There once was a boy who could make his violin sing,
the horsehairs on his bow danced across the string.
He produced music that no other could make,
but his rude remarks towards others could make them quake.
He was too blind to see the light,
his hubris, excessive pride, was at such a height.
Some dared to criticize, tell this boy his flaws,
though he was deaf to such things, he could only hear the applause.
His conductor might tell him, “This line is pianissimo, you are too loud.”
“Have you studied at Julliard?” responded the boy, so very proud.
This boy may have seemed bitter, “snotty” he was only,
but truly, deep down, he was confused as he was lonely.
Until one day, as he was crossing the street,
a car came speeding, and sent him flying off of his feet.
The boy saved his precious violin, threw it out of the way,
and the driver jumped out, shook him, and began to pray.
The boy was taken immediately to a hospital bed,
he lay there unconscious, stitches weaved into his head.
It was days before the boy again opened his eyes,
and when he did so, he was no longer blind.
The doctors told him, “I’m sorry to inform you,
but your wrists have been permanently damaged. Your shoulders and arms, too.”
“Can I ever play the violin again?” the boy’s life seemed to crash,
with that, he slammed his dearest violin to the floor, and into pieces it smashed.
It seems that when Fortuna spun her giant wheel,
this poor boy got the bad end of the deal.
He knelt down on the floor,
pounding the ground, his tears shed all the more.
At last the boy saw the light, his hubris dissolved,
he saw how cruel he had been, and to apologize and change his ways, he resolved.
He first went to his fellow musicians, who accepted, seeing he had changed his ways,
then to his conductor, who was also elated he was complete with this phase.
The boy went on to live, though he never touched that beloved instrument again,
the violins no longer cared for him, and he them.
He had learned is lesson, though through a painful experience,
and from then on, he never allowed his hubris to become an interference.
Now this story may seem sad, melancholy, perhaps,
but from this boy we have learned never to fall into pride’s tempting traps.
He used to be deaf, yet now he can hear,
his eyes were once blind, but now the light is clear.
This once blind musician had his life reformed,
He overcame his hubris, adjusted the way he was born.
We must remember, we may be talented, but we are never the best,
we do what we must, and fate holds the rest.
Monday, December 6, 2010
Saturday, November 13, 2010
Childhood?
School was over, it was a Friday, and I was more than ready to get home. I swung my heavy backpack over my shoulder and grabbed my violin, heading out the door to the bus. I habitually thumped my violin case against my knee every other step I took along the way. As I stepped up onto the bus, the second to last one in the seemingly endless line of yellow, I greeted my bus driver and made my way to the back of the bus. As I tried to avoid stepping on lower schoolers’ toes that were sticking out of their seats into the aisle, I overheard one first grader in the front row the bus. His bright blue eyes and blonde hair like corn silk looked so young and carefree that it made me miss being that age.
“My homework for this weekend is to play outside, get dirty, and to hug someone in my family,” he told a girl who was sitting next to him, his young, blue eyes shining. As I took my seat, I thought about what the boy had said. It made me long for childhood again. I could hardly remember days when I had fun homework like that, when people could just see the youth and innocence shining through my eyes, when life was simple and everyone was my friend. Out the window, trees, houses, and buildings rolled by, but I couldn’t get what that boy had said out of my head.
For that boy, life was a simple. He didn’t know about the ugly, destructive, parts of the world. He didn’t know the extents of homework. He could be friends with anyone, be it a girl his age on the bus, or someone who shared their crayons with him. He didn’t need to know about the complexity of gender, race, or religion.
What I really wanted to do at that moment was to tell that boy to enjoy life at that time. I wanted to tell him to live it up, because life wasn’t always going to be like that. Then I thought about what would happen if someone told me that when I was his age. Honestly, I probably wouldn’t understand what they meant, and if I did, it would scare me. I realized that there’s no use telling people to enjoy their moments, because the enjoyment comes from within themselves.
