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Iată-ne amândoi ajunşi la un stop
C-am început să scriu e pur noroc
Iar când alb si negru din nou se unesc
Voi ştii să te găsesc acolo, în livresc

'Teachers! Leave them kids alone!'

The The War on Kids is a 2009 documentary taking a radical stand against education policies. After watching it, school spells out prison and control in my opinion. The first part of the documentary depicts the virulent “zero tolerance” policy for drugs and weapons which is basically divided in two sections in the documentary: one dedicated to weapons and one that obviously deals with usage of drugs in public schools. Driven by an almost irrational need to provide security, school authorities increase school clearance and cameras are monitoring every aspect of the student life, from classroom, hallway, recess areas, all in the name of increasing security for the student and the parents. But what it actually did and continues to do is to ruin any sense of normality to students who are slowly given the convict treatment. 

Photo retrieved @ theinnovativeeducator.blogspot.com

After comparing the security policy in a couple of high school with the one offered in a prison, the differences were slim; which makes one wonder to what extent is a school any different from a prison and if this unhealthy environment prepares the next generation to function normally in a democratic society? And what kind of understanding of democracy will this generation have after experiencing a genuinely oppressive environment?  Children are practically devoid of real legal rights; given how school conflicts are delt with: the principal questions the trespassing student and takes notes on his testimony, the student thinking that the situation will be taken care of at a school level. The next step is the student’s testimony being handed over to the police, who in their turn hand it over to court of law and then a warrant is issued.

Take the “no weapon tolerance” policy, for instance: a nail file suddenly becomes an assault weapon and children are being prosecuted and charged with a felony record before they are even aware of what that legal situation entails. Then there’s the “no drug tolerance” policy that adds to the equation. Technically, it all makes sense, and keeping a drug-free school environment is a reasonable ideal; but not the measures that are taken in this sense.  The extreme security measures that schools choose to take away the individual freedom and the opportunity for a healthy mental development. A lot of schools choose to assume that there is drug activity and students are randomly checked through violent police raids. Teachers and school counselors support this anti-drug policy which is beneficial at its core. But on the flipside, the same staff makes sure that young children who challenge the authority of a teacher in the most minor ways ends up with a psychiatric diagnosis that eventually results in a medicated treatment. Is ADHD a real disorder or is it just a concept coined to benefit both the pharmaceutical companies and teachers and parents unwilling to educate children whose behavior is seemingly “unruly”? Can medicating them really make a significant change in their behavior? The documentary reports that 90% of the Adderall usage in the world is taken by the US, which makes one wonder indeed. The DSM IV (Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders) mentions ADHD symptoms among which: the inability of a child to focus constantly, sit still, stay in his chair, play with other objects during class, etc. all pretty much normal drives a regular child has. So what does medication do? It floods the brain with dopamine, the neurotransmitter of pleasure, calming down the brown activity; and in doing so, the personality of the child vanishes away, neither happiness nor sadness is expressed – it literally transforms the child into a zombie. 

On the long run effects worsen and studies showed that children that were administered medication for their childhood disorders ended up having underdeveloped brains, hormonal dysfunctions and once medication stopped suicidal attempts or even murder attempts were recorded. Ironically, it all happened in the same environment that promoted “zero tolerance to drugs”. Hopefully the extreme state of things will call for more fortunate choices somewhere in the future when there will be enough people empowered to say “no” to abnormal unhealthy education environments.

