According to others, it made the garden ugly and ruined an otherwise picturesque scene. Some people even suggested that the gardener move to another location of more fruitful soil so that she could create the perfect garden.

The elderly gardener never said a word in reply. She simply knelt down beside the stubborn patch of dirt in the centre of the garden she loved so much, and patiently worked at the earth. All summer she followed a steady routine: add fertilizer, aerate the soil, plant, water, protect, and wait.

Finally, near the end of the summer, some tiny sprouts broke their way through the soil to the surface. After a few weeks, a sizeable array of shoots was making their way through the soil, and although they were not as strong as the others, they blended beautifully with the rest of the garden, adding to the richness of variety.

Visitors marvelled at the achievement, questioning its plausibility. After all, that patch of soil had clearly been deficient; everyone had seen that.

This elderly gardener, dear readers, was not a miracle worker. Her secret was that she cared enough to try?and she steadfastly believed in succeeding.

Teachers are much like this gardener, patiently working with a child’s capacity to learn much like a gardener works with the soil. Knowing that every child has the capacity to learn?although some accomplish the task more readily than others?teachers lovingly work with the mind and plant the seeds of knowledge.

Under the right care, though not necessarily at the same time, seeds take root and grow. While plants are rarely the same in strength or size, they are all something beautiful to experience, especially when they are commingled in a garden.

Gardens, like classrooms, can be found everywhere. They can be planned and grown in a particular location (like a school) or can grow untamed at the playground. Moreover, gardens do not follow a specific formula. No one ever knows what they will ultimately look like; not exactly, anyhow.

There is no magic number, no special pattern, which will make one garden more beautiful than another. Gardeners do not ultimately control the growth of their plants and flowers. They do not have the capacity to ?make a tree.? However, their gentle tending greatly influences the arrangement and robustness of the outcome.

It’s an interesting paradox in our world that while communities die in a literal sense in war-torn countries as well as third-, fourth-, and fifth-world countries, those of us in first-world countries are suffering a death that is much more subtle and in some ways catastrophic–we die a metaphorical death. While the peoples of underprivileged countries struggle to meet their daily basic needs, they form a strong sense of community out of necessity for survival. We, who have an abundance of resources, have developed an attitude of independence that destroys communities. We so often refuse to be a part of where we live that millions suffer needlessly.

Examples? I’ll give them to you.

On a softer level, many of us don’t interact with our neighbours. They are not people we know particularly well, or care to know particularly well. Why should we? The media bombards us with horrific stories about the neighbour who kidnapped or raped a child, and that child could have been yours. I have so many neighbours who are terrified to interact with those around them–they arrive from work and go straight home without the slightest amount of eye contact. The damage? Paranoia, a lack of warmth and support, all affect our children. They learn to be distrustful and to not care for others. And if they are hurt, there are few adults they can trust. Is it because these adults are not trustworthy? I think not. Our children are just scared.

Recently in my neighbourhood a child was struck by a speeding car on her way home. I ran after the car when it didn’t stop; immediately after stopping, the driver began making excuses and claimed (quite falsely) that she had not in fact been speeding. She cared so much more about a speeding ticket than the state of the child. Thankfully, this child did not sustain any serious injuries other than a cut to the head, although her family had to delay a vacation since they could not fly. What shocked me the most was that the family was amazed by my help; for one, I did not do much, and for another, how could I not have done what I did? This family has lived all around the world, and they said that in North America people have the highest tendency to keep to themselves, even when someone is in trouble.

Consequences can be dire in such an individualistic society–no one watches your back. You can’t depend on anyone but yourself. In such an environment, the entire fabric of a strong society, starting with families, deteriorates.
Most families with children cannot sustain their lifestyles without two (or more!) incomes. As a result, parents spend less time with their children, and teachers are essentially the most consistent form of adult support children receive. However, teachers are overworked, underpaid, and often become another distant role model. The inter-adult support has become frail, and without communities, children have little resort other than to raise themselves. Sadly, televisions, computers, and video games offer a cheap substitute for real-life experiences.

Fortunately, many cities offer a variety of programs sustained by volunteers to fill in some of the gaps. Many public libraries offer a wide range of services through which we can nourish compassion and human help. As a long-time volunteer, I find an enormous amount of satisfaction in contributing to my community not because of what is returned to me directly (sincere gratitude for my services) but because I know that others will be doing all they can to make our city a better place, in their own way.