“My homework for this weekend is to play outside, get dirty, and to hug someone in my family,” he told a girl who was sitting next to him, his young, blue eyes shining. As I took my seat, I thought about what the boy had said. It made me long for childhood again. I could hardly remember days when I had fun homework like that, when people could just see the youth and innocence shining through my eyes, when life was simple and everyone was my friend. Out the window, trees, houses, and buildings rolled by, but I couldn’t get what that boy had said out of my head.
For that boy, life was a simple. He didn’t know about the ugly, destructive, parts of the world. He didn’t know the extents of homework. He could be friends with anyone, be it a girl his age on the bus, or someone who shared their crayons with him. He didn’t need to know about the complexity of gender, race, or religion.
What I really wanted to do at that moment was to tell that boy to enjoy life at that time. I wanted to tell him to live it up, because life wasn’t always going to be like that. Then I thought about what would happen if someone told me that when I was his age. Honestly, I probably wouldn’t understand what they meant, and if I did, it would scare me. I realized that there’s no use telling people to enjoy their moments, because the enjoyment comes from within themselves.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
The Book Thief *sniff*
I adore books. One of my favorites is The Book Thief by Markus Zusak. I love this book so much that I sob uncontrollably when I read and re-read the ending. I love it so much that I physically take it off of my bookshelf and give it a hug from time to time. I know it sounds insane, but I’m sure those who have read the book may be able to better relate to my complete and utter obsession with The Book Thief.
When I was leafing through the pages (yet again) a few days ago, I came across a passage that I remember sticking out to me and affecting me the first time I read it during the beginning of eighth grade last year. The few lines occur in the first few pages of the story, when the narrator (Death) is explaining Liesel (main character)’s situation. A bomb has just exploded in Liesel’s hometown, and as Death describes it, “Yes, the sky was now a devastating, home-cooked red. The small German town had been flung apart one more time. Snowflakes of ash fell so lovelily you were tempted to stretch out your tongue to catch them, taste them. Only, they would have scorched your lips. They would have cooked your mouth.”
This paragraph explores the beauty of destruction, which is one of the underlying themes of the book. Zusak illustrates that the ashes, which are a result of the bombs, appear to be beautiful. They fall “lovelily” and seem as harmless and joyful as snowflakes (which they aren’t).
The small paragraph affected me around this time last year when I first read it because before I had fully read and digested this idea, I used to shy away from finding beauty in the unusual things. I used to think that the only things that could be beautiful were things that were “set” to be beautiful, things like flowers, blue skies, and smiley faces. I would shy away from thinking differently. After reading and understanding this, though, I have come to realize that beauty can be found in anything- from something as generic as sunshine to something as obscure and tragic as an explosion.
If I hadn’t read this passage, I may be been close-mindedly overlooking beauty in everyday occurrences today. The passage actually altered my thinking for the better, which is why I hold it as something so important to me.
When I was leafing through the pages (yet again) a few days ago, I came across a passage that I remember sticking out to me and affecting me the first time I read it during the beginning of eighth grade last year. The few lines occur in the first few pages of the story, when the narrator (Death) is explaining Liesel (main character)’s situation. A bomb has just exploded in Liesel’s hometown, and as Death describes it, “Yes, the sky was now a devastating, home-cooked red. The small German town had been flung apart one more time. Snowflakes of ash fell so lovelily you were tempted to stretch out your tongue to catch them, taste them. Only, they would have scorched your lips. They would have cooked your mouth.”
This paragraph explores the beauty of destruction, which is one of the underlying themes of the book. Zusak illustrates that the ashes, which are a result of the bombs, appear to be beautiful. They fall “lovelily” and seem as harmless and joyful as snowflakes (which they aren’t).
The small paragraph affected me around this time last year when I first read it because before I had fully read and digested this idea, I used to shy away from finding beauty in the unusual things. I used to think that the only things that could be beautiful were things that were “set” to be beautiful, things like flowers, blue skies, and smiley faces. I would shy away from thinking differently. After reading and understanding this, though, I have come to realize that beauty can be found in anything- from something as generic as sunshine to something as obscure and tragic as an explosion.
If I hadn’t read this passage, I may be been close-mindedly overlooking beauty in everyday occurrences today. The passage actually altered my thinking for the better, which is why I hold it as something so important to me.
