Philosophy of 8th Grade

On Tuesday I talked philosophy with an 8^th grader. I dropped some Sartre and Camus, he provided some ideas of his own. The illustrations are his.

Question 1) What happens after you die?

A bit taken aback by his boldness, I only managed to stammer disjointedly until he took over: We know that often times when a person has a near death experience or dreams, they are not able to remember it afterwards. This is because at these times the pineal gland secretes an acid that inhibits memory formation. When a person dies, the pineal gland dumps the maximum amount of this acid into a person’s brain. We also know that energy cannot be created or destroyed. So, when a person dies, their life energy leaves their body and floats through the universe (not in heaven, not in hell, and certainly not in purgatory). Eventually this life energy finds its way into another body, a person being born. However, we don’t remember the lives that our souls have lived prior to our current life because of the memory-erasing enzyme of the pineal gland. So as a result, you could formerly be anyone from Jesus to Hitler.

Question 2) It all started with a big bang. But what happened before that?

Once again, I was unable to string together a coherent response. He provided a viable theory: Before the big bang there were two molecules, one was positive and the other negative. They got in a fight and kept bashing themselves into each other faster and faster until finally they fused into one molecule and exploded -- the big bang.

Question 3) Where do you stand regarding the Pittsburgh Zombie Dog experiment?

 

With no idea what he was talking about, I attempted to distract him by changing the subject to a recent discovery by Lawrence Kraus, but he promptly intervened and described the recent experiment in Pittsburgh that involved killing dogs by replacing their blood with a saline solution and leaving them for three hours before reintroducing the blood and bringing the dogs back to life.

Question 4) Have you heard of the “New Earth” (an Earth-like planet) recently discovered in a faraway galaxy?

 

No. Hence, I am pictured beneath a rock.

A Trip to the Hoover Dam: Go US!

“…yeah, they translated “pre-school” as ‘kindergarten.’ ”

“Well that’s normal; in Germany they start school at 4. I actually went to kindergarten in Germany.”

“Oh yeah, how was that?”

“A lot different. Much more about learning critical thinking and concepts. Not like the rote memorization with flashcards in America.”

“We actually do a lot of that where I work at the preschool for Google employees. It’s much more focused on building critical thinking and socio-emotional skills. Like, instead of teaching them the alphabet we give the kids cameras and have them take lots of pictures of things they’re interested and then we teach them about the things they want to learn about. So maybe they haven’t memorized what shapes the letters of the alphabet look like, but they can tell you about the parts of a car and why they’re there. And we put their pictures on the wall with quotes so that they’re invested in the words they learn. Like the other day we were working making things out of paper and one of my students said, ‘I love paper! There are so many things you can make out of paper. I’d like to make a costume out of paper.” So I wrote that down and made it the caption of his paper project. And we do a lot of socio-emotional skills, like mediating and helping them learn how to settle disputes. They’ll pick up the alphabet at some point, but these are skills they’ll need for the rest of their lives that other teachers might not take the time to teach. And honestly my students teach me. Like I have one student who’s really into space and he’s always talking about the Sombrero Galaxy or how a rocket ship is different from a space shuttle—”

“The Sombrero Galaxy?”

“I know, I had to Wikipedia it. But that’s his area of expertise, and he knows more than me on his area of expertise, even if I know more about every other subject. You know, teachers always are thrilled when the administration gives them more liberties, they always feel like they finally have the flexibility to really teach, but why don’t they give that liberty to the students? Help the students learn what they’re interested in instead of forcing a curriculum on them. A lot of teachers say they learn more from their students than their students learn from them, but that’s always outside of the classroom, how many actually apply that in the classroom? And, granted, it's difficult to be a teacher and figure out how to best suit your students’ needs, but that's no reason not to. My only concern is that once my students leave, they’re stuck in a regular school. I talked to the parents of a former student who told me their son’s 1st grade teacher assigned a family portrait assignment and their son drew his family driving in a car on a highway and his teacher told him he was wrong, that his family should’ve been sitting in a garden.”

