When You're Sixteen

            This summer I finally felt what cool is. Cruising in my car, flying down the highway, windows down, and music up I was invincible. Whipping around turns, foot on the accelerator, I felt so free.  Honestly, before I ever drove I don’t think I really identified with being a teenager. I have never wanted to party, or vandalize things, or cause the havoc that we are defined for. But, behind the wheel, I finally had this feeling. Of course I knew that it was dangerous to drive fast, but it was too much fun. The consequences didn’t matter, because I am young and unstoppable, and nothing bad can happen to me.

            Of course, this feeling is stoppable. It stops with a screeching of tires, and in a flash it is gone. The day it left was a strange day; the sky was almost tinged with green. It was the kind of weather that features prominently in Steven King novels. The sky would be a dead giveaway for a reader, who would be bored by the obvious giveaway that something bad was about to happen. 

            That day I had shown up to guard, and as I walked in the air was hot, humid, and calm, the kind of quiet right before a massive storm. Ten minuets after I had gotten there the wind started whipping, kicking and swirling up leaves. My manager Ellen called me in, “ Rachel, we don’t need anymore lifeguards today. Is it ok if you go home?”

            “ I guess that’s fine,” I grudgingly replied, annoyed that I had wasted 20 minutes driving over and would have to go all the way home with out getting paid. I got into the car, slamming the door and pulled out. Light rain sprinkled on my windshield, the light drops before a monsoon.

            As I came sailing down the hill, about to get on to the highway, I felt a sudden jerking. Before I knew what was happening, I was headed straight into the curb 45 miles an hour. Without thinking, without remembering everything that they had ever told me at driving school, I spun the wheel as hard as I could. Unfortunately this was the wrong decision. My car lurched again, and I was now pointed directly at the oncoming lane, and in that moment time stood still.

            The seconds felt like hours. I looked across from me, at where I was about to crash into, and saw the huge truck coming up the hill. My mind was in overdrive; I was completely out of control. I have never been in such a powerless position.  All I could think about is what would happen next. Waking up in a strange hospital bed, not knowing where I was. I tried to pull the wheel back but nothing happened, my car could not be controlled. I was flying across the lane, approaching the other side, at the yellow line, across it, and suddenly, just as harshly as the car had moved before, it switched directions again, not a second too soon.

            The car fishtailed back and forth until it finally straightened out 100s of feet from where I started. When at last I regained control I had no idea what to do. I was alone, and I had almost just crashed, but just as easily, I was fine and completely ok. My entire body went numb as I realized how close I had escaped. I was in a panic attack, and I could barely move my foot, but I had to keep going. Outside the storm had finally come. It rained in a torrential downpour, and I could barely make out the cars in front of me.  I wanted so badly to pull over, to stop until I could retain control, but I knew that I couldn’t get stuck in the storm. So I went home.

            In a moment, as I stared into the vehicle I was about to hit, out of control and knowing my destiny, my perspective changed. It stopped being “cool” to speed and ignore the rules. I am young but I am not invincible. I had looked into the eyes of what I thought was impossible, and seen that it was a very real thing. Failure, death and a car crash are all very real things that can happen. Being a teen does not stop me from that, it only filled me with false confidence that I am indestructible. My identity as a teenager, that there are no consequences was a lie. I had stared down destruction, and saw just how true it is, and just how stupid I am.

Revolution: An Ageless Hobby

           

            Everyday in the news it seems like Americans hear negative sentiment piled upon negative story coming out of the Middle East. Many here in the U.S. look down upon these radicals and their extremist revolutions. But yet, weren’t we as a country in the very same position once? Weren’t we also the radicals, fighting for a voice in our government? It is easy to hold up the American Revolution as a flawless battle for peace and humanity, a perfect moment in human history when we banded together to throw off the regime of the blind elite. It is easy because it was long ago and we have time behind us proving that we made the right choices. Next to this, we see the violent events of the Arab Spring, in which citizens of countries like Egypt, Libya, and Tunisia, attempted to overthrow false democracies and dictatorial regimes. But in reality, we are more alike than we are separate.  Both revolutions were brought about by new forms of mass media, and fought for by people who were tired of being ignored by the few who claimed to govern them. And, though it is easy to forget, Americans have a lot in common with the pictures we see daily in the newspaper; the struggle to reestablish peace and stability was very much an element of both revolts. Just because those photos of rioting in the streets do not resemble our images of men in wigs drafting documents, does not mean that they are any less, at their core, both movements for freedom.
              These two revolutions, thousands of miles and hundreds of years apart were both inspired by the same source. The nations were each ruled by tyrants, and were not heard by their governments. In America, the colonies felt that they had no voice in the “representative” monarchy. Parliament claimed that they could make decisions for Americans, without having a single colonist physically present. Additionally, though it is now the accepted mode of government, at the time, the idea of a democracy and rule by the people was quite radical. Like in the colonies, many Arab countries are ruled by tyrants pretending to be presidents, while really staging elections and results. This was most profound in Egypt, where president Hosni Mubarak governed for over 30 years and was finally ousted by the people after committing human rights abuses and negligence. Today these rebels are often portrayed in international press as extremists, but in their core their ambitions are simply for democracy.

