Tuesday, December 27, 2011
What the future will hold
Tuesday, October 04, 2011
Prepping for National Novel Writing Month
I'm using The Daily Post to prepare for National Novel Writing Month which begins November.
Topic #268:
Recently I updated my status with my thoughts about the dealth penalty on Facebook. Boy, did it take a life of its own (pun intended). I do understand that like religion and politics, the right to kill and carry arms seem to be topics that people feel strongly about one way or the other. I'm in the camp that killing people, even those who may deserve it is wrong. It is legal revenge that feeds into the part of people. The cry coming from anger turning into agression.
My belief in the evils of capital punishment are not born from virtue or the bible, but the idea that it doesn't accomplish anything. It doesn't serve a purpose other than to exact revenge. It isn't a Right. It is a law, and laws are made by people. Historically speaking, specifically white men who are human, flawed and with limited perspectives.
There is something about bringing life to this world that changes a person. Maybe not every person, but it certainly added a dimension to me. A level of compassion and caring for humanity that I never thought about before having had Wy. A real desire to teach him values in life that will grow his character in ways that will not only serve him, but be a reflection upon me. A legacy that will continue long afterwards.
Do I agree with capital punishment? Not for a second. And not because we have a flawed legal system. Not because I'm against killing (although I am). I don't agree with it because condemming someone to death, to find peace in killing is unattainable. The only outcome is that we lose ourselves and our humanity with each verdict that takes a life.
Topic #268:
Recently I updated my status with my thoughts about the dealth penalty on Facebook. Boy, did it take a life of its own (pun intended). I do understand that like religion and politics, the right to kill and carry arms seem to be topics that people feel strongly about one way or the other. I'm in the camp that killing people, even those who may deserve it is wrong. It is legal revenge that feeds into the part of people. The cry coming from anger turning into agression.
My belief in the evils of capital punishment are not born from virtue or the bible, but the idea that it doesn't accomplish anything. It doesn't serve a purpose other than to exact revenge. It isn't a Right. It is a law, and laws are made by people. Historically speaking, specifically white men who are human, flawed and with limited perspectives.
There is something about bringing life to this world that changes a person. Maybe not every person, but it certainly added a dimension to me. A level of compassion and caring for humanity that I never thought about before having had Wy. A real desire to teach him values in life that will grow his character in ways that will not only serve him, but be a reflection upon me. A legacy that will continue long afterwards.
Do I agree with capital punishment? Not for a second. And not because we have a flawed legal system. Not because I'm against killing (although I am). I don't agree with it because condemming someone to death, to find peace in killing is unattainable. The only outcome is that we lose ourselves and our humanity with each verdict that takes a life.
Sunday, May 08, 2011
Ode to Mom
Mom and I don’t have one of those traditionally complicated mother-daughter relationships, full of dysfunction, discontent or animosity. Naturally as I writer I wish there existed a little more drama, but I suppose I get a double-dose from my parents’ relationship and the prat-falls that ensured from being their child. Oh wait; do dysfunctional parental relationships make writers or serial killers? I digress.
It was a rather immediate metamorphosis (if you consider a nine-month waiting period, immediate) into a different person with access to places most sane people avoid; and knowledge of bodily functions, development charts that only the insane talk about in wild rants standing on a milk crate in the intersection at Downtown Crossing. A member of an all-inclusive club called “Motherhood”. Considering how many of us exist, I should expect that we are a powerful political/economical/social block with which all others should bow and listen to; and clean up after oneself while you are at it. Instead, we are the ones standing on the street corners heading warnings at passer-bys, who are just to busy to get where they need to go to listen. I’ve gathered this experience and wisdom from a mere three years of paying dues, just wait until I have another five or ten under my non-existent belt (after discovering holes in shirts around my belt-buckle, I suspect the cause to stem from picking up exhausted kid who uses the buckle as some sort of perch). Ever try to talk to a three-year-old? My advice, get a recorder and put it on repeat while they are sleeping. I witnessed a friend trying to ask her son what he did today. His response was to collapse, falling to the brown tufted-carpet pleading, “Mom, why are you talking to me?” Enough said.
I get it now. I’ve made my decisions and my fair share of mistakes. I’ve followed some of the rules and chose to actively ignore others, disregarding my much-too-wise-mother’s opinions. As I said before, we never had mother-daughter angst that my other friends survived. Understanding my place in the family, my own personality and desire to please (both my parents, not just my mom) offers some insight; additionally, not living with her from 15 until 19 adds another element and potential explanation as to why our relationship never stained. Since this history, alternate paths can’t be tested and theories will remain unproven, either way. The cliché of us turning into our mothers is very true. As least, I see it occurring within my girl friends. It is impossible for me to say the same for me because I don’t believe myself to have ever been so different. The need to rebel never existed. Perhaps Mom is a master chess player, knowing when to sacrifice a pawn to take a rook. She rarely said no, rather why not. She instilled Asian-mom guilt, “how can you do that. Do you not respect me? How could you shame me?” looking back at my seven-year-old self, I can easily say that I was wrong to take that last drumstick of chicken knowing that my younger cousin would only eat drumsticks, causing a waterfall of tears at my Aunt and Uncles’ dinner table while on holiday.
