I guess it has been a combination of events that has led me to write these thoughts about freedom. Thinking in terms of history, current events, and my own experience, I have been forced to consider my own beliefs about freedom. Last month was the 4th of July, a time when Americans across the country celebrate the signing of the Declaration of Independence in 1776. However, for many, Independence Day is seen as an opportunity for grilling and lighting fireworks, not for remembering the efforts and sacrifices of those who came before. It is my personal opinion that forgetting these prices of freedom has become a national handicap, but more on this later.
In more recent news, a federal judge in California has ruled Proposition 8 to be unconstitutional, which in effect has re-legalized homosexual marriage in the state of California. Although I find such blatant judicial activism a bit disconcerting, it has made me reevaluate the argument from its simplest roots. I will try not to comment on the actual issue itself, as it is not my position to argue for or against homosexual marriage. However, it is altogether possible that my stance against such marriages may color my views, so it should be duly noted. As I see this matter, it is a struggle between the perceived rights of one group and the morals and traditions of another. I must use the phrase "perceived rights" because whether or not homosexual marriage is a right is the heart of the debate. So the basic, yet complex question is this: can one claim a right, and thus ensure its protection, and can another reject this claim, thus ensuring its destruction? In other words, can freedoms be claimed and denied by the voice of the people, or even one person? A supporter of homosexual marriage would claim that gay couples are entitled to the same rights as a straight couple, while an opponent would claim this to be a perversion of traditional marriage and deny the extension of such rights. So who has the final say in matters of such importance? Two years ago it was the voice of the people, two days ago it was a federal judge. As the Supreme Court has refused to hear the case, it must now be battled out between the people and the state.
Moving away from Prop 8, I recently watched a movie that really made me think. Invictus, nominated for several Academy Awards, follows a South African rugby team shortly after the dissolvement of apartheid. On the subject of freedom, two moments really struck me. The first was watching lines of black South Africans waiting for hours so that they could vote, a right that had previously been denied them. The other came when Nelson Mandela, portrayed by Morgan Freeman, stepped in at a meeting of the National Sporting Administration to prevent the disbandment of the Springboks, a rugby team with only one black player. His reasoning for wanting the Sprinboks to continue to play was to show white South Africans that they had nothing to fear in the new country and government system. He wished South Africans to be equal, rather than simply shifting positions of oppressors and oppressed.
After sharing one more experience, I will attempt to tie all of these together so they make sense. Last year at this time I was preparing to move into the college dorms at Brigham Young University. I was nervous, but excited as I soon became aware of all the newfound freedoms I could enjoy. I went where I wanted when I wanted and did what I wanted, because I answered to myself. Of course I knew my responsibilities and expectations, but I was in charge. AFter the school year ended, I moved back home where I discovered that I would again have limitations place upon me. Especially on the matter of curfew, I had to make adjustments I did not like. At first I was upset at losing my freedoms. However, I soon discovered an important lesson. At school I had to pay rent, buy groceries, make my own meals, and do other such things which I no longer worry about. In other words, I had payed the price for my freedoms. I have learned that when I don't pay the price, my freedoms are not mine.
Now the conclusion. America has become all too much like me at the beginning of my summer. Wanting all the freedoms but forgetting at what price these freedoms come. The blood of millions of Americans has been spilled to defend the rights and freedoms of every American citizen. Perhaps we should look to the South Africans breaking from apartheid, and exemplify their appreciation for and respect of their freedoms. While many people all over the world wait for hours to exercise their right to vote, only 18% of Utahns took the few minutes necessary to cast their votes in the recent primaries. Do Americans, to a large extent undervalue the price their freedoms came by? I must say yes. American people have come to expect too much when they appreciate too little.