Unfortunately, an inherent component to individualism is that if you do something for someone, the payment must be direct and proportionate for the effort to be considered worthwhile. Therefore, many people don’t volunteer. One of the tragedies in my community is that volunteers are scarce and many of the wonderful programs are in danger of being shut down.

And so our community unravels, and we feel lonelier, emptier, and less satisfied with our lives. Big cities lead to crime not because of an increase of people, but because of a decrease of heart–the leading cause being fear.

I am not a social scientist. I am a mother, a wife, a friend, and a member of my community who watches, with sad eyes, what is going on in the world today. Our world.

Then the teenage years hit, the wonderfully egocentric years, and I stopped thinking about the past. But the seed had been planted, and though dormant, became quite fertile in this past year.

I’m not an historian. I don’t enjoy studying facts for the sake of knowing facts. I benefit most from applying what I learn to real situations, imagining what it would have been like, or what would it be like if it happened today (who says it can’t?). So, during my visit to Europe, I spent a vast amount of time traveling war-affected regions of Poland, visiting the horrifyingly extensive underground factories, and visiting Auschwitz. And I also had a few interesting chats with my grandma.

Essentially anyone who has traveled to the countries formerly known as “Allies” knows what it’s like to see impressive feats of architecture in ruin. Many Middle Age castles, churches, and even structures as old as the Acropolis were standing in relatively good condition until the Nazis came through and destroyed them from spite. Even the communists had a hand in the senseless destruction, not believing in the beauty of art or religion. It’s enough to bring you to tears, when you see these amazing buildings that had been constructed at a time when the technology we have today was not in existence, at a time when architectural grandeur was a sign of wealth, and therefore created with much pride, all destroyed out of hate. Malbork, the largest castle in Europe built over a span of 150 years by the Teutonic knights, had never been defeated by any army and was still standing in good condition until the middle of the 20th century. Then, the Nazis came in and blew it up.

In countries like Poland that were ravaged for their defiance and underground missions countering Nazi domination, the utter senselessness of WWII exists in daily life today. One castle we visited had a display of photographs of Jews living in Poland in 1939, right before the war broke out. A film had been cleverly hidden in a building in Germany until it was found in 1992. The film proved to be a valuable find in terms of historical evidence. There were trains full of Nazis, with graffiti in German displaying such sayings as, “Poland must go down.” And indeed Poland had paid an awful price. The Warszawa depicted in the castle’s display of photographs is a significantly different city than it is today.

Visiting the underground factories in the northern region of Poland was a totally new experience for me. While I somewhat recall skimming through some information on these factories during my WWII unit in grade 12 social studies, the significance never hit me until I was there myself. As my cousin explained, no one really has all the facts about these factories. We know that they were constructed sometime before WWII, likely beginning at the time that Hitler’s financial policy in Germany focused on war preparations. We know that some of Germany’s best architects were involved in the project, and that many Poles were taken there to serve as slave labour, and later died there from meager food rations and poor living conditions, conditions similar to work camps. Yet, even knowing these supposed facts about these factories does not prepare you in the least for what you see when you get there. There are enormous caverns dug into mountains where tanks and aircraft were at least partially built. Bunkers, beds, helmets, arms, and other authentic Nazi objects lie right there before you. Complex aeration systems were dug into the rock to prevent gas poisoning. Even so, the creepiest part of walking through those dank tunnels was the fact that not everything is known about them. There have been several tunnels found in three or four other mountains, all at the exact same height from sea level. This implies that all the tunnels were interconnected, forming a network of a span larger than New York City. It is also known that there is a level below, and a level above, the level where we stood. Are there are any more levels? We haven’t the slightest clue. And there has also been suspicion that tunnels linked to Kazimierz, the castle Hitler made his headquarters during WWII, that is located a couple of 100 kilometres away. What’s crazy about this situation is that there is a world of unexplored, un-recovered information in these tunnels, but there has never been enough money or interest generated to fully explore these tunnels and factories. After WWII when the Nazis were fleeing, they set booby traps and bombed entrances so no one could find out what had occurred in there. The Communists further hid the secrets. There’s a world of knowledge lying there in northern Poland, which makes me wonder, what else don’t we know?

The drive up to the particular tunnel-factory we visited is riddled with secrets, as hidden passageways that have been obstructed by rock pop up in obscure areas. The planning that went into these factories is unbelievable.

Finally, we went to Auschwitz, my first mature look at the death camp. One thing I didn’t realize was that Auschwitz was, and still is, a city. The death camp is more of an aside, almost like a museum. The city in itself is depressing, with few people walking the streets, and essentially no one smiling. Not even the children smile.