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Monday, October 11, 2010
HUNGA GAMEZ (part 2)
People swarmed around me in the hot, sticky bookstore. This small venue, the store The Wild Rumpus, was holding more people than I thought profusely possible. A lady wearing a hat that is caked with decorative badges and buttons slapped a note card that read “141” into my hand.
“Um, what’s this?” I asked timidly.
“Yer gonna be the 141st person to get yer book signed by Suzanne Collins, kay?” I wondered how she could seem so bored when such excitement was buzzing around the area.
My first book signing! How exciting, I thought to myself. I had just finished the book The Hunger Games a few hours prior to reaching the bookstore, and it had officially reached the top of Anjali’s Most Favorite Books Ever list. The store was crammed with mostly teenagers, I could hardly step a square inch without trampling someone’s feet. It was a complete nerdfest, but I was loving it, I felt like I belonged.
A middle-aged man somehow stood up above the crowd. “Okay everyone! Before Ms. Collins signs any books, she’s going to do a quick reading from her latest book, Mockingjay,” said the man. His voice wavered, clearly he was yelling at the top of his lungs, “But in order for her to do this, we need you guys to be really, super duper quiet! Wow, there’s a lot of you out there.” The excited buzzing of the crowd died down.
I was standing on my tiptoes, trying to get a glance of my new favorite author. At once, a petite woman was eased up onto a nearby table. She had blond and gray wavy hair, and she pretty looked frail. I did not expect her to look like this. Sure, there was a small photo of her in the back of the book, but she looked entirely different in real life.
She began to speak, “Okay. Hi everyone- I’m going to read a small passage from my book. I’ll need you guys to bear with my since I don’t have a very loud voice.” As she began to read, something occurred to me. So many people, including me, had read those same words, but never had we heard it read by the person who wrote them herself. I thought about it. This frail, diminutive woman had written these words. She had put them out into the world for everyone else to read, and now she was reading them aloud to us. It was inspiring, and I felt that everyone else in the room was feeling the same thing as me. I observed many of my fellow fan’s faces, and was not to see them overtaken with awe.
That was when I realized that I wanted to do something like that. I wanted to write words and release them into the world for everyone to read and fall in love with the way Suzanne Collins did with her books. The idea that everyone had enjoyed Ms. Collin’s words before we heard her read them herself made the reading that much more special. Something about that day and hearing her read taught me or inspired me, rather, to strive for the lasting impression that Suzanne Collins left on her audience.
Too soon, the reading ended, and I was snapped out of my little trance. I was sad that I would probably never be able to experience something as magical as that, or at least not for a long time. But before I knew it, a voice from behind me called, “Numbers 141 to 150 may now come up to get their books signed!”
“Um, what’s this?” I asked timidly.
“Yer gonna be the 141st person to get yer book signed by Suzanne Collins, kay?” I wondered how she could seem so bored when such excitement was buzzing around the area.
My first book signing! How exciting, I thought to myself. I had just finished the book The Hunger Games a few hours prior to reaching the bookstore, and it had officially reached the top of Anjali’s Most Favorite Books Ever list. The store was crammed with mostly teenagers, I could hardly step a square inch without trampling someone’s feet. It was a complete nerdfest, but I was loving it, I felt like I belonged.
A middle-aged man somehow stood up above the crowd. “Okay everyone! Before Ms. Collins signs any books, she’s going to do a quick reading from her latest book, Mockingjay,” said the man. His voice wavered, clearly he was yelling at the top of his lungs, “But in order for her to do this, we need you guys to be really, super duper quiet! Wow, there’s a lot of you out there.” The excited buzzing of the crowd died down.
I was standing on my tiptoes, trying to get a glance of my new favorite author. At once, a petite woman was eased up onto a nearby table. She had blond and gray wavy hair, and she pretty looked frail. I did not expect her to look like this. Sure, there was a small photo of her in the back of the book, but she looked entirely different in real life.
