I finally have my own laptop, and so I'm going to make it a goal to write more, because it's easier now. So, attempt number one. In the last couple years I've discovered my capability for empathy. It's almost like I'm the Grinch, and my heart grew much, much bigger than I was used to. And that sounds great and all, but there's a MASSIVE side effect of that: I don't know how to care about people. All of a sudden, people turn to me for help. They turn to me when they feel pain or betrayed or lonely. I love that they trust me enough, and I care about them enough that I genuinely want to help them (even going so far as to never be able to think about anything else, hence the blog post). However, I don't know how to comfort people. I don't know what to do when my friend is crying or how to tell someone that I'm always going to be there for them. I don't know how to be appropriately sentimental. I spent so long not being emotional that I don't know how to do it correctly. Is there a right way to be emotional and empathetic? Or is it just one of those things you can feel your way through?
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When I was in elementary school, we would often watch a short animated movie in the days surrounding Martin Luther King, Jr. Day. This movie is called Our Friend, Martin, and it's about a couple of kids who go back in time and -- you guessed it! -- meet Martin Luther King, Jr. when he was their age. If you haven't watched it, please take the time to. You won't regret it. When I was also in elementary school, I had an issue with MLK. I couldn't tell you why, and I'm still not sure, but I didn't like talking about him. I'm the same way with Anne Frank and 9/11, or at least, I was until I watched the movie Selma. (Which, apparently, is streaming free on both Amazon Prime and Hulu for today's holiday, and I strongly suggest watching it.) I saw the movie in an old theater in a neighboring town, and the tickets were at a discount and I probably cried. Around the same time in school, I was learning about Thoreau's essay Civil Disobedience, which strongly influenced King's actions. I'm a sucker for blatant shows of humanity, and that's all Selma was. I was touched. Not to mention that police brutality and segregation by incarceration were gracing every headline; Selma appeared incredibly pertinent. And it was, of course. Now I have a new thought on my mind. It's no secret that I'm a pacifist. I hate war and anything to do with it. There's no moral excuse for it, and all sorts of other issues. But that's a discussion for another day. Anyway, I realized last night that we do not remember the people who did amazing things or accomplished great tasks or implemented revolutions through violence. I can remember General George Washington, but only because he was also a president. I remember Robespierre, but nobody likes him. I remember Hugo Chavez, but we look down on him. And of course I remember violent events, such as the American and French Revolutions. But the people we remember are Ghandi, Martin Luther King, Jr., and Nelson Mandela. All over our world are violent, violent revolutions, some of which we support and some of which we actively disagree with, but who do we have a bank holiday named after? That's right. Martin Luther King, Jr. And so, as we embrace this day off, it's important for all of us to remember the point of this holiday: to remember and to celebrate the accomplishments of the man it was named after. Not only his efforts to reveal the fact that everyone is equal no matter the color of their skin, no matter where they came from or who their great- great- great-grandparents were, but also the idea that great things can happen without violence or weaponry. You can get what you want without having to hit anyone. If you feel like you do, then maybe that thing you're trying to get really isn't what you need. Thank you, Martin Luther King, Jr., for revealing that to the world.
I've been thinking about this a lot lately: I can fully and wholeheartedly appreciate and respect a person who sacrifices their own interests or well-being to be nice to someone else. If you sacrifice your time to help someone, I respect you. If you go out of your way to be kind, I respect you. If you're nice to someone even when it's clear you don't want to be, I respect you. If you give up something of your own to make someone happy, I respect you. That's all you have to do. And I want to thank anyone who has ever done that, especially if you did it for me. Thank you. I'm sure I don't always deserve it, but you've done it anyway, and that's all that matters. You loved thy neighbor and comforted those who stood in need of comfort. You were as Christlike as you could be, and that's all you need to do to gain my respect. Thank you.
Keeping a blog about nothing in particular when your life is not particularly interesting gets boring really fast. I have ideas that I want to speak on, to write about, to talk freely on at a moment's notice, but I can never think of something to say when given a blank page or a empty moment and just told to go for it. I need a prompt, a reason, a specific audience more than just "the general public." So I'm writing about THAT little phenomenon instead of doing something productive. How's that for a good blog post?
Once again I find myself writing an essay for my AP English class. Unlike last time, however, I actually like the book. The prompt I am mildly unsure about, although I do find it answerable. I just have trouble focusing. Spotify is so much more interesting.
This time the book is Tess of the D'Urbervilles by Thomas Hardy, a much softer and more thought-provoking novel, at least in my opinion. It's no Mosquitoland, but it'll do. Really the only thing ruining it for me is my skunk of a classmate, who smirks over his middle-class impertinence and inherently flawed fiercely conservative arguments. And while we're on the topic of AP impertinence, allow me to outline the expectations for a student observer:
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I'm Audrey, a college student and existential rambler.
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