, I mourn it.

I repent for its loss, as if I am truly hopeless for the romantics of life. The romantics of life—I admire them, with all of my heart. I pity them, in many ways, but I cannot help but smile at their wide eyes.

Once, a forever (that is not too far away) ago, I too was wide-eyed with open hands. I wanted the world, or maybe to taste it, feel it, see it, love it. I wanted to love it, love it all.

I wish I could be that person again. But today, when tragedy is a commodity, I feel that optimism is just too much of an inconvenience. "So it goes."

xxxxxxx