Friday, June 14, 2013

Celebrating Abraham Lincoln

YAY ABE LINCOLN! Man, I love that guy. And so... here is an essay I recently wrote about Mr. Lincoln (concerning my analysis of Lincoln's portrayal in Steven Spielberg's movie, Lincoln).


On Why Lincoln is, Like, the Best President, Like, Ever

            For 150 years at least, maybe even more, the question “Who is the best American president?” has been answered with, “That Lincoln dude… he, like, got rid of slavery and stuff,” more often than it is met with “OH-BA-MA!” And while I wish not to necessarily debate the greatness of this undeniably powerful, yet gentle and almost fatherly figure plucked from the depths of history and selected for scrutiny by the masses, I do wish to answer that persistent question: What makes Lincoln so, like, great and stuff?
            When looking at Lincoln from the outside, we are presented with several options and, similarly, several conundrums. The question becomes, “Who was the real Lincoln?” The confusion is understandable, as history presents us with several views of Lincoln’s life, all of them complex and many conflicting. We have the Lincoln of the Lincoln Memorial- the Supreme Overlord of the Penny- and the lesser-known, more often over-looked, Honest Abe- stripped of title, power, and status. Well, as with any quest for truth, the best place to start is at the beginning, and Lincoln’s roots, especially his situation at the beginning of his first term as president, show much about his life and the great accomplishments that were to be achieved over a period of four short years. And while Lincoln’s presidency was a time of war and bloody turmoil between brothers, friends, and countrymen, there is a reason the beauty of his service, and, more importantly, the way he served, has not been over-looked.
            First, it must be considered that the stresses placed upon Lincoln alone, the private and personal grievances as well as the blood of hundreds of thousands of soldiers, were his, and his alone, to bear. Lincoln had the blood of a nation on his hands, and he had the brunt of responsibility for cleansing and removing that stain. Granted, Lincoln had a family, a wife, an entire cabinet of advisers to presumably share this burden, and yet, in most cases these individuals only added weight to the load. Under such tremendous stress, while enduring almost incomprehensible pain and guilt, Lincoln still managed to smile and to do his best to lighten the burden of those around him. The cinematic tribute to his work and career, Lincoln, takes care to present this side of Lincoln’s character. Most memorably, as word of the bloody battle at Wilmington is being delivered via telegraph and Secretary of War Edwin Stanton is heatedly ranting at the telegraph operators, Lincoln butts in calmly with a humorous story about Ethan Allen. An interruption which, at the time, might have seemed poorly timed and unnecessary ended up providing a calculated relief of tension for all involved. In this way Lincoln quietly, nobly, bore the burden of thousands, yet took the time to make a telegraph officer’s day better.
            Much more can be said about Abraham Lincoln: family man, philosopher, walking stress ball. Although, it is important to note that Lincoln was not perfect, which makes his character an even more intriguing subject of scrutiny. Lincoln quarrels almost constantly with his wife, Mary Todd, whose own character flaws are inherent, yet likewise inherently justified following the death of one son in the White House and the feared death of another, Robert, who begs to join the Union Army. Robert and Lincoln, too, argue about Robert’s desire to offer himself up as a sacrifice for the Union’s cause; at one point Robert’s accusation that Lincoln doesn’t really care about Robert’s life, but is merely afraid of Mary Todd’s reaction to his joining the army, results in a hasty slap from his father. Although Lincoln immediately shows remorse and tries to hug Robert, the damage is done, and we see through his impenetrable calm to the turmoil that is there, just below the surface, intensified by this new conflict between desire to preserve his son and desire to preserve the Union. While this may be enough to incriminate him in the eyes of some, as the President himself said, “We can complain because rose bushes have thorns, or rejoice because thorn bushes have roses.” Lincoln, it seems, was a bush whose roses far outnumbered its thorns.
            The Lincoln more often scrutinized by historians, the immortalized and all-powerful, God-like man who sits nobly upon his throne at the Lincoln Memorial, is the Lincoln who led the nation to victory in the Civil War, who worked to abolish slavery, and who did his best to ensure that, following the War, the Union could return as best as possible to its former glory without excessive retribution or bad blood. This Lincoln was a political mastermind who used his powers effectively and calculatedly, not excessively. He was a master of argument whose strategy of using parables and stories to relate his point of view made the listener discover for themselves what Lincoln wanted them to believe, as though it were their own idea and not a viewpoint suggested to them. Lincoln was a man of magnanimity whose moral compass always pointed him toward True North, yet whose foresight and intelligence enabled him to take the most efficient, practical route to his final destination. Through determination, selflessness, practicality, and gentleness, Lincoln was able to accomplish his goals and teach valuable lessons to his companions on the way.
            So, while historically the battle between Honest Abe: saint, patriot, and family man and Abraham Lincoln: Moral Crusader and Supreme Overlord of the Lincoln Memorial rages on, the most important aspects of Lincoln’s character have been carefully laid out by Steven Spielburg for all the world to see in the final minutes of Lincoln. Lincoln was, more than a man who sought to restore goodness to the war-torn Union he presided over, a man who admired the goodness he saw already in the world and only sought to perpetuate it. Near the close of the film, after a visit to the ravaged, post-war Virginia countryside, Mary Todd asks Lincoln what he would like to do now that he has accomplished this mission of, in effect, salvaging the civilized world from utter destruction. Lincoln answers not with wishes of celebration, of grand parties, of countless hordes swarming the White House, screaming his name in adoration, but expresses the desire to visit Jerusalem, where “David and Solomon walked.” I think it is this, small and simple as it may seem, that pinpoints the true nature of Lincoln’s goodness. He admired not grand, worldly men, but men who, although they were kings “clothed in immense power,” ruled with clear heads and profound wisdom. It is this, the knowledge that Lincoln selected such men as his heroes that, more than anything, answers the persistent question of why Lincoln was, like, the greatest president ever. 

