Friday, March 25, 2011

Reflection Series: When Life Is Not Enough


Based on the story:
The Narrative of the Captivity and the Restoration of Mrs. Mary Rowlandson (1682).



Mary Rowlandson is an interesting person, at least with the way the narration spotlights her. She is a woman of many sorrows and hard times whom against all hope had hope. The biblical promise of hope could have quite conveniently been for her children, perhaps children's children, but her brisk response and personalization of any hint from scripture is unsullied. Theologians of all ages debate on what biblical scripture is for who or what, but not as far as Mary is concerned. This woman wants help; she wants salvation; and she wants it now.

Mary watched the Indians mercilessly destroy her community. She saw the brutal killing of many of her neighbors and friends. She watched her little child contend with death, and saw her give way eventually. For Mary, this cruelty was enough to condemn the Indians before God, and make them the enemy. Their unfamiliar culture and rituals were hedonistic to Mary, which from her bible was another evidence of their ungodly status. Well, tough luck, the Indians did not have a bible - oh, one of them threw the book with English inscriptions away from the wigwam. What else could prove their alienation from God?

Apparently, the only reason the Indians spared some of the victims was to sell them. As one can only imagine, this could have be the only thing worse than death, but for Mary's kind of hope, because the victims would live their regrets and depression in an unfamiliar environment - without love or loved ones. Unsurprisingly, some of the English people chose the inhumane death of the Indians rather than suffer the pain of endless misery. Families were scattered around the area to their new masters and sometimes, as Mary expressed, never reunited again. The Indians, it also seems, were nomadic and could not adequately sustain their families, let alone their slaves. Like Mary, many of the slaves depended on their crafts and the ever-changing goodwill of others in the community.

Perhaps, one of the most touching things about the story, was the sad feedback Mary Rowlandson got every time she inquired about her husband or the remaining of her family. Mary desired to go home, but might have been slow to realize that home, as she previously knew it, did not exist anymore. Her husband, Mary's only survivor of the carnage, must have been as bitter about the loss of his household especially in his absence - one can only imagine how he repeatedly wished he was in the village at the time of attack to have rather died protecting his family. What's more, he might not have had the luxury of distractions that Mary had in her bondage. He could have had ample time and freedom to think and mourn his losses. He was a free man, but was enslaved by his own regrets; hence melancholic.

Mary's hope paid off after some English people helped ransom her. I hope Mary found her freedom to be all she had imagined. At least, life as a free woman in a familiar culture would have been much better than bondage among strangers. Nonetheless, Mary, even before her redemption, seemed to have toughened up. She seemed to have learnt the Indians well, and despite the odds, she remained quite a strong woman. Finally, I wonder if Mary ever got over her 'doleful' events - life must have never been the same. Here is freedom, but the enemy still lingers. Just for how long will this freedom last?





Mcmichael, George, and James S. Leonard, comps. "The Narrative of the Captivity and the Restoration of Mrs. Mary Rowlandson (1682)." Concise Anthology of American Literature. 6th ed. New Jersey: Pearson Education, 2006. 148-65. Print.


Reflection Series: Life is a Story

Dedicated to L Y



We tell stories every day. They stem from our experiences to expectations. Stories can be factual or fictional, but whichever the case, stories serve to inspire, entertain, and even teach morals. When I was a kid, my parents and relations told me many stories. I loved hearing them. After a good supper, we would tease and make jokes, then, it was story time. I heard stories about the animal kingdom, say, how the lion became the king of the jungle, or how the gorilla lost its tail. These stories were often adventurous, and spoke a lot about the bravery of their imaginary creatures: I heard about the man that went to hell to get a moon for the world - the same we all still enjoy in the night. My childhood stories talked about a world that hardly superimposes the real one, and brought the unthinkable to life. It was beautiful – a perfect world with colorful troubles, ideal amidst evil. We all wanted to live there.

It turns out that stories are not merely limited to kiddies’ bogus pleasure and adult entertainment. They are also accounts that served to inform us of the past: history, present: news, and even the future like the infamous apocalypses of John in the bible. In court, for example, people tell and hear countless stories – stories that literally lead to dramatic and, in some cases, life-changing consequences. The same holds true for media reports that bombard the mass of people every second of the day. Most television channels now run 24/7, and there are thousands of them. Their shows range from straightforward narrations to actions involving hundreds of peoples. The subject matter of these stories is immeasurable, and their overwhelming effect on the masses has led to their organization into genres to control the overload.