            The unifying element of all revolutions is often media. An uprising is nothing if it does not have the support of the people behind it. Both the American and Middle Eastern Revolutions took advantage of new technologies to connect dissidents. In the 1700’s newspaper publishers were the world’s Web. Across the colonies they were able to distribute pamphlets and newspapers, advertising their radical thoughts. What they were not able to preach they could write. These contraband writings, often censored and blacklisted by the government, were at the heart of the revolution. Pamphlets like Common Sense were able to mobilize support through written word alone by making rational arguments and generating outrage. Next to this, the media of the Arab world is decidedly quite modern, but nonetheless central. These people utilized new platforms, like Facebook and Twitter to organize demonstrations. The reason why these Revolutions happened when they did was because they were suddenly able to connect the commoners, and give a voice to the silent.

            Sadly, looking at the region currently, it is hard to see where the liberty is. At this point the Middle East, even after successfully overthrowing many dictators like Muammar Gaddaffi in Libya, is quite honestly in shambles. The people are fighting to establish a true and lasting democracy, for real presidents, and not real dictators. This turmoil and disruption is what appears to be so different from our own national revolution. But yet, here too are we alike. The American people, even after declaring independence and proclaiming freedom, had to deal with instability and violence, just as any other Middle Eastern country has had to. Violence and riots were as much apart of early American life as was democratic ideals.  Conflicts such as Shay’s Rebellion, and the Whiskey Rebellion, in which Americans took up arms against their own government happened not 5 years after the end of the war. This unrest after the immediate goal is reached, when suddenly the people are charged with building a nation, is emblematic of both movements.

            Hopefully, these similarities are not just superficial. What is important is that, maybe, in the close connection between these two revolutions, we can see into the future. A journalist in 1787 may have found no hope in America’s prospects; they may have torn it down and said that it could never survive as a viable nation and that democracy was dead. But yet, we have thrived as a country for 250 years. Today, the Middle East must seem as bleak as the U.S. appeared to be all those years ago. It is hard to look past the bloody demonstrations and shocking images and see a region at peace. But it has been done before.  Giving a voice to the people is not easy, but it is possible.

           

           

This is Your Memory on the Internet

            Everyday it seems that technology is shifting the world. Some say for the better, some say for the worse, but it is impossible to ignore the fact that as a society we have changed. Computers, cell phones, and the Internet are all a part of the daily routine. But yet, when I think about the most memorable experiences of my life, not one has happened over one of these platforms. True memories do not happen over the screen because it only seeks to connect on one level. A real experience is made when all of our senses are working together: touch, taste, smell, sounds and sight. It happens when we are surrounded by nature, by people, and most importantly, by life.

            From my whole summer, the most unforgettable experience happened while I was snorkeling in a coral reef.  In my memory, I float in the calm ocean, only feeling my breathing, in and out of the snorkel mask. Honestly, it was slightly uncomfortable, I could feel the hot Caribbean sun beating on my back, and breathing only through the tube was awkward; I had to consciously think to perform a function that is involuntary. Through my mask I could taste the bitter salt in the water, but in spite of this, around me the world danced at my fingertips. Fish and coral blossomed from all around me.  Whole schools of them engulfed me, for times all I could see was their shimmering scales as they moved. I felt what it was like to be in a place where I didn’t belong; I feared what I didn’t know, but I loved what I saw. The coral looked extraterrestrial, their shape eerie, the fans and leaves almost seeming to reach out and touch me. This moment was only an hour of my life, but I will always remember how it felt to be there, encompassed by life.

            Ironically enough, if I were to see this as a page on the Internet I would click right past it.  Distorted on to a flat screen, the world I was in is not really interesting. A photo of it completely betrays what it is like to be within the scene.  In comparison to the hour snorkeling, I spend an enormous amount of time behind a screen. Even if I am being conservative, if I spend an two hours on the internet each day, that means I have spent 730 hours of my year online. But yet, not one of these hours has produced anything that I would consider life changing, or even particularly positive. If a majority of my time is spent behind a computer, then why hasn’t it contributed anything to my life? Online, there are so many articles and things to look at, that no one thing can truly capture my attention. From behind a cold glass screen, I lie on my bed, my laptop on its side, humming a constant mechanical rhythm, and can observe the world. Observing it though, I am completely removed from it.