She began to speak, “Okay. Hi everyone- I’m going to read a small passage from my book. I’ll need you guys to bear with my since I don’t have a very loud voice.” As she began to read, something occurred to me. So many people, including me, had read those same words, but never had we heard it read by the person who wrote them herself. I thought about it. This frail, diminutive woman had written these words. She had put them out into the world for everyone else to read, and now she was reading them aloud to us. It was inspiring, and I felt that everyone else in the room was feeling the same thing as me. I observed many of my fellow fan’s faces, and was not to see them overtaken with awe.
That was when I realized that I wanted to do something like that. I wanted to write words and release them into the world for everyone to read and fall in love with the way Suzanne Collins did with her books. The idea that everyone had enjoyed Ms. Collin’s words before we heard her read them herself made the reading that much more special. Something about that day and hearing her read taught me or inspired me, rather, to strive for the lasting impression that Suzanne Collins left on her audience.
Too soon, the reading ended, and I was snapped out of my little trance. I was sad that I would probably never be able to experience something as magical as that, or at least not for a long time. But before I knew it, a voice from behind me called, “Numbers 141 to 150 may now come up to get their books signed!”
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Poem!
This is my first poem on here. I think it's a bit morbid, but we'll see... It's kind of based off of John Green's book, Looking for Alaska.
Last Words
“Any last words?”
Is a phrase often thrown around
Sometimes I wonder…
I wonder what death is like
Where do we all go?
Heaven?
Are we reborn?
Is there an afterlife?
Which one is right?
I don’t wonder this because
I’m a lonely, sad person
Severely depressed,
I wonder because
I’m legitimately curious
What happens…?
I often daydream
Last words seem to be
Our only insight
Said Victor Hugo,
“I see black light.”
Said Richard Feynman,
“I’d hate to die twice
it’s so boring.”
Said Emily Dickinson,
“I must go in,
the fog is rising.”
Said Thomas Edison,
“It’s very beautiful
over there.”
I know, it's a bit morbid/weird, but just wanted to put it out there (even if no one will read it)
Last Words
“Any last words?”
Is a phrase often thrown around
Sometimes I wonder…
I wonder what death is like
Where do we all go?
Heaven?
Are we reborn?
Is there an afterlife?
Which one is right?
I don’t wonder this because
I’m a lonely, sad person
Severely depressed,
I wonder because
I’m legitimately curious
What happens…?
I often daydream
Last words seem to be
Our only insight
Said Victor Hugo,
“I see black light.”
Said Richard Feynman,
“I’d hate to die twice
it’s so boring.”
Said Emily Dickinson,
“I must go in,
the fog is rising.”
Said Thomas Edison,
“It’s very beautiful
over there.”
I know, it's a bit morbid/weird, but just wanted to put it out there (even if no one will read it)
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
Me
Looking in the mirror, I see myself. I see ears studded with little gold hoops from my grandma. My ears have heard songs and words that have changed my life, and they have heard things they never want to hear again. I see wavy hair that turns cherry coke in the sunlight. Some of my cherry coke hair belongs to someone else now. Someone out there who doesn’t have hair of her own uses mine on a “Locks of Love” wig.
I see eyes that are big and brown, and if you look closely, are speckled like some sort of river of chocolate. Those eyes have seen things of beauty, have cried tears (drops of sadness, hatred, and joy), and have been squinched tight when wishing hard. I see relatively straight teeth, which (I’m proud to say) have never been wrenched around by the force of braces.
I see arms that have pushed with all their might to stab the icy snow with cross-country ski poles and have tried (with much difficulty) to keep moving forward. I see a pair of hands than have done many tasks, the fingers on my left rough from dancing around the strings of the violin and guitar, the ones on my right callused from writing countless poems, stories, and letters by hand.
I see feet trapped inside of old, dirty sneakers- feet that have ran around the lake and feet that have kicked the soccer ball into the goal. But those same feet have also fumbled the ball, they have tripped over each other, and they have kicked my favorite teddy bear out of the bed. I see knees that have been scraped up by the cement sidewalk, knees that have unintentionally been twisted into incredibly uncomfortable positions when I fall with my skis on.
I see a person who knows who she is, who she wants to be, and where she’s headed. She stares back at me with her eyes of chocolate that are searching for the same thing I am. Somewhere between her and me lies what we are both seeking.