TEAM LINCOLN --- Not just cuz he abolished slavery, but because he, like, rocked. And stuff. 

P.S. Happy Friday!

Friday, April 26, 2013

THE Essay

Well, because this essay is similar to many of the rantings previously seen on Life With Lis  and because Gram has been so dedicated in motivating me to get it done, I give you:


The Myth of the “Caucasian”: When the Stereotype-er Becomes the Stereotype-ee
by Alyssa Roberts

Any required school questionnaires or doctor’s office forms given to me are met with excitement on my part. Call me a nerd, but I would credit twelve years in the public school system with the un-called for excitement that usually results from being handed any form of an “easy” worksheet. Despite this initial giddiness, however, there is one section of these forms that I just cannot figure out, as this section asks for a description of one’s race, usually accompanied by several options and boxes to be checked. Attempts at political correctness, or at least not offending as many people as possible while asking at what point in history their grandparents were discriminated against, make this section comical, to say the least. Options include African American/Black, Asian American, American Indian/Native American, and, my personal favorite, White/Caucasian. I know I will not be the first of my race to ask, thoughtfully, if not a bit disturbed at the fact that I don’t understand a term apparently concerning my own heritage, “What the heck is ‘Caucasian’?”

Well, my fellow white citizens of the world, I am here to tell you that I have finally discovered the answer. Put simply, to be Caucasian means to be a member of no race or ethnic group. That’s right, go ahead and pick up whatever object you just dropped in shock and despair- iPhone, coffee mug, laptop, whatever it may be- and allow me to explain. According to the great and powerful English dictionary, to be Caucasian means to be a member or descendent of “one of the traditional divisions of humankind” hailing from Europe, western Asia, and parts of India and North Africa. In effect, a Caucasian is thence a member of almost any race and ethnicity covered in such a broad scope of terrain. Essentially, Caucasians cannot be a member of one, so must be a partial member of all ethnicities, and therefore are members of none. Despite the obvious attempts of doctor’s offices and marketing companies to include whites in the sense of ethnic pride and unity shared by most groups, the title of Caucasian only serves to confuse and further divide whites into their own form of ethnic nonexistence, thereby forcing them to remain one homogeneous, culture-less culture, unless you count the culture of the racist bigot, which, these days, most people seem not to count.

            Some would say that it is our fault, an opinion I can agree with to a certain extent. Were my forefathers slave-owning plantation managers in Virginia until the 1860’s? No. My forefathers hail from Sweden, and, as the story goes, immigrated to America on a whim one day with nothing more than the equivalent of ten cents in their combined pockets. So, I submit that they were not at any point in time slave owners. Why, then, am I blamed for the crime of the white race? It seems that the tables have finally turned. Our social system has finally come full-circle, to the point where whites, always the veritable “top dog” of society, the controlling majority, have become the minority. Believe me you, I have no illusions about the true state of economic affairs, but from a purely social perspective, it is worth noting that the position of whites in society has changed, and changed considerably, along with the changing definition of racism.

            Traditional racism is nothing like the tentative, somewhat mocking understanding of other cultures that we see in society today. The story of traditional racism is well known and, admittedly, still a problem for many. Of course, I do not deny the crimes of organizations like the KKK or refute the nobility of the struggle of the American Civil Rights Movement. I rejoice in the changing system of racism today, but likewise feel the need to explain it more thoroughly. Currently, racism does not mean discrimination or prejudice against another race or ethnic group. Yes, that is what the dictionary says, and that is what history says, but no more. Today racism is a term casually flung back and forth between friends at any mention of a person’s ethnicity having a negative or positive connotation. For example:
Student A: “I got an A on my trig final!”
Student B: “That’s because you’re Asian.”
Student C: (to Student B): “That’s racist!”

