The Superhero Effect

Last year alone in only three movies, the super hero genre grossed more than 1.3 billion dollars. This year is shaping up similarly. For a world that seems to scoff at the mere mention of the word “saviour”, we are still obsessed with the idea of someone rising against evil to save us all.

And yet, this is a world that is so confident of the fact that we no longer need to be saved. What with our man-made laws, weapons, scientific advances and other inventions, we seem to think that we are above requiring a saviour. After all, we have pillars of democracy, knowledge and military power upon which to found society.  

So why is it that we idolize men (and women too) in tights and capes, with money and big machines and with powers beyond normal human abilities? Wouldn’t this hero worship contradict the entire movement of western thought – an immigration from faith to reason? For as surely as we worship money and science, we make gods out of the likes of Ironman and Batman. After all this time, we are still looking to someone better, someone more than human, to save the world.

I guess when it comes down to it, what these movies appear to offer is a kind of hope. Indeed, there is assurance given with having evil always lose and that what is bad in the world can be clearly distinguished and eradicated. Or maybe it’s more than even that. Perhaps the heroes of the big screen sate a secret yearning that someone will be able to make up for humanity’s shortcomings.

But the world’s not made like the movies. Right and wrong are never straightforward. And the hero we expect only blinds us from the one we never deserved. 

Thoughts on Boston

In the aftermath of the bombing of the Boston Marathon, we have read and heard stories of countless people offering aid and prayers to the victims and families. In the wake of tragedy, we find hope and compassion in humanity.  But while a nation grieves, while we in North America are shaken by an attack so close to home, there is something I feel we are forgetting.

You see, what happened yesterday in Boston is an everyday occurrence for countless lives in other parts of the world.

Don’t get me wrong – I am not in any way trying to downplay the terrible events in Boston. My heart goes out to everyone affected and I have certainly been praying.  But it remains to be said that there are a lot of people in the world who are all too familiar with this sort of suffering.

Take Syria for example. This is a broken nation where, averaged out, there have been 6 children killed per day for over 2 years. That number is staggering and it only gets worse. With a climbing death toll of over 70 000 (10 per cent of which are women and children), the horror to which our eyes have only just been opened is a never-ending reality for over 2 million children in Syria. These are the stories that aren’t widely circulated: of torture and stolen education and rape that also deserve our attention. The first-hand accounts are heart-rending.

Yesterday, Twitter and other social networks were abuzz with posts about praying for Boston. It’s heartening to know that we are willing to rally behind victims and stand against hatred. I would only ask that we do not leave out the rest of humanity’s sufferers. It would only take a little more of our time to offer up a prayer to the rest of the world too.

To finish, I would like to make a comment on the picture at the top of this post. It is a photograph of a young Syrian boy in a refugee camp in Jordan; but it could be a picture of a boy anywhere in the world.

You see, fear and pain are universal. Peace isn’t.

But it’s something that we take for granted.

More info:

http://news.nationalgeographic.com/news/2013/04/pictures/130413-syria-lost-generation-war-pictures-children/#/children-conflict-syria-food_66188_600x450.jpg

http://www.savethechildren.org/site/c.8rKLIXMGIpI4E/b.7998857/k.D075/Syria.htm?msource=weolpsrc4v12

http://www.savethechildren.org/atf/cf/%7B9def2ebe-10ae-432c-9bd0-df91d2eba74a%7D/SYRIA-CHILDHOOD-UNDER-FIRE-REPORT-2013.PDF

From “Womb Mates” to Roommates

- A Tale of Two Twins

It was the perfect set-up for a sit-com straight off the Family Channel: Inseparable (and shall I say rather sheltered?) twin sisters find themselves experiencing the fun and mishaps of university life together as roommates. Close your eyes and imagine it for a minute. I know what you’re probably thinking: Bring out the drama and cat-fights; this is going to be one heck of a year.

Cue the screeching halt.