By now we’re pulling up to the empty parking lot. I remember as he read aloud that afternoon: “The Hoover dam controls the Colorado River and provides electricity and water to nearly 20 million people…for the dam to be built the river had to be inverted. The cooling process of the concrete was sped by pumping ice cold water through pipes in the dam. It’s the largest singly poured concrete structure in the world.”

 Night has already fallen. A shock of frigid wind claws at our coats as we step from the car. We shuffle under the stale cast of yellow streetlamps. Black water licks the jagged cliffs, the only sign of life an occasional yellow glint on a wave. To the right, a powerful river, greater than most lakes I know. To the left, a gash, a wasteland, a stark nothing. Lean over the edge and behold the splendor of America’s great concrete cathedral: not a seam, such perfect conformity.

Another Trip Begins

The thrill of travel is a tingling on the skin and the verge of a smile. A silent challenge issued to every passer-by: “Ask me how I’m feeling, I dare you.”

A chipper security guard accepts my challenge, clearly naïve of her inevitable defeat:

“How are you today?” She’s asking for it.

 “I’m doing great, thanks.” BAM. Take that. And to gracefully refrain from grinding her to a faceless pulp with my superior circumstances, a conciliatory gesture: “How are you?”

“I’m fantastic! Living the TSA dream.” …except it isn’t said with a scathing tinge of bitterness. Unbelievably, she seems perfectly content, even happy. What strange turn is this? A week in Vegas thwarted by a day on the job? Perhaps it would be better for me to just go home.

But finally she concedes, “Excited to get out of town?”

Yes! Redemption: “I’m so excited.”

“Alright, don’t party too hard.” Even when you’re going to Las Vegas for an internship with Teach for America, everyone still assumes you’re going for the party.

So many passing faces. First glances are moments of recognition that evaporate before you can scoop them up: A long lost coworker, a distant relative, Judi Dench. Second glances are always anonymous. The two boisterous men behind me in Cincinnati jackets chortling as they exchange garbled jargon about sports odds and speculate as to whether a Dave and Buster’s card is an acceptable form of state-issued ID? No one I know.

And somehow when you travel alone you’re accompanied by everyone you’ve ever traveled with, and a few you’ve only imagined.

Why does a trip to the airport inevitably recall every trip I’ve made to the airport? Here I’m getting lost on another layover walk led by my dad who so confidently doesn’t know where he’s going. Here I’ve just turned a corner in Heathrow and spotted a dear friend and her fantastic purple jeans. Here I’m nervous I won’t make it through Sicilian airport security (silly thing to worry about). In homage to my father, I calmly wait in the terminal after everyone else has scurried to the gate to finish my orange and jot a few notes as the line subsides.

Look, airplanes!

Look, I took a picture of my feet!

Look, it’s Phoenix!

Man, I used to love these things back when I was convinced every plane ride was fated to crash in the ocean and I’d have to debate between my seat cushion and the inflatable life vest for a flotation device!

Sometimes I suspect that the only difference between writers and regular people is that writers are convinced that every mundane detail in their lives that a regular person wouldn’t bother writing down is fantastically interesting and they’re determined to get you to listen. Or maybe that’s just me.

Chili's Bar and Grill, Tempe, Arizona, United States (or: My Sicilian Heart)

Four orders of chicken crispers on my left, four orders of chicken crispers on my right, Enough sodium and calories on each plate to last its eater a full week. In front of me, a tall glass of water. Two months later, this is the first time “La Nostra Famiglia Italiana” has reconvened, but it would appear that “Italiana” is in short supply. As each in turn dives into the pool of grease on the plate before them I begin to feel nauseous from the fumes alone; for respite I can only fantasize about that great Sicilian feast I never enjoyed.

 

Two months before I finally bring myself to scratch with pitiful words the splendor of that tiny isle, that tiny town of my father’s father’s father, where “La Nostra Famiglia Italiana” strangely communed with my Italian family, where I sprawled with Sicilian Nero in hand, on sand so smooth the blue sky danced upon its white ridges, drinking desperately the cool sea air. Salty air which meanders lazily through sun-baked streets mingling with the sweet perfume of flowers overflowing on every curb.