I see eyes that are big and brown, and if you look closely, are speckled like some sort of river of chocolate. Those eyes have seen things of beauty, have cried tears (drops of sadness, hatred, and joy), and have been squinched tight when wishing hard. I see relatively straight teeth, which (I’m proud to say) have never been wrenched around by the force of braces.
I see arms that have pushed with all their might to stab the icy snow with cross-country ski poles and have tried (with much difficulty) to keep moving forward. I see a pair of hands than have done many tasks, the fingers on my left rough from dancing around the strings of the violin and guitar, the ones on my right callused from writing countless poems, stories, and letters by hand.
I see feet trapped inside of old, dirty sneakers- feet that have ran around the lake and feet that have kicked the soccer ball into the goal. But those same feet have also fumbled the ball, they have tripped over each other, and they have kicked my favorite teddy bear out of the bed. I see knees that have been scraped up by the cement sidewalk, knees that have unintentionally been twisted into incredibly uncomfortable positions when I fall with my skis on.
I see a person who knows who she is, who she wants to be, and where she’s headed. She stares back at me with her eyes of chocolate that are searching for the same thing I am. Somewhere between her and me lies what we are both seeking.
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
Sucky Day = Happy Blog Post
Hey-
I had a pretty much 95% Suck Day today, and ranting about it will bore you and make me more frustrated. To save both of us a crappy evening, I'm showing y'all something special that brings back happy memories. Enjoy :-)
I am at the apple orchard, my favorite place during fall. Vibrant colored leaves twirl around my best friend and I as we make weird faces at each other and run through trees that look like their foliage is on fire with the blazing hues. Our small plastic bags are filling up with apples rapidly, but we still haven’t found “the perfect one”. We find beautiful ones, only to examine the other side and find that it is bruised or rotting.
At last, we find a seemingly flawless apple, though it is high up on a tree. Since I am quite short, and she is a bit taller, I spring onto her back without warning. She hoists me up and I stretch out my hand to grab the apple. I barely graze my fingers over it when it dances down from the tree and perches on the ground. I pick it up and my eyes widen.
The apple is deep red with the perfect tinge of green, a tiny stem poking its head out. Beautifully faint lines are running down the skin. We are taken aback by the beauty of such a simple fruit as we admire it. It’s just an apple, after all, but we both sense that apples are no ordinary thing, especially during the magical season of fall.
I take another look at the immaculate apple and rub it on my sweater until it’s shiny and the cool blue sky is almost reflected on the apple’s skin. I hesitate to bite into it because it is so perfect. When I will myself to, though, my nose scrunches with delight. I shove it at my friend and she takes a bite from the other side. With the autumn wind nipping at her rosy cheeks and her hair blowing around, her eyes light up with delight when she tastes the apple. We agree that it’s the perfect mix of sweet and tart, and it’s nice and crunchy (the way we like it).
We lay on our backs in the yellowing grass under the trees and finish the apple. This, I think, is perfection.
I had a pretty much 95% Suck Day today, and ranting about it will bore you and make me more frustrated. To save both of us a crappy evening, I'm showing y'all something special that brings back happy memories. Enjoy :-)
I am at the apple orchard, my favorite place during fall. Vibrant colored leaves twirl around my best friend and I as we make weird faces at each other and run through trees that look like their foliage is on fire with the blazing hues. Our small plastic bags are filling up with apples rapidly, but we still haven’t found “the perfect one”. We find beautiful ones, only to examine the other side and find that it is bruised or rotting.
At last, we find a seemingly flawless apple, though it is high up on a tree. Since I am quite short, and she is a bit taller, I spring onto her back without warning. She hoists me up and I stretch out my hand to grab the apple. I barely graze my fingers over it when it dances down from the tree and perches on the ground. I pick it up and my eyes widen.
The apple is deep red with the perfect tinge of green, a tiny stem poking its head out. Beautifully faint lines are running down the skin. We are taken aback by the beauty of such a simple fruit as we admire it. It’s just an apple, after all, but we both sense that apples are no ordinary thing, especially during the magical season of fall.