Well, I wish I had something that interesting to write about.  The truth is, Room 317 saw about as much action as a documentary on the art of crochet… minus the hooking. If you want to talk about “fun”, does blasting gospel music while studying on Friday nights count? Or how about the mishaps? Those amounted to running out of our daily fix of pretzels and (dare I even mention it?) running out of hot chocolate on a Saturday night. Probably the most adventurous we ever got was eating cereal with a fork – and we were pretty proud to be so hard-core.

---

So maybe Johanna and I didn’t experience the typical life of most university students living in residence. Actually, I feel quite confident about that statement. For instance, while my little sister will never hold a record for the most shots in one night, she has pulled all-nighters without coffee (and went to all her classes the next day no less). As for me, I’ve done Johanna’s laundry every week without complaining – not even once! (That’s just one of the perks of living with your sister.)

I think the most difficult thing Johanna and I discovered this year was how not to be stereotypical twins. I’m pretty sure we creeped out a few people at meal hall by always choosing the exact same meals… and eating them in the exact same way. We tried to make sure we didn’t accidently wear the same clothes or go to the washroom at the same time… because that’s just downright awkward. On the other hand, the reactions of everyone else when these incidents did occur were always amusing.

This is really all I have to write about LBR’s rather reclusive twins and their quaint ways. I’d have more to say about Johanna but, then again, it’s not as if we’ll part ways once summer begins. I’d rather avoid the possibility of revenge if I can. I will tell you this though: her dirty socks stink.

Cue the drama and cat-fights.

In Storm

When I was a kid, I was told that life can give you sunny days and rainy days.

I thought they were talking about the weather.

I thought that by carrying an umbrella, I could shield myself from any pain that would ever come my way.

I was wrong.

What I didn’t know was that a lot of life can be like a hurricane.

There are times when the rushing currents sweep up and overwhelm you.

There are days when the waves leave you battered and bruised

coughing up water

on a sand bar

twenty miles from shore.

Don’t tell me there’s an umbrella strong enough to shield me from that blast.

I know better.

And I know that sometimes life is like a race.

Where you find yourself prepared to sprint to the finish line.

Except sometimes it’s not until the starting gun sounds that you realize you’ve tied your shoelaces together

And you’re running into a nose dive.

Well, I’ve learned something from that too.

You see, when else but when your arms are outstretched to catch a fall are you able to fully embrace life?

Bruises and all.

And I’ve learned that sometimes you just have to take a minute and breathe in the moment.

Because how do you know how much air you will need to breathe to take the plunge into that icy sea called life?

When I was a kid, I was told that it took both rain and sunlight to make a rainbow.

And while I know they were talking about the weather,

True beauty is born of both as well.

Mom, I Forgot My Life Jacket

Mom, I forgot my life jacket.

I know you were probably waving it out the door, calling after me in my haste to leave.

I’m sorry. I probably ignored you.

Now I’m up to my neck in my own troubles, adrift in a life I thought I could control.

Remember it raining when I was three? I held out my hands to catch the raindrops, only to watch them slip through my fingers. My tears soon followed.

That was the day you took a red bucket and scooped up the rain. You gave it to me and told me not to spill it.

But of course I did.

When I was five and fell off my bicycle, I thought the world was going to end.

But that was when I was five and Band-Aids and kisses could make everything better.

The world never ended of course. It just kept going.

Remember when I was eight and you tried to explain the multiplication table to me? You said it was easy.

Well, I didn’t know it then but things do multiply easily. They tend to get out of control.

But Mom, I’ve never forgotten that five times six equals thirty. And as I’m quietly repeating those lessons to myself, I’m thanking God that you are never more than a phone number away.

How can I forget twelve? I thought I was so grown up then. You always seemed so quick to tell me otherwise. I suppose, now, that you were right. Thanks for always cleaning up my messes anyway.

