Wish Fulfillment by Proxy of the Zoo and Blogging

So, ever since I was a little kid I've dreamed of travel-of seeing the world, of distant lands with different cultures, hearing different languages, seeing different horizons, of experiencing life from a different perspective.  One of my dream careers was (is) to be a photographer/writer for National Geographic.  If I had had more guts as an undergrad I would have majored in journalism and minored in photography.  Alas, I assumed I would never be good enough to get a job with National Geographic, or, you know, a job in general with a journalism degree, so instead I majored in History.  And haven't been able to get a job.....the universe does have a sense of humor, doesn't it?  Anyway, I'm still secretly (maybe not 'secretly' now) harboring a deep rooted dream of travel and photography; so in order to fulfill part of a dream in at least a "pretend" way, I went to the zoo on Saturday and spent the day in Africa.  It was pretty awesome.  It was a tad hot, so most of the animals were smart enough to stay indoors, or just lay lifeless and lethargic under the shade of distant trees-except of course the human animals, the so called "reasoning animals," which were the only ones dumb enough to be exerting effort in 95 degree weather.  Kinda makes you wonder, eh?  Anyway, because most of them were taking it easy, I didn't get very many pictures.  I never got to see the elephants or the rhinos, the gazelles, or the gorillas.  I also didn't make it to the North America end of the zoo, as I was....how shall I put this?  completely bushed by the end of Africa.  Which taught me something-I shouldn't have been worried about my lack of skills preventing me from fulfilling my National Geographic dream, but rather the fact that I am a total wuss.  Anyway, here's what I got.....

(Oh, and P.S.-because of your post, Tim, I actually remembered to slather on a good quarter inch thick layer of sunscreen before I spent the day in the sun, so thanks! (my mother thanks you, too :) ))

 A Scarlet Ibis, as in James Hurst's short story of the same name.  I read it in my sister's English textbook one year, when I was a kid and have never gotten over  forgotten that story.  It is one that definitely sticks with you. You can read the story here.   I didn't realize this, but James Hurst actually was from North Carolina, and grew up in a town not far from where I live now.....hmmm. Might have to look into that.  Anyway, the rest of them.....



A Highschool Education

I haven't written anything in a while because, to be honest, nothing has happened which would translate well into an amusing, relatable anecdote.  And, to be honest, nothing has changed.  I don't have a funny or entertaining story to tell, no pictures to share and no exciting announcements.  The subject of this post was actually inspired by the subject of a conversation this weekend and, (and you have no idea how loath I am to admit this tidbit) a movie.  It wasn't the best movie I've ever seen, not much can outdo To Kill a Mockingbird, and it wasn't even a memorably bad movie.....it was just....alright.  But, it concerned a touchy subject for me-namely high-school.  See, most people hate high-school; I however, can claim to be an overachiever in this department, even if in no other.  Basically, my public school experience went downhill after third grade.  Kid you not.  During those tender, formative years of what people claim was my childhood-although I prefer to see it as my practice adulthood-I was in hell at least 98.9% of the time.  I repeat-it was hell.  See, here's the thing, learning was not an issue (math excepted), but relating to my fellow classmates left me sticky with a cold, sweaty panic.  Still does.  I had orthodontic work from second grade to ninth.  My hair was wild and frizzy.  I had freckles.  I was scrawny and chicken-legged with no indication that I would ever boast anything like a feminine figure.  I was, still am, ghostly white.  I liked books-strange books compared to my classmates.  Sweet Valley and the Babysitter's Club never really caught my attention, but I wanted to know about the assassination of Abraham Lincoln, what happened to Tom Sawyer and Becky Thatcher as they wandered in the maze of caves, how Jo March fared as she pursued a career as an author.  It wasn't that I was smarter or better, I just liked different things.  This, apparently, was unacceptable.  