Entering Auschwitz, the death camp, is like entering a land of ghosts. Sure, there are plenty of tourists. But with the oppressive silence that is observed, it is clearly a place of death. It was eerie being there, but I wouldn’t have turned back for the world. I needed to see, to know. Moreover, I was surprised to hear that many Auschwitz survivors visit each year. If these survivors who have seen the greatest human horrors wanted to keep the memory alive, then so did I.

One of the first things you see as you exit the information building is an open space around which all the bunkers are set up. There is the dirt area where newcomers were set up in rows to listen to their welcoming speech, which was delivered near a noose that was used weekly to publicly hang delinquents or persons suspected of plotting escape. This is all near the infamous arch in which the words “Work will make you free” are ominously written in cold iron. All around the premises are barbed-wire fences and some electric fences, which make you question just how long you could survive life here.

Each bunker was set up for a different purpose. There were several bunkers dedicated to various nationalities and provided a historical look at WWII, as well as Auschwitz, from different nations’ perspectives. There was much more information in there than I could swallow, but I tried to drink it all in. Some of the reports disgusted me. Apparently, many Allied nations, especially North America, refused to believe information contained in the reports about Auschwitz, because their populations could not comprehend cruelty so atrocious. So the information was written off as impossible and little help was offered. This is reminiscent of the people today who believe Auschwitz never existed. But it did, in cold, calculating, human horror.

A few bunkers I saw were dedicated to displaying the living quarters of the residents of Auschwitz. Nazis lived in relative comfort in spacious quarters; prisoners lived in abject, cramped quarters full of bunks or mats in which two people were to sleep in the same bed, barely large enough for one adult. The washing areas for the prisoners were disgusting and small by any standards. You can see immediately that privacy is a luxury that isn’t afforded in Auschwitz. Other areas show what happened to personal belongings, including hair, as it was collected and put to use by the Nazis (hair, by the way, was used to weave clothing for the prisoners, and this is proven by modern DNA analyses). Worldly possessions were collected in a bunker called “Canada.” These possessions would either be sold or taken for personal use by the Nazis. What made me cry the hardest were the tiny children’s outfits. It could have been my precious Ela that was taken away.

The execution yard is a small area between brick buildings in which people were shot until they laid in a massive, bloody heap. The bullet holes are evident in the buildings. The basements of the buildings were dedicated to torture areas, in which people were experimented on and tested to their limits. One particularly awful form of torture was a cramped space, about two feet by two feet, in which four adults would have to stand for hours, days, without being able to sit, eat, or even barely breathe. There was another prison cell used for the terror of isolation, in which one particular general used something (who knows what) to carve pictures of Jesus and Mary into the walls. Those pictures are still there today.

One of the most touching aspects of my experience in Auschwitz was to see that every photo taken of every prisoner that was brought into Auschwitz (since Nazis were so organized) are displayed on the walls, along with a brief description of name, age and profession. Prisoners were further categorized by religion and sexual preference. Doctors, priests, and educators were among the prisoners least liked by the Nazis, as they were the likeliest to cause problems. These were the prisoners subject to the cruelest punishment. Some women were selected for sexual experimentation, which included experimentation on newborn children. All these faces stare at you in the hall, many with fear in their eyes, and the effect is haunting. Children who cry in the photos, despite being forbidden to, are among the most crushing photos to view.

The gas chambers are another example of the coldly methodic ways of the Nazis. The rooms are small and were crowded with groups of hundreds of naked adults as they were poisoned to death. The ones on cleanup duty were other prisoners after the fact. The enormous ovens used to burn the bodies are giant metal mouths in which bodies were inserted on a piston driven plank and burned, one after the other.

For me, one of the saddest parts of being in Auschwitz was the modern day graffiti on the walls, as careless teenagers forced to walk through on school fieldtrips make their mark. My disappointment stems not only from realizing the disrespect shown to the poor souls, but also from realizing that some people are just apathetic toward this human tragedy.

A quote set up on one of the walls, and one I have been able to find on the Internet, runs along the lines of “the biggest tragedy of all would be to forget, because forgetting means that it could happen again.” I do believe this sentiment — with all of my being. Based on this sentiment, I believe Auschwitz is the site, of all the historical sites that people ought to visit, especially teachers and aspiring teachers. Auschwitz is a site of cruel degradation, of cold methodical activities, of despicable horrors that humans can inflict on humans.