I take another look at the immaculate apple and rub it on my sweater until it’s shiny and the cool blue sky is almost reflected on the apple’s skin. I hesitate to bite into it because it is so perfect. When I will myself to, though, my nose scrunches with delight. I shove it at my friend and she takes a bite from the other side. With the autumn wind nipping at her rosy cheeks and her hair blowing around, her eyes light up with delight when she tastes the apple. We agree that it’s the perfect mix of sweet and tart, and it’s nice and crunchy (the way we like it).
We lay on our backs in the yellowing grass under the trees and finish the apple. This, I think, is perfection.
Monday, October 4, 2010
HUNGA GAMEZ
In an intense, fast-paced, and gripping novel that I am currently reading, The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins, there are many sections that stick out to me. The book is about twenty-four children who have been chosen from their districts to fight to the death on live television as a service to the government. The story takes place in the future, and although it has a brutal theme, it addresses other, deeper themes such as love, sacrifice, and friendship.
At one point when two of the children are discussing their potential in the fight, one says, “I want to die as myself… I don’t want them to change me in there. Turn me into some kind of monster that I’m not.”
This quote is important because it shows that this child, out of the twenty-four, was different. This boy cared about his honor. He believed that being who he truly was, rather than whom he turned into when he was fighting the others, was important. This made some of the other children reconsider what they were doing as well.
One girl, Katniss (main character), realized that all she had been thinking about the past few days before the fighting began was how she was going to strategize, defeat the others, and survive. When she realized that the boy was worrying about how he was going to die or be known to the world that was seeing him on their televisions, it made her feel inferior.
Later in the story, though, we see that this boy is unable to follow through with his wish, and he does turn into the “monster” he didn’t want to become. He becomes someone he is not by fighting viciously without considering others or himself because he was in such a desolate, desperate state of mind. He cannot be blamed for fighting and acting the way he did, the fight did that to most of the twenty-four, but The fact that this occurs after he diplomatically stated that he didn’t want to become someone he wasn’t during the fight made the circumstance sickeningly heartbreaking for readers. I find the fact that he was thinking about his impression on othersm rather than how he was going to kill everyone off, reputable.
At one point when two of the children are discussing their potential in the fight, one says, “I want to die as myself… I don’t want them to change me in there. Turn me into some kind of monster that I’m not.”
This quote is important because it shows that this child, out of the twenty-four, was different. This boy cared about his honor. He believed that being who he truly was, rather than whom he turned into when he was fighting the others, was important. This made some of the other children reconsider what they were doing as well.
One girl, Katniss (main character), realized that all she had been thinking about the past few days before the fighting began was how she was going to strategize, defeat the others, and survive. When she realized that the boy was worrying about how he was going to die or be known to the world that was seeing him on their televisions, it made her feel inferior.
Later in the story, though, we see that this boy is unable to follow through with his wish, and he does turn into the “monster” he didn’t want to become. He becomes someone he is not by fighting viciously without considering others or himself because he was in such a desolate, desperate state of mind. He cannot be blamed for fighting and acting the way he did, the fight did that to most of the twenty-four, but The fact that this occurs after he diplomatically stated that he didn’t want to become someone he wasn’t during the fight made the circumstance sickeningly heartbreaking for readers. I find the fact that he was thinking about his impression on othersm rather than how he was going to kill everyone off, reputable.
Sunday, October 3, 2010
It's okay to have a belief, but it's not okay to push a belief
I walk down the path to Walgreens to buy poster board for a project for my Performance Physiology class. It is chilly outside, and I pull my sweatshirt over me and shiver. Just a few more yards and I’m there, I think to myself.
Out of nowhere, I hear a voice say, “Jesus just wanted me to give you this message…” I look to my right and see a man biking across from me. He is pedaling slowly to match the speed I am walking at.
Oh great, I bet this is one of those weird solicitations, I think.
“How do you feel about Jesus?” he asks.
WHY is this guy talking to me? I am screaming internally. “Um, he’s great. Love him- Jesus is awesome,” I say just to get the guy to leave me alone.