Skip a few years and I’m fifteen. That was when I thought a kiss would make everything better. So I followed what I thought was love. And still it was you who were always ready to patch a wounded heart.

But now I’m eighteen.

I’m trying to navigate things by myself now. And I keep knocking over that red bucket as I try to get away from the messes I’ve left behind so that the floor is flooded with more than my tears and I feel like I’m drowning.

And I’m thinking about that life jacket.

I’m wondering now if I should pick up the phone and tell you this myself.

But if I do I’ll probably just say everything is fine and that will be that.

So I’m writing this instead.

See Mom, what I’m trying to say is this:

Because now I’m trying to catch the sunlight.

I’m bottling up the smiles and love you’ve always had for me.

Love,

Your little girl 

Masquerade

She’s walking down the town’s main street. Not on the side walk, but in  the middle of the street, hands out, balancing on the solid white line that keeps opposing traffic in its proper place.

Alone in her own world.

The sound of her feet skipping as she progresses down the road is made louder by the emptiness of the usually bustling town centre.  In fact, it echoes to me still as I gaze at the photograph taken of myself when I was all but ten years of age. Carefree is what it whispers to me, but I no longer know the meaning of that word.

I’ve been told that discovery is all about the journey. So maybe that’s why I find myself back at my childhood home, trying to recreate the portrait of my then care-free existence.  At least that’s what I’m trying to convince myself. The more truthful reason, whether I like to admit it or not, is that I am escaping from the looks of forced sympathy and words of advice from people who think they have wisdom about my “situation.”

And to be honest, there wasn’t anything altogether wise about telling my boss I would be leaving my job “indefinitely”, taking all my savings and packing off to a place to which I have not been in decades. Though even then, despite all my efforts to stop caring and forcing myself to take things a day at a time, peace still eludes me.

I guess in a way I am once more alone in my own world. I choose solitude now, prize it above rubies. Memories of the looks I have received from friends and co-workers over the past few months follow me still. Their eyes were like fish-hooks, willing the tears from my eyes, each one wanting for themselves the pride of being the shoulder I would cry on. But I never gave anyone that satisfaction.

Today I find myself on the very same street of the distant photograph. It is once again unnaturally still – most of the town’s inhabitants having taken off as I had so many years ago.  I see the street differently now, I realise. The stores that line it no longer hold for me the alluring sense of mystery that delighted my childhood eyes. Each one stands tall and proud, their brightly-painted faces give off a false sense of self-righteousness. For behind their painted facades hang dusty shelves of material desires – insubstantial objects that feed the whims and careless fancies of passing times – filling up the shells of each edifice.  

By now my thoughts have carried me to the end of the street. For some weird reason I can’t quite explain, I find I am not able to face the stores any longer. I decide to end my stroll early, so I turn my back on the empty street and start trudging uphill. It only takes a few moments before I find myself blinking.

Maybe it’s just the wind, but there are tears in my eyes. 

When Idols Crumble

For a society that is increasingly turning to the practice of scorning Faith, we are very adept at constructing pedestals. The problem begins when we base our ideals on those who are as flawed as ourselves. Actors, athletes and the many others who may be grouped in the celebrity class are worshipped and adored by millions of frantic fans who hold them at lofty positions. In fact, when it comes down to it, Hollywood and the various sports industries have surely garnered a cult-like following.

But there is nothing solid about these idols. Though we flock from all over just for the chance to shake their hands and express admiration, they will inevitably let us down. Like us, they are vulnerable to poor choices and immoral desires. Fame does not shield a person from the path of erring. Praise will not keep one from falling.

As long as we consider fellow humans as the standard for which to strive, we will never cease to be disappointed. Instead we must ask ourselves this: Is it better to look to someone placed upon a pedestal of our own creation or to turn our eyes elsewhere and stand upon the firm foundation we had no hand in building?

“

Out of the crooked timber of humanity no straight thing can ever be made.

”

                                                                                                ~ Immanuel Kant