 

Truth is beauty, beauty truth, and here I didn’t need metaphor to feel at home; The prickly-pear cacti, prolific agave, soaring jagged mountains demanded reminisces of the Arizona landscape I know so well. That sea I had unknowingly carried reflected in my eyes for 20 years, she told me.

 

I had come eagerly anticipating the taste of Sicily’s famous cuisine, but ignorance of the great siesta forced us to leave for our flight, this wish still unfulfilled. Clearly Sicily, that mother island, was slapping me on the wrist for visiting only for a few short hours. And, in the airport, as my backpack was snatched from the x-ray machine to be searched, I knew that the stern mother would confiscate the forbidden sweets I had sneaked off the kitchen counter in the form of a jar of olives with far more liquid than the carry-on limit and a wine bottle that could quickly serve to beat the pilot into submission. However, when the officer removed them from my bag, looked, shrugged, and put them back, I knew. This was no punishment from my mother island. She was merely beckoning my Sicilian heart back home.

 

I Found Keats in my Cornflakes

I found Keats in my cornflakes. Sitting at the kitchen table, the window wide open to the cramped courtyard’s potted gardens and drying clothes. Down three flights of marble stairs (or an elevator that was a cage) the throbbing streets of Rome: Vespas and Fiats careening through its narrow veins, skidding to a halt before waves of pedestrians paying no heed, vendors shamelessly peddling their wares to any and all passers-by, couples making love with their clothes on, gypsies, parasites picking your pocket, ancient ruins presiding indifferently over everything, casually waiting for the next two thousand years. But I was in the kitchen. And I found Keats in my cornflakes.

“Beauty is truth, truth beauty”

The words seemed so cryptic when first I read them almost a year ago; I tossed them aside, meaningless. But suddenly, on this journey lined by ancient treasures whose meaning, whose history, true or not, I could never hope to fully understand, but whose beauty I could never cease to admire, they came ringing back with unprecedented clarity.

I continued to nibble on these thoughts as I finished my bowl of cereal.

Ode on a Grecian Urn

John Keats (1795-1821)

1. THOU still unravish’d bride of quietness,   Thou foster-child of silence and slow time, Sylvan historian, who canst thus express   A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme: What leaf-fring’d legend haunts about thy shape         5   Of deities or mortals, or of both,     In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?   What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?   What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?     What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?         10 2. Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard   Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on; Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear’d,   Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone: Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave         15   Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;     Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss, Though winning near the goal—yet, do not grieve;   She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,     For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!         20 3. Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed   Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu; And, happy melodist, unwearied,   For ever piping songs for ever new; More happy love! more happy, happy love!         25   For ever warm and still to be enjoy’d,     For ever panting, and for ever young; All breathing human passion far above,   That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy’d,     A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.         30 4. Who are these coming to the sacrifice?   To what green altar, O mysterious priest, Lead’st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,   And all her silken flanks with garlands drest? What little town by river or sea shore,         35   Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel, Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn? And, little town, thy streets for evermore   Will silent be; and not a soul to tell     Why thou art desolate, can e’er return.         40 5. O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede   Of marble men and maidens overwrought, With forest branches and the trodden weed;   Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!         45   When old age shall this generation waste,     Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say’st,   “Beauty is truth, truth beauty,”—that is all     Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.         50

June 11 Part II: Europride featuring Lady Gaga

[Author's note: due to popular demand I have re-posted this entry after a brief hiatus]

And suddenly, there I stood. Surrounded by, immersed in, a haze, a sea, a fog of bodies marching, singing, dancing, cheering; Rainbow banners, Rainbow colors, male thongs, men in dresses, lumberjacks, policemen, balloons of penises wearing tuxedos; whips, pearls, boas, scarves, gender no longer a relevant distinction; Spice Girls, Ricky Martin, party buses, an endless crowd; lips meeting, shutters clicking, and I just wanted to cross the street.

Like so many of Rome’s monuments, the scale of this spectacle registered on the cosmic level: A tidal wave of riotous rainbow semi-trucks and demonstrators on foot. Some groups organized with coordinating outfits led by LGBT club banners--I couldn’t help but reminisce on days gone by when my Cub Scout troupe marched in similar fashion in my hometown’s Veteran’s Day parade--but otherwise there seemed to be no order at all, just perpetual waves of passing faces supporting the cause.