“Oh really?” he is genuinely surprised. I can tell he wasn’t expecting this to come out from some Indian teenager’s mouth.
“Are you a Christian?” he asks.
“Nope.”
“Muslim?”
“Nope.” I could keep him guessing, but instead, I just say, “I’m Hindu.”
“Oh… interesting,” he says, putting much emphasis on the “interesting”.
“Well, anyway, there’s this website- www.mormon.org that you should check out sometimes and maybe think about your other options.” I know what he means by “options”, but I don’t want to get into any further conversation with this man.
“Thanks, but no thanks,” I say, walking more briskly every second.
“Okay, thanks for your time,” he says and bikes away.
If I could have talked to this man for a few more minutes, we could have had some deep, philosophical discussion about religion and our views on the world. But that’s not what I wanted that day. What I wanted was for him to respect my religious views and whomever else’s he was on the way to tell to convert to Mormonism. I believe that he has a right to be Mormon and I have a right to be Hindu, but it is not okay for him to tell others to “check out” Mormonism in the same way it’s not okay for me to tell people to “check out” Hinduism.
Every time I walk that path now, I am nervous I will see that man again. Now I’ve realized, though, that I’ll know exactly what to say to him.
Out of nowhere, I hear a voice say, “Jesus just wanted me to give you this message…” I look to my right and see a man biking across from me. He is pedaling slowly to match the speed I am walking at.
Oh great, I bet this is one of those weird solicitations, I think.
“How do you feel about Jesus?” he asks.
WHY is this guy talking to me? I am screaming internally. “Um, he’s great. Love him- Jesus is awesome,” I say just to get the guy to leave me alone.
“Oh really?” he is genuinely surprised. I can tell he wasn’t expecting this to come out from some Indian teenager’s mouth.
“Are you a Christian?” he asks.
“Nope.”
“Muslim?”
“Nope.” I could keep him guessing, but instead, I just say, “I’m Hindu.”
“Oh… interesting,” he says, putting much emphasis on the “interesting”.
“Well, anyway, there’s this website- www.mormon.org that you should check out sometimes and maybe think about your other options.” I know what he means by “options”, but I don’t want to get into any further conversation with this man.
“Thanks, but no thanks,” I say, walking more briskly every second.
“Okay, thanks for your time,” he says and bikes away.
If I could have talked to this man for a few more minutes, we could have had some deep, philosophical discussion about religion and our views on the world. But that’s not what I wanted that day. What I wanted was for him to respect my religious views and whomever else’s he was on the way to tell to convert to Mormonism. I believe that he has a right to be Mormon and I have a right to be Hindu, but it is not okay for him to tell others to “check out” Mormonism in the same way it’s not okay for me to tell people to “check out” Hinduism.
Every time I walk that path now, I am nervous I will see that man again. Now I’ve realized, though, that I’ll know exactly what to say to him.
Saturday, October 2, 2010
Well HEY!
*whistle, whistle, whistle*
The tea is ready.
I pour it into my little girl tea cup, one that makes me nostalgic for childhood, and sip. Too hot. I wait for a while and read a chapter in To Kill a Mockingbird. I've waited too long. It's too cold. I want to start singing the Katy Perry song Hayley style, but I refrain.
Fall is just sweeping around the corner. That means sweaters. My favorite. Sweaters, and slippers, and Sunggies- oh my! I used to think Fall was overrated, that all it meant was school supplies, the end of summer, but lately I actually feel the cliché "autumn magic" everyone believes in. Apple cider, trees that look like they're on fire, crunchy leaves. I love.
The tea is ready.
I pour it into my little girl tea cup, one that makes me nostalgic for childhood, and sip. Too hot. I wait for a while and read a chapter in To Kill a Mockingbird. I've waited too long. It's too cold. I want to start singing the Katy Perry song Hayley style, but I refrain.
Fall is just sweeping around the corner. That means sweaters. My favorite. Sweaters, and slippers, and Sunggies- oh my! I used to think Fall was overrated, that all it meant was school supplies, the end of summer, but lately I actually feel the cliché "autumn magic" everyone believes in. Apple cider, trees that look like they're on fire, crunchy leaves. I love.
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