On How I Became Stupid

Photo retrieved @  http://www.linternaute.com  

It’s the French novel I’ve just finished reading. Heard about it from a good friend of mine and postponed reading it until fate made it that I did. And I certainly had a grand time doing so. First of all, the book oozes with sarcasm through every paragraph. This isn't necessarily a book review, but it could be. Events are narrated from the perspective of Antoine, a middle class university professor whose mind wouldn’t apparently make a stop from thinking or macerating ideas. Things get so extreme that he loses his peace of mind and every aspect of the daily life becomes a painful remembrance of his overthinking; and in this case, overthinking means seeing too much of the big picture that the world offers which occasionally results in tragic events/or is the result of a “tragic” event, metaphysically speaking. In this view, Antoine refuses any advancement that technology, fashion, and non-organic industries offer, under the guard of tight moral values. His sense of duty to society but of all to his morals is heightened to such extent that he starts to feel enslaved. What to do next? In a clearly innocent intent to cure his “disease”, Antoine decides he needs to become… stupid, an idea that doesn’t appeal much to his friends or any normal person having a sparkle of sense left. He pursues his treatment with unflinching perseverance. He quits his job, cleans up his little studio of any objects reminding him of previous life or simply anything that’s thought-inducing. The empty space is quickly supplied with the latest technology gadgets and anything that a man his age would normally acquire, in order to attain that much desired normality. But in doing so you might he’s creating a monster, which he did compared to his original self, but in fact the character and the book criticize the commonness of conventional that modern times cast upon society. It’s the created need, and all the stereotypes that go well with the worldy ways. 

The metamorphosed character portrays a defaced man, whose appreciation for any kind of morality or beauty vanishes in the blatancy that society dictates.  The creating self, the loving self is slowly effaced to meet the requirements of a mold. Yes, a mold, that’s what most of us become when we allow society to completely engulf us. The centennial dream of individuality, that the western civilization proudly praises would therefore be nothing but a faint ghost of what man once used to be. But even in his self-induced transformation, Antoine doesn’t entirely discard his old self, there are moments when his hidden morals surge and that’s when substantial statement are made through the novel; for example, when he visits the matrimonial agency and the woman helping him asks him for nothing but physical aspects of the ideal woman he has a crushing revelation of the nullity of his endeavor. And this thin thread of substance is what eventually brings him back to his true self, as in a classic novel, despite its tremendous postmodern print.

Random Summer Thoughts

It’s late in the summer and as the hot season draws to a close, it’s time to tidy up the corners of the mind before a new season begins. Call it seasonal thinking, but my summer shelf is ready to welcome all the events that populated these past few months. It’s been a steady-paced time, with sluggish days, rainy days, moody days, happy days, just ok days. I’ve been no more no less than myself and under this constancy I lent myself to living the days, but most of the time I just let the day live through to me, that is when I didn’t feel the day; it’s a strange the thing that happens, when one doesn’t live the day, that’s when the day grows wings and traps one in a whirl and one’s left with no other choice than drifting away through the daily draft. Those were the noisy, but lonesome days. I personally give little appreciation to huge meaningless gatherings that most of the time lack authenticity, because attendants tend to become slaves of convention. And when convention prevails, that type of basic honesty slowly fades, conversations become awfully predictable – one could picture them prior to the event itself – so that the actual event feels like an enactment of overused lines in endless rehearsals that history keeps such incredible accurate unwritten records of. And it’s the unwritten script that survives the best, despite the opposite common belief held true by Romans –Verba volent scripta manent. I really think it survives best, because proof is in right there, in front of our eyes. Why say the grass is still green on the other side when brown shades gently find their way in as if an invisible painter cast his magic over nature at night.  But it’s almost fall and it’s all I tend to digress a lot, as you can see, but it’s alright the chaos in my mind is nothing but an indicator of my spontaneity, I might start with something that I think it interests me, but then again how do I know what it really does until I actually start? There you go, I could even find the perfect excuse for a perfectly rambling post.    

Lines. Fine Lines

by Sorin Oprisor

We need lines. We really do. Whether it's for crossing the street or to drive in the right lane. Those are the visible lines. Then there is another category of lines that stems from human relationships. Those qualify as invisible lines, or to avoid the temptation of opposites, less visible lines. The good vs. evil dichotomy might be the first situation crossing your mind but I've grown to learn that the world out there comes in more than just black and white. It comes in shades too. And as soon as you reach that area you come to realize that the afore mentioned opposition kind of falls to pieces. There will be the ones claiming to have that marvelous quality of discerning right from wrong and then there's others like me, that feel at a loss in front of matters of the kind. Call it caution, call it indecision, but I'm not here to be the one crossing a line. 

As soon as one crosses a line, things are sort of forever settled and I'm unsure if a growing patterning confidence is deeply seated in reality. Or maybe in the personal reality of the person we've already "framed". Humans are flawed beings and it is in this state of things that lies the desire to ardently set boundaries, put a seal on a "case", which ultimately situates the "framed" in an extreme. But what the "framee" fails to record is that in-between state of the person from the initial moment of their evaluation to the last one.