I stood on the curb amongst the cheering throng. Waiting for the end of the parade was hopeless, it could be hours. With no other option, I discreetly slipped into the passing tide and worked my way across the street.

Yes, you heard correctly, I marched in the 2011 Roma Europride Parade.

Back in my apartment:

“Hey man, you wanna see Lady Gaga tonight at the Circus Maximus? We’re leaving in like 5.”

“Mm—depends if I finish dinner in time.” I fully intended to go. But I wasn’t quite ready to admit it.

Now it was his turn to cover up: “I mean, you know, Lady Gaga’s not my thing, like at all. I just wanna go so I can say I did. Plus it’s free, I’d never pay money to see her.”

“Oh no, of course not, I totally agree, we’ll see if I even go.” I downed my bowl of pasta in one swift swallow. “Look at that, finished in time, guess I might as well tag along.”

Stretched as a parade, the true scale of the demonstration was shrouded. But here, sprawling across the legendary Circus Maximus, it’s overwhelming; electricity pulsating through an eternal mass. My roommates and I plunge forward, deeper and deeper into the sea of bodies pressed against each other, the sweet smells of sweat and marijuana mingling in the twilight.

Ciao, Roma. When I first embarked on my artistic and musical journey as a young Italian-American woman, I did not know yet the passion and the fervor for equality, for social justice that would grow so deeply inside of me.

Finally we’ve wriggled, jostled, shoved, forced our way to the center near the stage. But, as I mention to my roommate, I'm not a tall guy and I can't see a thing. The man in front of me, in makeup and a tight sleeveless gay-themed shirt, overhears, turns seeming concerned, and suggests I join a few girls sitting on a fence a few feet away. ‘No, really…” I begin, but he’s already asked them for permission and suddenly I have a perfect view of the stage still empty except a grand piano and flashing words projected onto the backdrop, “PARTY; ROMA; PRIDE; EUPHORIA...” to the accompaniment of an electronic beat.

 As I become closer to each and every one of you through music, dance, art, and fashion, my greater mission to is to be part of the joyous mobilization of the LGBT community worldwide. We fight for freedom. We beckon for compassion. And above all we want full equality NOW.

And suddenly there she is, the famous Lady herself. I was expecting a more dramatic entrance, a more absurd outfit. But she has entered the stage quite casually sporting aquamarine hair, giant sunglasses, and a dress that only breaks maybe one rule of fashion; she approaches the podium. Her voice almost seems detached it is so calm, monotone except for a key word once or twice accentuated in a guttural yell. Only later do I realize how very 20th century it is of me to scribble notes on the back of my map when the whole thing will be posted on YouTube later that night.

We are here to proclaim our strength, our steadfastness, and our intelligence; we will not be treated as anything less than human. It is not just about one law or one example. These laws that have yet to be passed, they set a precedent, and so many young people are being affected: suicide, self-loathing, isolation, inability to find work or integrate based on fear. Modern social issues are real. They are serious. The precedent set by the government is so influential, and that is why we are here; because it regards that some of us, LGBTs, will not have an equal seat at the table--but we will. Let us come together and synthesize our histories into today. Let us be revolutionaries of love and use our human powers to save lives and encourage unity around the world.

I can’t help but reflect on her words in the context of the scene around me. An accepted, acknowledged place in this convoluted web of society, with all of the institutions and benefits that go with it, that’s what the LGBT community longs for. To not be relegated to the fringes, to live openly without facing disapproval and scorn. Which is almost odd in a way to me because I more often find myself trying to escape the inevitability that deeply rooted societal traditions bring. Our lives are mapped out for us: school, college, work, marriage, kids, retirement. Our beliefs: Liberty, Justice, Democracy, Capitalism. We carry out entire conversations of accepted social phrases without really saying anything: ‘Hey, what’s up?’ ‘Nothing, you?’ ‘Just living the dream.’ ‘Keep on keeping on, right?’ ‘For sure.’