In the case of Prop 8, it has become my view that gay marriage proponents have come to expect too much for themselves at the price of their fellow Americans. Whether their cause is just is not my determination to make. What I do know is that the push for the legalization of homosexual marriage has become all too much like the push for the disbandment of the Springboks as portrayed in Invictus. AS the gay rights movement has risen to prominency, its members have come to act as though they must take position atop their opponents. Should opponents of gay marriage be silenced and rendered powerless? No. However, it has already begun to happen. The voice of the people spoke out in approval of California's Prop 8. And yet one man has sought to silence the voices of many in order to push his agenda. While it is not my place to determine who is right or wrong, it is my duty as a citizen of the United States of America to speak out against such blatantly obvious abuses of freedoms granted to Americans. Unless Americans learn to appreciate and value the rights they have, and appropriately use the freedoms they have been given, we will very soon discover the Constitution of the United States hanging by a thread. Whiel I pray this day will never come, I must prepare for it, as our country's citizens appear to have no desire to deviate from their current course. All I can do is fight to uphold the ideals of American freedom and encourage others to do the same. I hope you will.
Saturday, August 7, 2010
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Blog #20: Reflection
I think this blog experience has been pretty fun. It has definitely made me think about who I am writing too, because I can't put things on here that I don't want others to read. Talha's experience has really made me be careful, because even people who I don't intend to read this might. Although other people are reading this blog, it is nice to have a place to write stuff down and figure out things a little better. Sometimes I don't understand what I am thinking until I put it into words, and this is a great place for me to do that. This is something I definitely plan on continuing, because it will help me to clear my mind by writing down some things and give me extra space in my head.
Blog #19: Waking Up
I have a ridiculously hard time waking up in the mornings for class. I don't know what it is, but seven in the morning is the worst time to try to get up. If I have to be up by six or earlier, no problem. Same story if it is ten or later. But those few hours in between are awful. So of course I have class at eight every day, which means trying to get up and get ready before then. I used to wake up to my phone alarm, but then started sleeping through it. So I switched to my alarm clock, and that worked for a while. Then it took both alarms to wake me up. Now I have to use both alarms and put them across the room so I have to get out of bed to turn them off. I guess if it works it's what I should do, but really? It should not be this difficult.
Blog #18: Our Religion
Tonight my roommate and I watched a documentary on the National Geographic Channel about Cain and Able. One of the ideas being presented is that many ancient cultures carry a story similar to the one found in the Bible. Those civilizations that were among the first to write had the oldest records of these writings, so some believe that the Bible was influenced by these ancient civilizations. After a few other points, my roommate pointed out that much of what was being discussed was what we as Mormons already believe, but we understand it on a deeper and more correct level. This lead us to a discussion about how many people say that all the LDS gospel is, is a compilation of bits and pieces of other religions. But actually it is the other way around. So many people and religions have parts of the truth, but they lack the whole picture and all of the different aspects that make our Church complete. We are the only true church of God because we are the only ones with a fulness of knowledge. Other know some, but no other religion has all of the truth. I am extremely grateful for the fact that I do have all the truth in my religion, even if I don't know or understand it all, because this is how I will make sure to keep myself on the right path to return to Heavenly Father again.
Blog #17: Distractions
I have decided that I get distracted way to easily. I try to work on a homework assignment, but I also want to be checking facebook or reading my life is average. Great website by the way. But the problem is that I spend way too much time not doing my homework, so then I am up forever late every night to finish up. I have a roommate who can buckle down and finish his homework so easily. It is rather impressive. I'm sure it's not nearly as fun as doing it my way, but that is probably a good thing. Maybe I just try to have fun while doing homework, and those two things generally are not a good mix. But with the semester winding down and finals looming (I love that word, it sounds so foreboding) I have to learn to focus. We shall see if it actually happens, but I really hope it does. Because I think that being able to study and do well on finals would be tight.