Consequence. Cause and effect. I understood the theory in practice well before I studied it formally later in school. She didn’t need to stand over me because I believed it all came back to her. In some way, shape or form, it would reflect upon her because I do. Although, this notion viewed by some as an extension of ones ego, and for some I truly believe it is. For me, it serves me well as my conscience. A favorite movie of my younger brother was Pinocchio. “Let your conscience be your guide,” says Jiminy Cricket to help keep Pinocchio on the straight and narrow through his journey to becoming a real boy. Like Pinocchio partying in Treasure Island, playing pool and smoking cigars, I’ve celebrated a time or two (or two hundred); but the point is to understand limits and know when to leave the party before turning into an ass. My mom is my Jiminy Cricket. As I see it, if I do turn into her or if I am already, it would be all right with me. Of course I’m biased but I think she did a pretty good job; but just again, may she played tapes while I was sleeping.
It was a rather immediate metamorphosis (if you consider a nine-month waiting period, immediate) into a different person with access to places most sane people avoid; and knowledge of bodily functions, development charts that only the insane talk about in wild rants standing on a milk crate in the intersection at Downtown Crossing. A member of an all-inclusive club called “Motherhood”. Considering how many of us exist, I should expect that we are a powerful political/economical/social block with which all others should bow and listen to; and clean up after oneself while you are at it. Instead, we are the ones standing on the street corners heading warnings at passer-bys, who are just to busy to get where they need to go to listen. I’ve gathered this experience and wisdom from a mere three years of paying dues, just wait until I have another five or ten under my non-existent belt (after discovering holes in shirts around my belt-buckle, I suspect the cause to stem from picking up exhausted kid who uses the buckle as some sort of perch). Ever try to talk to a three-year-old? My advice, get a recorder and put it on repeat while they are sleeping. I witnessed a friend trying to ask her son what he did today. His response was to collapse, falling to the brown tufted-carpet pleading, “Mom, why are you talking to me?” Enough said.
I get it now. I’ve made my decisions and my fair share of mistakes. I’ve followed some of the rules and chose to actively ignore others, disregarding my much-too-wise-mother’s opinions. As I said before, we never had mother-daughter angst that my other friends survived. Understanding my place in the family, my own personality and desire to please (both my parents, not just my mom) offers some insight; additionally, not living with her from 15 until 19 adds another element and potential explanation as to why our relationship never stained. Since this history, alternate paths can’t be tested and theories will remain unproven, either way. The cliché of us turning into our mothers is very true. As least, I see it occurring within my girl friends. It is impossible for me to say the same for me because I don’t believe myself to have ever been so different. The need to rebel never existed. Perhaps Mom is a master chess player, knowing when to sacrifice a pawn to take a rook. She rarely said no, rather why not. She instilled Asian-mom guilt, “how can you do that. Do you not respect me? How could you shame me?” looking back at my seven-year-old self, I can easily say that I was wrong to take that last drumstick of chicken knowing that my younger cousin would only eat drumsticks, causing a waterfall of tears at my Aunt and Uncles’ dinner table while on holiday.
Consequence. Cause and effect. I understood the theory in practice well before I studied it formally later in school. She didn’t need to stand over me because I believed it all came back to her. In some way, shape or form, it would reflect upon her because I do. Although, this notion viewed by some as an extension of ones ego, and for some I truly believe it is. For me, it serves me well as my conscience. A favorite movie of my younger brother was Pinocchio. “Let your conscience be your guide,” says Jiminy Cricket to help keep Pinocchio on the straight and narrow through his journey to becoming a real boy. Like Pinocchio partying in Treasure Island, playing pool and smoking cigars, I’ve celebrated a time or two (or two hundred); but the point is to understand limits and know when to leave the party before turning into an ass. My mom is my Jiminy Cricket. As I see it, if I do turn into her or if I am already, it would be all right with me. Of course I’m biased but I think she did a pretty good job; but just again, may she played tapes while I was sleeping.
Friday, April 29, 2011
Easter and baseball; a perfect combination
Witness the Phillies sweep our lowly home team, the Padres. Looks to be a long season ahead.
Sundays are family days at the ballpark. We were able to head out onto the field, run around and play catch. A dream for the Dude, who insists on bringing a mitt, ball and bat with him every where. I suppose he wants to be ready. One never knows when the opportunity to play will arise!
Happy Spring!
Christina
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