For the security social acceptance brings we forfeit the freedom to say, to do whatever we want whenever without having to worry about offending anyone. We become perfect facades that never would dream of a taboo thought or feeling, and authenticity too often becomes something of a guessing game. It seems there would almost be a strange liberation in being totally rejected by society. Suddenly you would be free to completely ignore all of the rules, to live however you pleased; you would never worry about offending anyone because you already had.

LGBTs very well may attain the social acceptance they fight for, but at what cost? Will that man over there still be able to roam the streets in nothing but lime green briefs, stilettos, and a string of pearls? Will the man I saw in a blue dress still wear a lampshade on his head just because he can? Will so many in the crowd still have the liberty to stroll freely in public with balloons of their smiling sexual organ of choice? Maybe. Maybe not.

It’s a sad comedy, me ranting about the downsides of this social acceptance readily available to me while the LGBT community fights so hard for every inch of it they can manage. I don’t mean to downplay the injustice of anti-gay violence and discrimination, especially in countries where homosexuality is a crime. But as for integration into mainstream society, the LGBT community may find it’s not quite so liberating as they had hoped. In the meantime I am investigating real estate on hermit-friendly deserted islands.

Dinner in Rome (or The Plight of an English Major)

But what was most shocking to me was that you didn’t have to do anything. Light the stove (with a lighter, none of this electric nonsense). Throw in some sausage, some peppers, mushrooms, onions; soon the tantalizing scent is billowing from the popping, sizzling pan, filling the room. Meanwhile you have some tomato sauce heating on the stove (ingredients: tomato, water), dump in the vegetables and sausage once they’ve reached golden-brown perfection. Spices--whatever is in the cabinet. Can’t read the Italian labels? Doesn’t matter, everything goes in. Now things are heating up, let the sauce simmer, salt water on the stove, wait till it’s boiling, in goes fresh pasta, out it comes again, onto plates, pour on the sauce, slice of bread, glass of wine--what more could a hungry stomach, a yearning palate ask? But the three of us crowding, jostling over these bubbling pots and pans (each much more confidant in his own cooking prowess than that of the others), we were only observers in this fantastic transformation, this synthesis of delicacy from bare raw materials.

It was with glee that I shoveled ingredients around the frying pan, watching in wonder as the peppers slowly shed their awkward stiffness and opened up, the onions relinquished their caustic, impersonal disposition, the sausage pulled itself together into something you could sit across the table from and have a conversation. This was greater than mere food preparation, I was witnessing a movement of social cohesion. These were the kindergarteners who clung fiercely to their mothers before the first day of school only to refuse the once anticipated return home at 3 o’clock, the high school freshmen afraid they wouldn’t fit in who find themselves in tears to leave their dearest friends at graduation, so many shy crushes which blossom into passionate lovers--this was us, the study abroad, a smattering of students smeared across Rome which somehow morphed into coherent, relevant social clans.

At first there were no words, we could only ravenously scoop this manna from heaven into our mouths and question what we had done to deserve this celestial meal. But as our hunger gave way, conversation slowly filled the gaps. Cam, to my right, was, at over 6 foot, an imposing figure. More than ten years older than us, he was a bit aloof, often out who knew where until who knew when in the morning. I knew that he was already a longtime bachelor and had military experience, but other than a shared love for Maxwell, I could not begin to probe at the void of time between his high school graduation and today. Matt, across the table, was my age. A self-proclaimed “bro”, earlier I had heard him mention, regarding the United States, “What I miss most is sitting at home watching Sports Center drinking a Coors.” Right now he was lamenting that he couldn’t decide what to bring home for his family as souvenirs from Rome. Suddenly the answer was in my hands, I cut in:

“You should bring back food as souvenirs for everyone--It could be a metaphor for the temporary nature of existence: just as the sites we visited once were complete and functional and beautiful but have been eaten away by millions of years until now all that remains is an empty shell, the food will start out complete and delicious but it will be slowly eaten until all that remains is the empty container!”

Pause.

“Yeah, no.”

“You’re talking to a finance and a health major. We don’t think like that.”

The plight of an English major.