Blog #16: Reflection on Personal Narrative
This was definitely the hardest paper to write all semester. It was a style I have never used before, and one that didn’t come naturally to me. However, I think I learned the most about myself, not only when it comes to English, but as a person. As far as English is concerned, I learned a new way to write, and I think I got the hang of it nicely. Between my rough draft and my final paper, I know I improved a lot. I learned how to adapt to something new, to work on it until I was happy with it, and then to apply it until I had my final product. I honestly think that I did a good job on this paper, and I don’t mean that to sound prideful at all. I am just very happy with how I did. I also learned more about myself. I came to better appreciate all my experiences now that I have had the chance to look back on them. I realized how much I learned from living in Russia, and I have come to realize what a blessing that truly was. I have met many people who do not understand other people, religions, cultures, traditions, and ways of thinking, simply because they have never been exposed to any of them. It makes me sad to realize how blind so many people are. I am so grateful for everything I learned from my time in Russia, and how that has helped me to not only further my own education about the world, but to help others learn more, become more aware, and become more tolerant.
Blog #15: Final Personal Narrative
To Russia and Back
“Family meeting! Everyone come to the family room!”
“Great. Another family meeting. It’s not like any of us actually pay attention.”
I roll my eyes as I drag my feet into the family room. My dad always called these meetings to discuss what was important for all of us to know. Usually that meant talking about what was going to happen in the week, or telling us to stop playing tic-tac-toe on the baby’s diaper, or something like that. To me it was time to see how much I could goof off with my brother Jake before we got in trouble. But my parents were insistent that we have these meetings, so we gathered together distractedly.
“Well kids, your mother and I have been meeting with some leaders of the Church, and now we have permission to tell you that I have been called as a mission president to the Russia, Moscow mission and in June we will be moving to Russia for the next three years.”
I had been lying on the carpet, but before my dad could finish his sentence I was sitting upright. This was kind of a big deal. I had never been to Russia, never even really heard anything about the place, but that was the country I would call home for the three years of my life. Three years was a long time, I had only even been alive for twice that. My parents tried to explain what this calling and this move meant and why it was all happening. I could faintly hear their voices, even though they were talking normally and we were in the same room. I was still dazed by the news, and I turned attention to my own thoughts. My brain was pounding against my skull as I tried to take in this information.
“Russia. Three years. Russia. Three years.”
The next few months were extremely busy, and I felt like my life had become a whirling twister of events. My parents had to pack up everything they needed for themselves and their six kids for the next three years, fly all of us over the ocean to a new country, and live for three years in a foreign place. With the oldest of these kids, my sister Annelise, being nine years old, and the youngest, my little brother McKay, having yet to hit the one year when the call came, this task was extremely difficult. My mom, while recovering from surgery, would slowly make her way around the house, carefully packing the belongings we needed to take with us, wrapping the fragile ones in newspaper and bubble wrap. My dad spoke to us in Russian, trying to give us a head start on learning the language.
“Priviet!” My dad spoke crisply with no trace of an American accent. “That is how you say hi to kids your age. Make sure you roll the r nicely.”
“Priviet!” Somehow I could never make it sound as good as my dad, although I did learn to roll my tongue the right way.
When the time finally came to leave, relatives were sobbing in the airport. Everyone was hugging, talking frantically about how much we were all going to be missed and what a great experience we were about to have. My legs were tired, so I sat in the baby’s car seat waiting to leave. I watched with disgust at all the kissing and the crying. Of course I acted all nice to everyone because my parents were around and I wasn’t going to see these people for three years anyways.
“Can we get on the plane already? I’m tired. This is ridiculous. I swear, if one more aunt tries to kiss me I am going to scream!”
When it finally came time to load the plane I was relieved. I could sit down and finally get moving. Patience has never been my strong point, and moving to a new country definitely would not be something I could wait for well. When we finally got to our seats my brother and I took the two seats by the window. My mom passed around gum for us to chew on so that our ears would pop when the plane took off. I pressed my face to the glass as the plane taxied down the runway and began her ascent. As the ground slowly receded from view, I took my last look at America, the land I would not see again for three years, then turned towards the front of the plane and started playing the games I brought in my carry-on.