In a rather serious mood, I went to talk to my grandma after visiting Auschwitz. I expressed my disbelief of much of what I saw there, especially the suffering that innocent children experienced. And my grandma, who had been one of the so called lucky who was deported to Siberia, just said, “I know.” But then she reminded me that other equally horrible things happened. For example, her aunt’s house had been set on fire by the Nazis with the children in the house. The children had no chance of survival. Yet, these things continue happening, and it’s all due to ignorance. My grandma said that thirty years ago she hosted a group of Germans at her house and they all took a fieldtrip to Auschwitz. They came back shaken, in tears, and begged my grandma’s forgiveness for what their people had done to her people. My grandma told them it wasn’t their fault (which of course it wasn’t) but she was surprised that in Germany, there is absolutely no mention of death camps and work camps. That part of history is entirely ignored in the school curriculum. In retrospect, as a matter of trying to change the image of Germany, especially for the young, it’s crucial to set that part of history aside. Yet, how can we force ourselves to forget?

Not being a political aficionado by any means, I’ve often found myself confused about my own stance on war. There was a time that I believed that the U.S. was getting what it deserved for meddling so extensively in other countries’ business. But I began questioning this belief when more and more people I knew began joining the military, fully prepared to risk their lives to protect me and my way of life. I also questioned if war protesters were as willing to die horrible deaths for their beliefs.

I’m not saying that war protesters don’t believe deeply in what they preach, and perhaps there are a few who would die for their beliefs. Generally, I find that war supporters are the bigger risk-takers, and my own fears for my friends overseas made me rethink my opinions. Further, a recent trip to Europe in which I visited various WWII sites, including Auschwitz and the underground Nazi factories, decidedly made me an even more ardent peace lover, with the realization that sometimes peace must be fought for.

Conversely, I can understand anti-war protests, since hatred often generates hatred, merely perpetuating the very thing we’re trying to get past — conflict. The logic is if people were better educated and able to talk out their differences, then the world would be a far better place. The problem I find with this logic, however, is that it’s an ideal and impossible to attain. Even if we were able to get everyone in the same classroom (although the desirability of that is moot in itself) everyone would understand the same message differently, whether it is because they are from a different social class, religious background, ethnic background, or so on. And if we can’t agree on the same thing in a classroom, we can hardly expect everyone to get along outside the classroom.

From my understanding, the basis of anti-war protests is the belief that at their core, people are good, moral, and desire peace. So, of course, war protesters, such as my one friend, can’t agree with people like my other friend, who has skirted death on many occasions as his regiment was blasted by rockets. You can imagine the two extremes of opinion that these two friends present and create enough friction to produce a rather consuming fire. Even today, these two friends refuse to be in the same room together, because they can’t agree to disagree. They care too much about their beliefs.

Such relatively petty conflict makes large-scale war understandable. Inherently, people are different, and the more they hold on to their beliefs, the more they will grate against people of different beliefs. Whether war is the solution to these disagreements is a whole other story.

One thing I know for sure is that on a small scale, people enjoy their freedoms. I’m not only talking about the basic freedoms such as freedom of speech. I’m talking about the daily freedoms, such as the three, four, or five o’clock home time from school or work; Fridays as the start of a weekend; and golf as a break from daily hassles. People enjoy their periods of de-stressing no matter what form it comes in. It follows then that freedoms on larger scales matter too. One of the golden points of Islam is that it’s supposed to be a “freely chosen” religion; one of the golden points of America is the freedom to choose your lifestyle. If only we could learn to stop meddling in other people’s affairs, everyone would be happy.

And the debate continues.

Juliet makes this observation in Romeo and Juliet, wondering aloud what intrinsic value a name truly holds. Shakespeare therefore, through Juliet, brings up an interesting point. Does a name truly mean anything? It is one of the first forms of identification we learn. It is one of the first questions we learn to answer. “Who are you?” “What’s your name?” Does the answer, “I’m Pam,” hold any fundamental information?

Interestingly, scores of individuals in our society are still preoccupied with the meaning of names. For example, “Paul” means “small.” “Mallory” means “bad omen.” “Olivier” (literally “olive tree”) means “peace.” While names like Paul might not be particularly representative (I’m talking about overall size here), naming a child Mallory suddenly seems cruel and Olivier, hopeful. While the Pauls I know are not small, the Mallory I know, sweet, and the Olivier, far from peaceful, traditional names may not have a direct link to their roots. Perhaps the traditional meaning of names is more a sign of hopefulness on the side of the parents that their children will be somehow blessed by their name.