            Perhaps the most interesting aspect of this changing definition, at least for me, as a humble Caucasian, is that whites, to an extent, are not allowed to take part in it. Not that I have any desire to be considered a racist, or even a fake racist, by my peers (who, despite the extensive coverage of the American Civil Rights movement in every history-related class they have ever taken since the beginning of our education, seem not to realize what a true racist is), but it would be nice to not be accused of racism any time one mentions anything about race or ethnicity ever. One day, while struggling to pay attention during Pre-Calculus, I was confronted by two (rather obnoxious) students who sit behind me. Unfortunately, I am unable to recall how the conversation began, but it ended with an exchange that has left me thoroughly perplexed.
Black student: (to Irish student) Oh, you’re Irish? What, so you guys eat a lot of potatoes or something?”
Irish student: “Yeah just like all you’ve got to eat is cotton.”
Bystanders: “OHHHHHHH!”
                    “Racist! That is so racist!”
                     “What the %@** is wrong with you, you *@%%#?”
Et cetera, Et cetera. While acknowledging that both comments are pretty messed up, one aspect of this conversation is perhaps more convoluted than what was actually said, and this is that only the Irish student is being called racist. Assuming that the Irish student, by their mention of cotton, was referring to the centuries of slavery suffered by (some, but not all) black citizens of the U.S., it is easy to see why the reaction was so pronounced. However, the Irish student, whose heritage, as it happens, is only known because this individual makes a point of mentioning it wherever possible, unlike most “Caucasians,” is likewise mocked concerning the Potato Famine, a time of serious horror and strife resulting in the deaths of millions of this individual’s ancestral countrymen. Yet, only the Irish student is accused of mocking the black student’s race.

            This example, and, believe me you, the many others I have encountered during my career as a public school student, is characteristic of the new definition of racism. The societal implications of this phenomenon, because of its newness, are yet unknown, but can be seen in their developmental stages. In a setting where any mention of ethnic heritage is considered racism, especially those mentions by a white (excuse me, Caucasian) person, racism may simply become an insult, a way of mocking one’s peers similar to “stupidhead” and other terms not worthy of mention in an academic article. The outcome I see, from the historically-endorsed “Caucasian” perspective, is that members of my ethnicity will become even more entrenched in the ever-present stereotype of the racist bigot that is truly our heritage. Leave it to the cynicism of modern society to rule out any other significant achievements and never let go the mistakes of a non-representative minority throughout the years.

            This stereotype, founded or un-founded, is the only heritage I am allowed, the only culture I can belong to. I, along with my “white brothers” am forced to remain homogeneous in society that is consistently moving toward the apex of heterogeneity. If I were Black, I might be allowed some pride in my heritage. If I were Asian, I might be allowed to make the distinction between “Caucasian” and English-Swedish. As it is, such a distinction is nowhere near as interesting as Filipino-Chinese, because the Americans didn’t attack the Swedish in their homeland and use it as a military base during any of the world wars. C’este la vie. As it is, I have thoroughly expended the socially acceptable time limit of discussions of race and must therefore retreat to my corner of the racial spectrum, forever to be stereotyped as the stereotype-er, forever a figurative enemy to the stereotype-ee.  

(c) Alyssa Roberts, 2013. Please do not plagiarize. Thanks. 

Wednesday, January 16, 2013

All-Time Low

For those of you who don't know, I volunteer at the library every Wednesday for a few hours. I actually quite enjoy this and look forward to it most weeks, especially the fact that it provides community service hours for the clubs I participate in. However, apparently my true nature has come out in the past few weeks, as I have completely forgotten to show up twice in the last month. So I am posting this apology letter I typed to my supervisor as a reference for future mistakes.

Dear Ginger,

 Imagine my horror to wake up from a relaxing, post-finals nap to realize that it's 3:45 and I was supposed to be at the library an hour and a half ago. I don't know if you've ever seen M. Night Shyamalan's Signs,but if you have you will understand what I mean when I say it was proportional to the moment when the alien steps out of the bush on that newscast from Brazil. So, if charming analogies are the sort of thing that might make you believe in a person, then I hope that was a good one for you. In all seriousness, I never even thought of going to the library. I had just this ongoing mental To-Do list that I've been adding to and subtracting from all week and I was honestly more focused on "Study for Physics midterm" than any other item on the list, except, of course, "Fall into an exhausted sleep-coma for approximately two and a half hours." Well, we can check that one off the list, apparently. I really am sorry. I don't want you to think of me as unreliable or flaky, even though I've given you every reason to believe that that is the case. I wish I could remember the term for the psychological phenomenon that is spontaneously forgetting an important item on your mental calendar, but I've already taken my psychology final this week and I'd rather not re-visit that experience, if you know what I mean. Anyways, I hope you can have a little faith in me when I say that I will be there next week and I will take the world of library volunteers by storm with my dedication and devotion to the art of shelving uncatalogued items. Please forgive me! 

Sincerely,
Alyssa Roberts

P.S. If you haven't seen Signs, you could also think of the moment when Mr. Collins proposes to Elizabeth in Pride and Prejudice. Or when Harry Potter realizes that the reason he can speak Parseltongue and see into Voldemort's mind is that he actually has a piece of Voldemort's soul in him. Just a thought. 


So that's that. I hope you all find my misery as entertaining as I hope Ginger does.