I started my elementary school experience in Russia. Day one of first grade. As if the transition to a real school wouldn’t have been hard enough, I was going in without any of my old friends and I knew that I would be alone. My school, the Anglo-American School of Moscow (AAS), was the top international school in the area. The school attended by the children of ambassadors and business men alike. What I saw was a building much bigger than any elementary school I had seen at home, where the tallest was only two floors. Next to this building easily double the size of my old school, I felt myself shrink smaller and smaller, until I was sure I would slip between the cracks in the sidewalk. It didn’t help that I had made us all late either.
“Mom do I have to go to school today? I won’t know anybody! What if I don’t make any new friends?”
“Honey, you are going to love it! Just get in there and make some new friends.”
“Mom I really don’t want to. Please don’t make me go. I don’t want to!”
“Get in there now or I will hold your hand, walk you in, and sit with you the whole time.”
And thus started first grade. I came into my classroom alone after class had already begun, so all eyes were on me. A brilliant way to start off. I looked at all the faces, and I was shocked at what I saw; the skin tones ranged from white like me to very dark brown, with every possible tint in between. I had come from Utah, where everyone I knew was white. I didn’t even know that all these different ethnicities even existed. Russia was a much stranger place than I had imagined.
This initial shock did not last long, however. Although meeting new people of different races and cultures was new to me, it was not frightening. My curiosity was very much aroused, so I set out to make new friends in this new school. One of my first friends was Dylan, the kid I sat next to on my first day of school.
“Hi I’m Spencer. Who are you?”
“My name’s Dylan. I am from India. Where are you from?”
“I am from Orem, Utah, in the United States.”
I soon learned that my classmates were from all over the world including India, China, the United States, the United Kingdom, Egypt, Canada, Pakistan, Korea, and many other places. In fact, throughout all of AAS there were kids from 46 different countries. To me it was a tantalizing blur of colors, cultures, and traditions. Being so young, I really had no trouble adapting to this new situation. In America, all the people I knew were white and Mormon. Here people were Catholic, Protestant, Jewish, Muslim, Hindu, Buddhist, and many other religions. Most people dressed the way I did, jeans and a t-shirt, but walking the halls of school I passed people wearing strange clothes. One girl wore clothes that wrapped her whole body, a boy wore a strange hat on the back of his head, some girls always kept their heads covered by a shawl.
“Well if that’s what they are supposed to wear, then that’s fine by me. A little weird, but hey that’s their deal.”
My fourth grade year, my last year in Russia, was a time when I learned the most. I had to very good friends, but their backgrounds were quite different from mine. C.J. was a fellow American, but he came from Texas and was a Catholic. Salim was from Egypt, and he was a devout Muslim. To those looking on, this surely was an unlikely trio. Our backgrounds had very little in common. This did not matter to us in the slightest. We were three rowdy young boys who had common interests. We spent our time playing video games, going bowling, playing racquetball, getting into trouble, and doing what normal elementary school kids do. However, there were times when our differences were discussed. One particular instance, we were discussing the idea of Christ and His return to the earth.
“I think that Christ was a good prophet. But He wasn’t a Savior, He didn’t come back from the dead, and He won’t come back to earth,” was Salim’s answer.
C.J. thought that “Christ has already told us when He is coming again. My parents know the exact day He is coming, and I will be ready.”
I told them what I believed, that “no one knows when Christ will come again, but we should be ready for Him whenever He does come.”
As we resumed our games, I thought about how we all think differently. No one of us was exactly the same.
“It would be kind of boring if everyone thought exactly the same. No excitement at all, and no one to talk about different ideas with.”
Three short years after that plane landed in Russia, I planted my feet firmly on American soil, breathed the American air, and basked in the American sunlight. It felt good to be home. However, in talking to my friends, I was alarmed at how little they knew about the world. Telling them my stories over the years often leads them to ask what I found to be obvious questions.
“Why do Indian women put dots on their foreheads?” “Why do Muslims all want to blow up Americans?” “Don’t people dress funny over there?” How could you stand living in such a cold, dirty, poor place?”