This brings up the point of external influences. While parents consciously choose a name, with or without hope of the child growing into the name’s meaning, a parent does affect how a child will grow into their name. An immigrant parent who lives in Canada and gives a child a foreign name, such as, Ojibwa, may increase the child’s potential as a more cultural and on-the-fringe individual. Children are very much preoccupied with fitting in, and at ages in which children long to be accepted, a name like Ojibwa can easily set the child apart. For this reason, many children choose an alternate name. A friend of mine went by “Jason” for years, while his birth name is “Chi Shing.” Now, even his family calls him Jason, and appropriately, out of all the members of the family, he seems the most “Canadianized.” Such examples are pervasive in our society. In fact, Becoming Emma by Caterina Edwards (1992) is a novella centered on names and identity. A Latvian girl named Aida decides to change her identity to be more Americanized. Throughout the story, she strives to become “Emma.”

Parents who give their children non-traditional names (separate from cultural names), names such as Thorax, often set-up their children for being considered “different.” However, part of this choice of name is a reflection of the parents themselves, the ones who directly influence a maturing child. I have a friend named Athena who has a brother named Palladin. They certainly grew up to be a little different from the mainstream, although their parents were very non-traditional to begin with. Perhaps this is why parents who are partial to the name Patrick end-up raising children named Patrick in a similar way. The name itself is a reflection of the desired qualities cultivated by common characteristics in the parents, characteristics that are most influential to the child’s upbringing. This is likely also the reason that names have diminutives, especially for children (e.g., little Jennifers are often referred to as simply “Jen”).

To reiterate, talking to teachers, I’ve repeatedly heard the claim that Matthews, Kevins, Theresas, and so on tend to have similar characteristics. Being a parent, I remember how difficult it was to choose my daughter’s name; I ended up deciding on Elizabeth because I’ve adored all the Elizabeths in my life and admired their common characteristics. Perhaps because these are characteristics I value, I will attempt, consciously and subconsciously to cultivate them in my little girl. If this is the case, names truly are reflections of personalities, but perhaps for other reasons than would be expected.

Historically, and even presently, people change their names to be viewed in different lights. Throughout history, female authors chose male pen names (e.g., George Eliot is a pen name for Marian Evans) so that their writing would be accepted in a male-dominated society. Today, performers often have stage names, effectively establishing a dualism of character. A perfect example would be my friend “Pat Bastarde” who, on stage, is one of the hardest rockers you’ll ever see in every respect of hard rocker — crazy hair-do, head-banging, stage antics, etc. In person, Patrick is a shy, modest, sweet man, dedicated to his wife and his work in neuropharmocology. The one Patrick is totally unlike the Pat, and so the name change is highly suitable.

A final look at name change and significance are the people who change their names legally, establishing themselves socially and professionally as entirely different individuals. In many cultures, the woman taking on the man’s last name after marriage signifies a transfer of ownership from her father (or brothers) to her new husband. The name change occurs at a period of major change in the female’s life. Such a pattern is still present in those who choose to change their names legally for other reasons. The people I know who have legally changed their names did so upon major changes in their lives, often involving changes in outlook. The name change was literally the signature at the end of a document of changes in perspective, circumstance, and beliefs.

In short, our names are not necessarily the determinants of who we essentially are, but they are representative of who we are. Whether this correlation is due to cosmic predetermination or to parental influence, our names reflect our basic personalities and often even our social status. That is why I can say, today, I am Pam.

References
Edwards, C. (1992). A Whiter Shade of Pale and Becoming Emma: Two Novellas. Newest Press.
Shakespeare, W. (2004). Romeo and Juliet. Folger Shakespeare Library. Washington Square Press.

Traditionally, beauty is considered a solely physical trait to which we respond to subconsciously. We perceive something (e.g., a person, a painting, a tree, a bike, etc.) in the physical world, light reflects off of the object and enters our eyes, subsequently sending messages to our brain, which may cause an increase in serotonin levels. We then experience a physical excitement that is interpreted as “I just saw something attractive.” There’s always a physical reaction to the beautiful. For those who enjoy sunsets, they never perceive a sunset without a sense of awe. The question is: Is this response a reaction to the mere physical beauty or is there something more?