We fail to see the humanity laying so nakedly in the other; when it's our own nakedness speaking about wavering, tribulating feelings of infinite maybes whose temporary existence never did we managed to perceive. Any attitude, behavior comes as the result of a lengthy process, an evolution entailing an innumerous number of changes that we are most certainly blind to. So instead of wrenching your soul over apparently disturbing realities that others bring upon us, give that reality the benefit of the doubt for that inaccessible shady area before deciding to swiftly categorize. The unknown shading of that segment holds the truth and keeps it to itself in a disdainfully undisclosing manner. But it's the privacy of the being that it protects and I can't find a fine line to put my finger on.  And I probably shouldn't anyway.    

Oh, Innocence...

Now I really don't know how to start this. The moment you see the darkside of innocence. If such a thing exists. Innocence as a concept, not a as a personal experience. I'm far from claiming it, I feel I've lost it inside some time ago. But self-perception and outer perception are two notions that sometimes find it hard to overlap. And this case is no exception to the rule. I'm a self-declared non-innocent, but voices around speak differently. No, I can't claim innocence after all the knowledge I've let slip through the corners of my mind, all the words I've heard and uttered but most of all judging by emotional history. But then again how do you successfully marry the inside with the outside?If the outside is supposedly a faithful reflection of the inner core of the being, all I can do is notice a graceful failure. People don't perceive me this way. To them, I'm still "innocent"; but I know better, I keep my quiet composure and keep on moving. Me and my voiceless truth. That I cannot utter, because their voices cover my faint argument or any frail denial. But there comes a time when such an attitude isn't flattering, in fact it sets me apart in a painful fortress of loneliness. But then again it may be what I display on the outside: a dreamy, lost gaze at times and silence; loads of it. I might still carry Milton's paradise in my eyes, but don't forget it's a lost one. Now back to silences. Since when silence pairs with innocence? Right when that silence carries a full load of thoughts, ruminations and anything in this world that can be put into words. I'm here today to award innocence a fail. The ultimate one. And it's not the voice of denial speaking here, but a voice that wants to be heard and can't otherwise.

The Unbearable Lightness of Whys

I'm here because I want to bring to life to those instances of the obvious, of the now, of that then and of the human feeling whose past present or future are nothing but another side of the same coin. I'm not here in the quest of something nonexistent, of that something I'd like to project to get away from the real world. I want to render that crude, realistic almost naturalist feel that gravitates around humankind. I want that truthful reflection in the mirror, I take a peek and can almost catch a glimpse of it. But my words are always late, they carry the heavy load of that obvious, whose heaviness is inherently there, by virtue of some natural accident or law. Funny how law and accident are almost synonyms, they come together without even colliding. 

Now that I've somehow spoken my mind, I'd like to move to a certain "instance", one that just exists independent from our uttering. I want to talk about recognition and any means that might bring it. Where does it stem from? Most surely, I won't be able to cover or exhaust a matter of this kind but I'll just throw in a few errand thoughts. Sometimes it's loneliness. Other times it's pure vanity. Or even just the need to see others raise an eyebrow at the thought of one's accomplishments. But does that need for recognition really add value and eventually a sense of fulfillment to the self?Yes, if you consider a short-term view. On the long run, I'd go for a negative answer. After all, we're the most honest when we're with ourselves solely and when you watch the man in the mirror all the perks of praise and eyebrow raising will drop like dry fruit. At that point, you can't evade yourself anymore, and any social web you tried to build around your soul will vanish like dark runs before sunrise. 

And I hope that sight suits your soul and brings serenity to you. It's a time or revealing the inner true self, of letting go of that social, physical peel that surrounds the true self. Because after all, what really matters is that when you take a look at the core of your being you still find room for love, sincerity and goodness. Any other veils built to serve the self bear little significance. And it's that very littleness that trouble me. Under the noise of social gatherings, things get amplified, praises raise in the air but only to be short-lived. So if recognition finds it hard to stand the test of time, then it surely won't stand the test of my heart. For reasons already stated and other unstated it would be foolish to let your heart rest upon it, for you can't truly rest anything on a pipe dream.