Some stories are epic. The authors of these stories so wittily and creatively document their ideas to the point that these wits perpetuate the history of humanity. Such artistic use of stories is mostly referred to as literature. It is vibrant, cultural, and often dramatic. Just like any typical story, it ranges from facts to fiction, from technical to common knowledge, and from human values to ethnic values. The presentation of literature is often ornate, and even when minimized their artistic values are prominent. A piece of Literature also speaks volumes of the period that produced it based on the mannerisms of writing and the fashion of language.

The function of stories in everyday life is unparalleled. Only another story can do what a story would do. For social beings like humans, it is the only effective commuter of experience and learning. What would life be like without stories? Observing the other animals without the necessary ‘gift of speech’ is a close replication of what the human race would be like without stories. People would have to wait and rely on adaptive and evolution changes, which are much slower. Cognitive development would be much primitive, and one can only start wondering what would be high class about humans. Thus, our world is a world of stories, and these stories will always characterize the everyday life.

A Short Story:

Did I ever smoke? Ha! I did the paper, and some tiny shrub that had a hollow in it. I was an adventurous kid - very inquisitive and curious. I'm not sure if I've grown too – growing up is for adults lol, I'll try anything just to know, but of course those were not tobacco or what one might consider smoking. Shoot! This question is indeed kinda silly lol. Ok, so one day, I am not sure I remember my age at the time; I got a real cigarette, hid it in my pocket, and waited for a quiet house lol. When the good time came, I went to the back of the house, pulled out the sucker, and started trying to light it. Darn! The wind got two of my matchsticks. On my third, lol, some dude calls out to me! A family friend in his teen. Shoot! I've been caught! His name was Friday. Sweet guy! He advised me and I nervously accepted - just don't tell. I went on to tear hopelessly  the cigarette apart. I was shaking because I knew I could get into more trouble. Friday saw my fear and took me out to hang with him. That was my first and last attempt. Friday deeply impressed that one on me. Mom still doesn't know. 

From the above example, it is apparent the stories allow us share our personalities and recount a previous experience.

Wednesday, February 2, 2011

Ode to a Pen -- First Draft

The pen, they say, is mightier than the sword; yet in its appearance, the eye only sees innocence. Lying long and thin on a table, it quietly waits for the hand that would wield it. Its sleek design gives it the elegance of jewelry, but in its purpose lays the power of a ruler; loaded with potential words that endure forever. Its modest tip points down to its humble subject, the paper, as it receives the directives of its lord. Gently and quietly, it proclaims words powerful enough to build and tear down as the stain of its blood testifies to generations unborn its command and immortality.

The light of day reveals its power, and the glow of sunset demystifies its purpose. The bleeding of its hallow tip causes some to rejoice, and others shed tears of sorrow. It restores, and it deprives; it blesses and it curses – who can understand? The eyes of many stay glazed to its words – others grope because of incomprehension. The mild smell of its thick ink carries more savor than the most garnished pot. It is a tool like none other, the only of its kind.

From age to age, its appearance and design changes, but its potency and purpose remain unfailing – as though in the crystal of ages exhibited in the museum of time. Its feel in the hand gives a voice to the speechless – words spoken in silence, yet undeniably loud. Its glistening body is an irresistible temptation to touch even for the simple minded. The feel of it tickles the uneducated and makes them pose in pretentious success. Its fluid inscriptions ensures the future, and there is no history without its gore. Its touch preserves the knowledge of the world. It gives warmth to all that cuddles its slender and curvy figure, and caressing it arouses even the dumbest ideas; such a mystical being that causes the hand and arm to tingle and tango down a blank sheet of paper. It gives warmth to the palm in a way that only its other kind can. Its beauty is flawless. Its protective cap locks potential experiences that elude even the finest memory.

The pen is brilliant in its function and stands out as the beacon of intellect. The pen is mighty in a unique way. Although the sword may boast of its blade, just how often does that mighty blade depend upon the signature of the pen? Furthermore, can one ever wonder how many have fallen by the stroke of a pen? One can only now begin to figure the statement, “the pen is mightier than the sword”.