Take static art, for example. In a study of paintings, pictures, photographs, or whatever, the focus isn’t primarily on colour, medium, or even the subject matter. While all these elements work together to form a final effect, the ability of the artist to capture the spirit of the purpose is much more important. Andrea del Sarto was an amazing technical painter, perhaps the best that there ever was, but he lacked spirit, which left him in near obscurity. The most prominent composers are able to capture emotion in their music, a good example being Vivaldi’s Le Quattro Stagioni. The most successful musicians are able to effectively convey those passions.

For anyone not artistically or musically oriented, this could sound like a bunch of hooey. So let me take this to a more basic and universal level.

Despite differences of opinion, a beautiful person can be generally accepted by all as a beautiful person. I’m not talking about Paris Hilton types here (i.e., those who have a sexual aura that is appealing to some people). I’m talking about truly beautiful women such as Catherine Zeta-Jones and beautiful men such as George Clooney. Of course, we all have our preferences. For example, I consider Al Pacino to be the most gorgeous actor alive, and I’m not too keen on Brad Pitt. Most of my friends, on the other hand, think the opposite, yet we can still understand each other’s opinions. In short, preferences aside, there is a certain universality to beauty. My belief is that, much like art, the spirit is what infuses a person with true beauty.

Let’s say that a perfect person existed, whom had all their features sculpted to perfection. Not too thin, not too big, dreamy eyes, nice nose, and good jaw line. All features “perfect.” But, let’s also say that this person never smiled, was openly cruel and flamboyantly vain. Would people still find him or her beautiful? I find it unlikely. Why? For the very same reason that someone who is considered unattractive by many people can still look beautiful to friends, family, and a significant other. What’s on the inside counts, because it affects how we see the outside.

Even a flash glimpse of a person can tell you something about him or her. However, we won’t know everything, and there’s always a possibility that we saw the person on a bad day. Nevertheless, it is still possible to get an idea of his/her attitude towards life, others, and themselves. These are automatic, subconscious reactions that we respond to in the unity of inner and outer beauty. This also accounts for flash judgments in which context, lighting, mood, etc. affect our perception, which is why models and photographers are successful at getting a message (or messages) across with a single picture.

Can we find snobby people beautiful? Of course. But I suspect that it’s because we’ve seen them in other contexts in which they were not snobby. A good attitude, even for a moment, can be a saving grace. Of course, everyone looks different, has their faults and imperfections. But the point is, you don’t have to be “perfect” to be considered beautiful. Far from it. You don’t need a “perfect” waistline, “perfect” nose, or “perfect” hair for people to admire you. Attitude and inner beauty are not insignificant notions. These are what truly emphasize physical beauty and what we subconsciously react to.

Remember, perfect people don’t exist. The notion of perfect beauty is a fabrication of pop culture. You are beautiful the way you are.

Reference
Mendes, S. (Director) (2000). American Beauty [DVD]. Dreamworks Video.

Firstly we will discuss the possibility of good and bad people. Many movies, books, and plays, particularly in the occidental world, capitalize on this non-existent and over-simplified notion, with the occasional allowance for good people to become bad and vice versa. Good people are capable of only good action, and bad are only capable of bad. Minor characters are insignificant in such stories and are thereby rendered neutral. The heroes of these good versus bad stories are often selfless, brave, honest, considerate, and generally paragons of virtue (although they may have a slight character flaw that makes them recognizably human, for example, Obiwan Kenobe is too trusting). On the whole, however, heroes are virtuous and deserve praise. Bad people are the opposite. They are selfish, destructive, dishonest, and deserve punishment. When Anakin Skywalker becomes Darth Vader, he has fully crossed over to the bad side and makes everyone around him miserable, bad people excepted. While previously, his flaw was a desire for power, especially to protect his family; his crossing over makes him entirely destructive under the Emperor’s influence. His evil ways persist until Luke saves him, and subsequently Darth Vader saves Luke and becomes a hero through his selfless action. In such black and white conceptions of good and bad guys, the story provides a false sense of security in being able to write off the bad people and admire whole-heartedly the good ones.

The danger of condoning and propagating this belief of people being inherently good or bad is that we become quick to judge. Mistakes become inflated and judgments become final. While small incidents can at times point to larger problems, they are not always appropriate indicators and should not be used to reverse prior opinions. Examples in history of such damned or saved conceptions are diverse, ranging from the Puritans to basic bigotry.

What is important is the recognition that we are all human and capable of good and bad. There are days when I feel generous, and days when I focus on my own needs. There are days when my patience seems infinite, and days when it’s short lived. There are hours in which I’m ecstatic and then hours in which I’m angry. And then there are days when I am lethargic, apathetic, or somewhere in between. I’m human after all, prone to all the vagaries of spirituality, mindsets and external circumstances.