I still have a scar on my left elbow from an incident on the way to the cafeteria, one day in seventh grade.  We had to go around the outside of the building in order to get into the cafeteria, and the parking lot was in the process of being repaved.  Right in front of the cafeteria doors, there was a long swath a few inches wide which formed a gulf between two sections of asphalt.  It had recently rained, and so the gulf had become a small channel filled with muddy water and crumbling asphalt.  Rather than walking in single file, we were allowed to walk in a group, and so I was walking by myself in a space between other groups consisting of three or four chatty pre-teens.  Just as I came to the channel and began to step over, I received a massive shove on the back by three pairs of hands.  I fell face first into the puddle, catching the ragged edges of the pavement on the way down.  My jeans were ripped at the knees and both they and my shirt were soaking wet; both hands and forearms were slightly oozing blood from the abrasions that ran from fingertip to elbow on each arm, my left elbow sporting a jagged cut.  And these from those who claimed on odd days, to be my friends.  My mom stilled worked at the school and so I was allowed to go to her classroom to get bandaids and sympathy.  The only thing I remember, really, is the sting of peroxide and trying desperately not to burst into tears in front of a room full of kindergarteners.  Not long after, as I sat my tray down at the table where I sat simply because no objections had until then been verbalized, one of the other lunchers casually turned to me and asked why I sat where I wasn't wanted.  

Now, these may seem like juvenile and petty things to remember ten or more years later, but my point is this-when such things occur daily, hourly for years, regardless of what is preached to us, our self-esteem and self-image becomes generally and almost inevitably based on the type of treatment we receive from others.  It is easy to begin to believe that there is truth in what they say, that if it were not true, it would not be said by so many so frequently.  We begin to see ourselves as they say we are.  This leads to something known in psychology as the Looking Glass effect.  Now, I am no psychologist, and so I don't claim to know all of the details on this subject (and it has been years since I read anything about it).  The gist of it, though, as I understand it, is this: we perceive ourselves in a certain way, subconsciously we convey these perceptions to others through things such as verbal patterns, body language, etc.  They, in turn, accept these perceptions as presented by us and return them, reaffirming our perceptions of ourselves, leading us to accept what was our own opinion of ourselves as an outsider's original opinion of us.  This cycle is self-perpetuating and often enacted without either party ever be conscious of its existence.  So you see, if, during the period when children are learning to exist and function socially independent of their parents, they suffer ridicule and rejection from their peers, it often sets the course for many years to come.  The sad thing is, those who already, and I am not just talking about myself here, suffer from a dismal lack of self-esteem are juicy and vulnerable prey for the more socially fit.  Therefore, those who are least able to defend themselves become the most hunted.  

For some, it drives them to overachieve and prove their worth, for others, and I think I can safely say, for most, it becomes a stumbling block which they battle years afterwards.  It is almost like Jean Valjean in Les Miserables.  After his release from long years of imprisonment, he was given a yellow card which identified him as a former convict.  He was required by law to present this card whenever he applied for employment or moved to a new place.  Of course, no one wished to employ a convict or allow him to be their neighbor, and so the yellow card essentially extended his sentence to a life sentence.  He was imprisoned by what he had once been.  Sometimes, the scars left, and the self-perceptions we adopt in our youth, are our yellow cards.  The difference being that we condemn ourselves to carry those yellow cards in the form of low self-esteem, and fear that maybe we are as worthless as we felt, that maybe it is better if we just keep ourselves to ourselves.  It has prevented me, and I am sure many others, from accepting friendships, from applying for jobs in which they would actually excel, if they allowed themselves to try, from many other good things in life.  In short, it can affect every aspect of your life.  Without delving into any deep religious conversation, I will say this-it also prevents us from accepting blessings and gifts from a loving Father in Heaven who is probably pained by the thought that we do not love something which he so carefully and thoughtfully created-spending time to not only create a world filled with beautiful things, but to fill it with distinct and individual beings with personalities and talents, whom he considers his most precious creations and loves more than we can ever begin to fully understand.  Our worth, although it is hard to see, is in our existence.  Heavenly Father created us, and therefore we are endowed, not only with inalienable rights, but with intrinsic worth.  Although it sounds so simple, this is probably the hardest thing to accept and realize in this life.

So although it is true that highschool cheerleaders are actually the keepers of the gates of hell, it is also true that highschool is not forever-that is, of course, unless you let it be.  Those yellow cards are self-assigned.  It is not easy and it is not quick, but it is possible for things to change.  The catch is, no one is going to do it for you but yourself.  It is tough, but hey, if you've been tough enough to survive high-school, you can pretty much take it.  Right?