            According to Wired magazine, the World Wide Web holds over a trillion webpages. Each individual website offers compelling stories, interesting facts and allows you to see people from across the world. But to me, this is superficial.  Seeing through a computer puts a screen between human connections. The Internet operates without all the senses; it only functions through conveying sights and sounds. The feeling of actually being immersed in a moment is absent. This loss is what makes all those hours unremarkable and forgettable.

            In fact, researchers in China at the Jiao Tong University found that teenagers who regularly used the Internet saw an atrophy of the grey matter in their brains. They even went so far as to link this to the increasingly prevalent Internet Addiction Disorder. The pull of the web is so strong that withdrawal from it is often compared to heroin addiction.

            If I look back on my memories, I can find gaps. These cavities are the hours I have spent online, removed from what is really happening. But yet, the Internet is so addictive because it means nothing; there are no feelings or emotions behind it. “Real Life” is real because it is all encompassing. It is easy to want to escape, but in the end it is so much more gratifying to be able to make memories of these true experiences. These moments occur because all of my senses are working together. We often think of sight as the only way to observe life, but it is occurring all around us. The web is only coming from one dimension, which makes it, to me, ultimately un-gratifying. No matter how many new products and technologies come out, the most important and memorable experiences of my years will always occur when I am immersed in life, not removed from it.

Just Your Typical Christmas Day Funeral

           “Ay, Dios Mio!” The woman at the front cried out. It was moments like this that made me really wish I spoke Spanish.

            It was Christmas Day, and my family was in Costa Rica. We had come there with our friends to escape the cold and experience all that Latin America had to offer. For a few days we had been staying in a condo, in the city of San Jose. Despite the exotic location, in all reality, inside the neighborhood it looked like any other boring, dusty suburban dystopia where every house looked the same, and every thought might just be the same. The whole street was within a compound, with high walls and armed men keeping guard. But outside the neighborhood was a different story. Outside was where the locals lived. There the streets were dusty and the homes rusted; brightly colored paint weathered on houses that lined the streets. The people walked up and down the side of the road, talking and laughing with one another.

            That morning was unlike any other I had experienced. The sun shone bright, and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. In maintaining some sense that this was Christmas, and not just another tropical day, we decided to go to mass in one of the communities. We all piled into the rental car and drove to a beautiful white church. Lush flowers in every color surrounded the building, and invigorated the area.

            As we walked through the large, heavy wooden doors, my eyes were assailed by the color. Every person in the church was wearing bright patterns and dresses: fuchsia, turquoise, and yellow. We all sat down in a worn wooden pew. Feeling apart from everyone else at the mass, and certainly a lot paler, we were noticeably different from the rest of the gathering. As we waited for the service to begin a dog casually meandered through the doors.

            “Hey! Look at that dog!” I stage-whispered to my sister. I was astounded by how different this was from home. Apparently, it was normal here for dogs to roam around in and out of churches and buildings. And I seemed to be the only one noticed.

            Soon it looked like the service was about to begin. But instead of a priest, a woman in her fifties climbed to the altar. She took to the podium and began speaking in rapid Spanish, firing off words that I, with my one-year of the language, couldn’t comprehend. But quickly we all noticed that something seemed wrong. The woman was not just speaking, she was weeping… passionately. As we looked around we saw the faces of our fellow churchgoers also crying. The only word out of this woman’s mouth I could catch was muerto -- and that I did understand. Looking from my dad to my sister, I saw that their faces echoed mine in the deep confusion of an American abroad.  

            Finally the grand opening of the double doors at the back of the church interrupted our bewilderment. As they swept open, I saw two lines of men coming in. Two lines of men carrying something. Something heavy. Something wooden. Something that was definitely a coffin. To my deepening horror I realized that we were not at a Christmas Day mass, we were at a funeral.

            Panicked, I turned to look at my family, but there was no leaving. We were trapped, seated in the middle of the church, in a foreign country, at the funeral of a stranger.

            But as I sat there and listened, the words began to make sense. Unfortunately, I did not suddenly learn how to speak Spanish; instead, I became able to understand the sentiment behind the words. The meaning of the people and the love they had for the man were clear. In any language, the emotion in the church was evident. They had come together, families, neighbors, and kin to honor the life of a man they had lost. As an outsider looking in, at a ritual I never thought I would experience in another country, I could see what it meant for these people to be members of a community. How they supported each other and loved one another. Though just earlier that day I had looked on at the locals from behind the high walls of the compound and the windows of the car, and was shocked at the poverty that many of these people lived in, I now saw something else. I witnessed the love that they had for each other, a love that I don’t think is within the sterilized suburban neighborhoods of America. The walls are built so high that they often keep out people, and we never get to feel that sense of community that the people in the church that day had. The kind of community that comes together to love, to cry, and to pack a church on Christmas morning.