The difficulty with this perspective of people being of varying natures is that acts are difficult to label as either good or bad. Even selfless acts can turn out badly. A friend of mine recently got herself into trouble at work because she was trying to fix someone else’s problem. Conversely, if you get angry while playing a sport (for example, after someone gives you a cheap-shot) you can channel that anger towards playing harder. These acts are all ambiguous because they depend on context, outcome, and so many other external factors. As someone else so beautifully described in an article I read, if you were born under different circumstances, you would see the world differently, and likely, act differently. So your good might be someone else’s bad. The Bible says that stealing is not good, unless it’s stealing food for your starving family. Sometimes, a little bit of sympathy comes in handy.

The old adage, try to walk in someone else’s shoes before you judge them, comes to mind. That’s not to say that all behaviours are excusable due to ambiguity. The point is merely that we should be more patient, more considerate, and more loving. Frankly, peace isn’t just about tolerance while grinding your teeth. It is about real understanding and real sympathy. After all, to err is human, to understand — divine.

While the solution (if one exists) to the question about trees may not impact our lives, the implications extend to a question that is, arguably, far more disgruntling. The question being, “Do you know who you are?” Likewise, “What makes you you?” The answer may seem obvious, like the one about trees, but it is infinitely more complex.

You can start out by saying, “I am me,” meaning “I am Pam.” This response implies that your identity is associated primarily with your name. Certainly, especially in literature, names become important symbols that associate personalities to individuals. But this brings on the question, “Would you be an entirely different person if you were given another name?” What about people who change their names? Do they become entirely different people? The same problem arises with roles. Once I cease being a student, am I a whole different Pam? Symbolic identity is not quite the same as identity.

Associating your identity with your physical being won’t do the trick either. To put it into perspective, my sister-in-law recently said that her new year’s resolution was to lose weight so that, “there would be less of her around.” While literally this statement is true, it doesn’t mean that some part of her has disappeared, that there’s less of who she really is.

Most people agree that there is a fundamental identity that remains the same as we grow-up, despite changing attitudes, opinions, and gaining in knowledge and experience. There is something “deeper” and “at the core” that distinguishes you from every other person. It is something making you truly unique. Our personalities and qualities are manifestations of who we really are, but it is not what defines us. Unfortunately, such an explanation leaves us more baffled than before, because then what is there that we can describe ourselves by, if not by personality traits, attitudes, or actions? What is there that causes all these reactions to be emitted from within? Who knows? Pam certainly doesn’t.

A dear friend of mine once, in the midst of questioning his existence, claimed that he was sorely affected by people’s opinions of him because these opinions determined who he was. It didn’t matter what he thought of himself, because if no one else believed it, it became null. His disturbing conclusion was that he didn’t really exist as an individual. Instead, he was but a composite of other people’s opinions based on his personality traits, attitudes, and actions. While I disagree with him entirely, that there has to be something else to a person that defines them, I have still been unable to find that “else.” Much like Berkeley’s “ideal” world, this argument is difficult to dispute. And it has certainly left me as baffled as ever as to discovering who I am.

God’s claim, “I am who I am” suddenly takes on a whole new meaning. Do you know who you are?

Though precise language is the goal of most language experts, it is one they seldom achieve. So, how achievable is the goal for other non-linguistically-minded individuals? Communication studies provide some insight into verbal/body messages, how they are interpreted, and what affects interpretation. Anthropology and history examine the social and political effects of communication. But what can we say of language, specifically words, used on a daily basis by individual persons?

We can generally see the effects of language by people’s reactions. When you tell someone: “you look nice today,” they often respond with a smile indicating pleasure. However, if the recipient of the compliment were to deconstruct the message to the basis of words, the word “look” could mean strictly physical appearance, general demeanor, or both, as interpreted by the outside world. The word “nice” could mean any range of compliments, from “pretty” to “cute” to “respectable.” The word “today” could mean that today, in particular, the person “looks nice,” or that only today the person “looks nice,” or that today, like every other day, the person “looks nice.” The point is, certain conventions exist in language that people generally accept and react to in a very binary way (i.e., accept it or don’t accept it). What I wonder is what, exactly, people mean by the words they choose, how often people pay attention to their word choice, and what exactly do words mean, separate from the expected reaction.