I smile as I answer as best I can. These people have never been east of the Mississippi, some never even outside the state of Utah. How are they to know? Over the years my answers have become more and more knowledgeable, as I learn more than I ever knew. Pouring over pages of books, watching news and informational programs, looking at artwork, I try to learn more about these cultures. Not the facts, the information, the statistics. The people I knew who came from these different heritages. I established my global roots eleven years ago. Maybe now I can plant that seed in someone else.
“Family meeting! Everyone come to the family room!”
“Great. Another family meeting. It’s not like any of us actually pay attention.”
I roll my eyes as I drag my feet into the family room. My dad always called these meetings to discuss what was important for all of us to know. Usually that meant talking about what was going to happen in the week, or telling us to stop playing tic-tac-toe on the baby’s diaper, or something like that. To me it was time to see how much I could goof off with my brother Jake before we got in trouble. But my parents were insistent that we have these meetings, so we gathered together distractedly.
“Well kids, your mother and I have been meeting with some leaders of the Church, and now we have permission to tell you that I have been called as a mission president to the Russia, Moscow mission and in June we will be moving to Russia for the next three years.”
I had been lying on the carpet, but before my dad could finish his sentence I was sitting upright. This was kind of a big deal. I had never been to Russia, never even really heard anything about the place, but that was the country I would call home for the three years of my life. Three years was a long time, I had only even been alive for twice that. My parents tried to explain what this calling and this move meant and why it was all happening. I could faintly hear their voices, even though they were talking normally and we were in the same room. I was still dazed by the news, and I turned attention to my own thoughts. My brain was pounding against my skull as I tried to take in this information.
“Russia. Three years. Russia. Three years.”
The next few months were extremely busy, and I felt like my life had become a whirling twister of events. My parents had to pack up everything they needed for themselves and their six kids for the next three years, fly all of us over the ocean to a new country, and live for three years in a foreign place. With the oldest of these kids, my sister Annelise, being nine years old, and the youngest, my little brother McKay, having yet to hit the one year when the call came, this task was extremely difficult. My mom, while recovering from surgery, would slowly make her way around the house, carefully packing the belongings we needed to take with us, wrapping the fragile ones in newspaper and bubble wrap. My dad spoke to us in Russian, trying to give us a head start on learning the language.
“Priviet!” My dad spoke crisply with no trace of an American accent. “That is how you say hi to kids your age. Make sure you roll the r nicely.”
“Priviet!” Somehow I could never make it sound as good as my dad, although I did learn to roll my tongue the right way.
When the time finally came to leave, relatives were sobbing in the airport. Everyone was hugging, talking frantically about how much we were all going to be missed and what a great experience we were about to have. My legs were tired, so I sat in the baby’s car seat waiting to leave. I watched with disgust at all the kissing and the crying. Of course I acted all nice to everyone because my parents were around and I wasn’t going to see these people for three years anyways.
“Can we get on the plane already? I’m tired. This is ridiculous. I swear, if one more aunt tries to kiss me I am going to scream!”
When it finally came time to load the plane I was relieved. I could sit down and finally get moving. Patience has never been my strong point, and moving to a new country definitely would not be something I could wait for well. When we finally got to our seats my brother and I took the two seats by the window. My mom passed around gum for us to chew on so that our ears would pop when the plane took off. I pressed my face to the glass as the plane taxied down the runway and began her ascent. As the ground slowly receded from view, I took my last look at America, the land I would not see again for three years, then turned towards the front of the plane and started playing the games I brought in my carry-on.
I started my elementary school experience in Russia. Day one of first grade. As if the transition to a real school wouldn’t have been hard enough, I was going in without any of my old friends and I knew that I would be alone. My school, the Anglo-American School of Moscow (AAS), was the top international school in the area. The school attended by the children of ambassadors and business men alike. What I saw was a building much bigger than any elementary school I had seen at home, where the tallest was only two floors. Next to this building easily double the size of my old school, I felt myself shrink smaller and smaller, until I was sure I would slip between the cracks in the sidewalk. It didn’t help that I had made us all late either.
