Bullying

My post today is inspired by an article that’s been going around on Facebook about female-leaning fandoms getting more hate and criticism than predominately male fandoms. (I suggest that you read this article before reading my post. It makes a great point that I’m reciprocating here. Also, for those of you who don’t know, a fandom is the community that surrounds a tv show/movie/book etc.) The idea that struck me with the most horror was the realization that fandom-shaming is a form of bullying.

Saying that you think a show, movie, sports team, musical artist, or whatever is stupid is having an opinion. However, calling people idiots or other such names just because they like a certain [insert whatever here] is irrelevant and thus becomes a personal attack. Repeated personal attacks combined with marginalization and stereotyping turns into bullying. Saying that those who do this are participating in bullying is not bullying. But going around to people and saying, "You're just a stupid bully!" would, indeed, be a form of bullying.

There is a fine line between bullying and having an opinion. At that line is our ability to have caring, respectful relationships with human beings that don't share our opinion. We cross over the line and into bullying when we stop caring about other people and become overwhelmed with our own opinion and putting others down simply because they don't share it.

I know multiple people who have been mocked and ridiculed because of something they were not only interested in, but something they connected with on a personal level. These things were not petty interests, but were often their only sources of escape and comfort. Once someone attacked them because of that interest, they felt ashamed for liking whatever it was, and eventually turned away from it. Having their main source of dependence taken away from them shattered their confidence, and they lost a sense of who they were. Their self-concept, identity, and esteem were all damaged because someone felt the need to make fun of them for something they believed to be petty. Unfortunately, their inconsideration caused real emotional damage.

Regardless of the extent to which someone likes something, it is wrong to purposefully make fun of them for their interests. Bullying in any form, or to any extent, is wrong.

13

It's Friday the Thirteenth: a day people use as an excuse to act more obnoxious than usual.

Luckily, my Friday the 13th rituals consist of weird movies and other sensible activities.

Superstition is a funny thing. I like to mock it with tradition, and nothing says tradition like a good Halloween-type movie and a pair of fleese footie pajamas :)

Good Things

Good things don’t come always, but they do always come.

I don’t know why I’m realizing this right now. Probably because life has been so hard for me lately. Today was especially difficult. Teaching was hard because I still have no idea what I am doing, even though I’ve been studying for this for 4 years. Talk about discouraging. Not only that, but, as petty as it is, I forgot my phone at home. It turns out I actually needed it today. I left home thinking I had to pick up my mom from work, drove half an hour to wait for another 10 minutes, realizing she probably had already left. So I drove the other half hour home with a blistering headache and a growling stomach to come home to missed calls, emails, voicemails, and an inconceivable amount of texts. Needless to say, I was in a horrible mood, frustrated beyond emotion, and ready to take a nap. Instead, I listened to the voicemail (surprise, surprise, my mom didn’t need a ride home), and started on the texts.

Here’s bright little light number one. A friend of mine had sent me a text, a response from one I had sent yesterday. Tacked on to the end was a simple, “have a good day at work.”  Those few words instilled a feeling of hope in me, a reminder that there are people supporting for me, rooting for me to succeed and achieve my dreams. I realize I had lost sight of my friends, and that I needed a humble reminder that people care about me, and I should just accept that.

Bright little light number two came as a couple of guys from church that I don’t even know came over to visit with my family. I have never spoken to them before, and they didn’t know anything about me. I realized as we all shared movie quotes and my parents told the story of how they met that honest human interaction is incredible. Sitting down with these strangers, knowing that they came over to make sure my family was living comfortably and happily, and being able to have a sincere conversation with them seemed to restore my faith in the world. People can care, and some people do—care about others without knowing a single fact about them. When these two men showed interest in my family’s well-being, they brought me the joy of unadulterated camaraderie.

Good things do come, and they came today in the form a few glorious human beings.

1,000 I guess

Apparently my blog has over 1,000 page views. I don't know if that's supposed to make me feel successful or happy or loved or what. Especially considering 500 of those views are probably from me... Perhaps I'm a bit of an internet narcissist. 

I started this blog about two years ago. Wow. Two years... a lot has happened in that time. Yet I still find myself wondering what I have accomplished. I'm not quite done with my bachelor's degree, although I did survive a few of the most brutal English courses at BYU-Idaho. I have recovered from a few soul-wrenching, heart-ripping experiences, read hundreds of thousands of words, learned a fair bit about myself, turned 21 and 22, and survived multiple singles wards (for all of you not Mormon readers, this is quite the accomplishment, trust me). I have not, however, gotten married, been to a foreign country, written a book, carved a watermelon, or had a picnic in a cemetery. And I'm not President.

I have written about success before, and with much hope and optimism. Small successes can be accomplished every day, it's true. But in the whole scheme of life and eternity, what have I really done? 

...

Luckily, I have thousands of more days to live and thousands of more opportunities to really accomplish something. Something big, monumental. Something truly worthwhile. I have time to progress and grow and reach the goals I have set for myself. Time and will-power is what I've got.

Wish me luck.

Spiritual Ponderings

I have been writing in a new blog for my online New Testament class. Every week I respond to a few questions regarding the section of scripture we have recently read. I have been edified and uplifted as I have pondered and contemplated the scriptures, the human existence, and God. You are welcome to join me by reading my humble thoughts.

Click here to read my simple and awed reactions to the beautiful teachings of the ancient Prophets.

A Short Stroll and An Even Shorter Existential Contemplation

The brown and green speckled carpet sinks,  accompanied by a dull crunch with every step. The grass isn't quite green after a cold winter. That, or it's already dying from the heat. As I walk through the looping cul de sacs and winding neighborhood roads, the song "Little Boxes" starts playing in my head. "Little boxes, little boxes . . . They're all made out of ticky-tacky . . . They all look just the same." But I think to myself that despite the cookie-cutter floor plans and the pristine, sprinkler-infused lawns, each house has its own story. Every family has their own problems, every closet holds its own skeleton. Well, hopefully not literally. I wouldn't want to know about any "Disturbia" stories happening around here. Creepy.                                

In the middle of all these houses, a lonely soccer field sits, the one with the crunchy grass, looking a little neglected. It's a little run down, but not old enough to hold much history. This neighborhood, this town doesn't have any sort of antique feel to it. It's all so young and juvenile. I'm sure it would make an argument for itself, much like a teenager would argue for his or her maturity level... Even the old people seem new.

There's something to be said about the weight and depth held by an old house;  the kind that's perceptible the moment you step onto the property. They're always surrounded by old trees, too. The soaring pines with straggly shadows. The trees that whisper rattling stories when shaken in the wind. The trees here are still too young to speak the language of the past.

Maybe in a few years these houses will develop scars and bruises, proof that lives are lived here. Soon enough the trees will take their first steps toward the sky. Their steps will grow stronger and their paces longer as their roots dig deeper into the ground. Soon, they will learn how to speak. They will tell the stories of those cuts and bruises - the mysteries of life and the lessons we will all someday learn.

Still, I walk past these rows of houses, "the pink ones, and the blue ones, and the green ones, and the yellow ones," as the song says, oblivious to the pages and pages of stories within. I'm consumed with my own story, and the few precious passages I've read from others'.

No Edge

I cannot describe to you the reasons I love the following poem so much. There aren't enough words in any language, let alone English, to do the job. This poem gives me so much hope in my existence, yet reminds me so readily of responsibility weighing down on me... The feelings I have for this poem are as undefinable as the expanse of the universe.

The Red Wheelbarrow
by William Carlos Williams

so much depends
upon

a red wheel
barrow

glazed with rain
water

beside the white
chickens.