This internal debate arose when I was struck by the word “courage.” I have often heard people label themselves or others as “courageous” or at times “non-courageous.” This led me to wonder what the word meant apart from the implication that “courage” is a good quality to have. A gander into my handy Oxford Dictionary of Current English, provided the following illumination (ahem): “courage: n. 1. the ability to do something that frightens one. 2. strength in the face of pain or grief.” (Soanes, 2001).

My problem with this definition of courage is that humans will never do something that frightens them, unless doing otherwise frightens them more. That is my understanding of fears. I am, I admit, terrified of heights. I will not climb tall ladders, look over the side of tall buildings, or do anything that will cause me to see the ground 10 meters or more underneath me. I will never do this because of cowardice or whatever. However, consider the hypothetical situation of my daughter being in grave danger and the only way I could help her is by overcoming my fear of heights and I did so. I would not call this courage. My courage would be the result of weighing consequences. I would be more frightened by inaction than by action. Another hypothetical situation is if I decided to overcome my fear by climbing a tall ladder to prove to myself and to others that I can do it. In this case, a fear of ridicule or a fear of loss of honour would be stronger than my fear of heights. As it stands to this day, I have not been courageous with heights, but I have shown strength in the face of pain or grief. Does this make me courageous? Or are the acts courageous in of themselves? Is there really a distinction? Or perhaps it is not courage at all that I possess, but some other qualities that may appear to others as courageous? Stubbornness can certainly be among those misconstrued qualities.

I conclude that words are primarily emotional. Separate from their denotative meaning is their connotative meaning, which produces reactions. Words can wound, they can please, they can soothe, and they can destroy. Words elicit learned reactions, and people use words based more on these reactions since, in the end, denotative meaning is incomprehensible. After all, we have to use words to define words.

Take what you want from this article; I did not say it as I meant it anyway.

Reference

Soanes, C., ed. (2001). “Courage.” Oxford Dictionary of Current English, 3rd edition. Oxford University Press

Few students, no matter how bright, would claim that post-secondary studies are easy. I’ve come across a number of individuals, and not merely an insignificant minority, who struggle with one or two classes per semester simply because finding motivation to do homework can be difficult. Even if you’re managing five or six classes per semester, let’s face it–paying vast amounts of money to learn things most of us won’t remember in a few months, not to mention years, is not exactly enthusiasm-inducing.

Few parents, no matter how energetic and patient, would claim that having children is easy. The sleepless nights, the perpetual responsibility for people half your size who all too often forget the importance of gratitude–the experience can be frustratingly unrewarding. For those of you not yet blessed with the 18 or more years of responsibility that comes with childbirth, believe me, you don’t know what it’s like until you’re there.

That said, I’d like to bring to everyone’s attention a special human achievement of the 21st century–the student mom. Student moms take two extremely demanding situations and somehow manage to make the sleepless nights, the emotional stress and the perpetual lack of motivation work. And what’s more, so many of them not only maintain top marks, but take the little time they have for themselves and use it to volunteer. Many have jobs on top of everything else. To me, that’s nothing short of incredible.

Even more remarkable than these commendable student moms are the student single moms who work, part-time or full-time, to make their lives and that of their children’s function. These are individuals who from inner strength derive (somehow) the time and energy to raise their children and improve their intellect, yet who manage to remain sane, at least most of the time. I admit that the inspiration for this article comes from living the struggle that comes from full-time education, part-time work, and 24 hour per day responsibility of parenting, but I’m not talking about myself. I only have one daughter. I’m talking about the single moms (and even the married moms) who have more than one child and a million other things to take care of (a lot of the time, this includes husbands!). These are the individuals who, as much as they might like to or intend to, cannot spend their evenings relaxing, partying, or volunteering. And the lack of that last option – volunteerism — is probably what prevents these hard-working, incredible individuals from being properly recognized and celebrated.

I have had the fortune of joining and participating in AUSU’s Student Mom’s Club (founded by a commendable student mom) and interacting with the amazing moms of AU. They’re around us, everywhere, waist deep in the struggle for survival. Over the past few years, I’ve read numerous articles stating that women, despite societal progress, cannot have it all–it’s a matter of choosing between career and family. To these people, I say that right here at AU we have women who have it all and more. They’re a credit to humanity.

All I ask is that the next time you hear a woman talking about how she had to stay up until four in the morning to finish writing an essay because her child was up sick the entire night prior (this is to be distinguished from individuals who stayed up all night partying), let this woman know how amazing she is. Because student moms are nothing short of superhuman.