“Mom do I have to go to school today? I won’t know anybody! What if I don’t make any new friends?”
“Honey, you are going to love it! Just get in there and make some new friends.”
“Mom I really don’t want to. Please don’t make me go. I don’t want to!”
“Get in there now or I will hold your hand, walk you in, and sit with you the whole time.”
And thus started first grade. I came into my classroom alone after class had already begun, so all eyes were on me. A brilliant way to start off. I looked at all the faces, and I was shocked at what I saw; the skin tones ranged from white like me to very dark brown, with every possible tint in between. I had come from Utah, where everyone I knew was white. I didn’t even know that all these different ethnicities even existed. Russia was a much stranger place than I had imagined.
This initial shock did not last long, however. Although meeting new people of different races and cultures was new to me, it was not frightening. My curiosity was very much aroused, so I set out to make new friends in this new school. One of my first friends was Dylan, the kid I sat next to on my first day of school.
“Hi I’m Spencer. Who are you?”
“My name’s Dylan. I am from India. Where are you from?”
“I am from Orem, Utah, in the United States.”
I soon learned that my classmates were from all over the world including India, China, the United States, the United Kingdom, Egypt, Canada, Pakistan, Korea, and many other places. In fact, throughout all of AAS there were kids from 46 different countries. To me it was a tantalizing blur of colors, cultures, and traditions. Being so young, I really had no trouble adapting to this new situation. In America, all the people I knew were white and Mormon. Here people were Catholic, Protestant, Jewish, Muslim, Hindu, Buddhist, and many other religions. Most people dressed the way I did, jeans and a t-shirt, but walking the halls of school I passed people wearing strange clothes. One girl wore clothes that wrapped her whole body, a boy wore a strange hat on the back of his head, some girls always kept their heads covered by a shawl.
“Well if that’s what they are supposed to wear, then that’s fine by me. A little weird, but hey that’s their deal.”
My fourth grade year, my last year in Russia, was a time when I learned the most. I had to very good friends, but their backgrounds were quite different from mine. C.J. was a fellow American, but he came from Texas and was a Catholic. Salim was from Egypt, and he was a devout Muslim. To those looking on, this surely was an unlikely trio. Our backgrounds had very little in common. This did not matter to us in the slightest. We were three rowdy young boys who had common interests. We spent our time playing video games, going bowling, playing racquetball, getting into trouble, and doing what normal elementary school kids do. However, there were times when our differences were discussed. One particular instance, we were discussing the idea of Christ and His return to the earth.
“I think that Christ was a good prophet. But He wasn’t a Savior, He didn’t come back from the dead, and He won’t come back to earth,” was Salim’s answer.
C.J. thought that “Christ has already told us when He is coming again. My parents know the exact day He is coming, and I will be ready.”
I told them what I believed, that “no one knows when Christ will come again, but we should be ready for Him whenever He does come.”
As we resumed our games, I thought about how we all think differently. No one of us was exactly the same.
“It would be kind of boring if everyone thought exactly the same. No excitement at all, and no one to talk about different ideas with.”
Three short years after that plane landed in Russia, I planted my feet firmly on American soil, breathed the American air, and basked in the American sunlight. It felt good to be home. However, in talking to my friends, I was alarmed at how little they knew about the world. Telling them my stories over the years often leads them to ask what I found to be obvious questions.
“Why do Indian women put dots on their foreheads?” “Why do Muslims all want to blow up Americans?” “Don’t people dress funny over there?” How could you stand living in such a cold, dirty, poor place?”
I smile as I answer as best I can. These people have never been east of the Mississippi, some never even outside the state of Utah. How are they to know? Over the years my answers have become more and more knowledgeable, as I learn more than I ever knew. Pouring over pages of books, watching news and informational programs, looking at artwork, I try to learn more about these cultures. Not the facts, the information, the statistics. The people I knew who came from these different heritages. I established my global roots eleven years ago. Maybe now I can plant that seed in someone else.
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