Round face, with pink tinted cheeks, the lightest red of roses. Button nose, small and almost invisible, a small raise on the white china surface. Upturned lips, smiling delicately, painted with graceful flicks of a paintbrush coloured to match a robin’s red belly. Eyes, large and clear, framed by dark curling lashes, and irises green and sparkling like emeralds, looking somewhere into the distance, observing quietly. Hair, soft and smooth, tumbling in gentle waves, curled in dark ringlets. Small hands and small feet. A Victorian dress, red, velvet and printed in graceful curling shapes. Sitting on a soft bed.
The gentle inhale and exhale. The steady heartbeat of a child. The small chubby arm wrapped protectively over the cold inanimate doll with green eyes that stare into nowhere, ever vigilant of the sleeping form beside it. The gentle rise and fall of her chest, the fluttering eyes, the way her cheek presses against the doll’s pink rounded one. The clock keeps ticking and the Sun and Moon slowly revolve, the stars twinkling away, the pink and gold sunrise peeks through the hills.
Giggling children on a short table, covered with a white cloth, with teacups arranged around. Small hands tenderly picking up the doll, fondly bringing it to the other children, being passed around, admired. Gentle hands, cradling the doll, placing a painted teacup on its rosy lips. Chubby hands, dirty but soft, holds onto the doll on the sweet fields outside. Feathery hats, lace dresses, dolls sit together, watching children run.
Cracked face, whimpering sounds, a child hand holding a piece of white china. Careful callused hands, steady and firm, glue the pieces back together. A small line on the doll’s temple. A crushing hug, gentle kisses on the cheek, and the doll is back outside. Little girls crowd around, happy the doll is mended.
Round face, on the ground, red painted lips against the wooded floor. Forgotten, arms sprawled out, dress crumpled. Small but leaner hands caress another face, another doll. Blue eyes, blonde hair, a smile that was a doppelganger of the doll clad in red.
On the floor, attentive as the child opted for the imposter. Staring at the wooden floor, memorizing the shade, retaining the texture, engraving each little detail. The clock ticks loudly, but there is no steady heartbeat. The pink and gold sunrise shines through the window, a different view at a different angle.
Unneeded, in the company of the abandoned. Whispers from lost horse figurines, forgotten parts of tea sets, missing pieces of long discarded puzzles. Light footsteps, in and out of the room, never once paying attention to the doll. The familiar hum of the furnace, the cheerful chirp of birds, the tedious pattern of the Sun and Moon, signifying the passage of time.
Round face, a crust of dust, on the highest shelf cramped at the farthest corner. Head cocked up, staring at the intricate spider webs. Blonde hair, blue dress, thrown carelessly on the shelf as well. Awkward hands, ladylike but growing, fly across shining screens. Rainbow cases, patter of keyboards and the hum of the television machine.
Peeking down, watching over the girl, sprawled across the now larger bed, a bed the red clad doll never slept on. Late night talks on the phone, the furious patter of game controls. No need of protection from the curling shadows of night.
Taller and taller the child grows, trading pigtails for long locks, pink frilly dresses for ripped jeans. Light filters through the window, as the doll watches the dust flutter down, thickening the air, adding to the thick blanket on the deepest of corners and greying its rich brown hair. Boxes of old books and sparkling crowns shoved beside the two dolls, red and blue.
Round face, wrapped in a thin piece of old clothing, lies under old photos of lost memories and forgotten friends. Box lid closes, and the loud sound of tape scratches them shut. Staring into the fading cloth, movement and the feeling of weightlessness. A loud sound as boxes hit the attic floor, creaking floorboards as people bumble down.
Sounds of laughing faint and distant, familiar smells now all vanished. A dream that ended, a life that ceased. Erased from memory. Sounds from far below. Light never comes through, the gold and pink sunrise fades from mind.
Tearing of tape, loud and clear, rings trough the foggy mist of dust. Shuffling noises, objects move above. Lifting the photos, light streaks through. Warm leathery hands, weathered with age, gently wraps around a round faced doll.
Wednesday, 31 December 2014
Forgotten Shadows
A melody, long forgotten, drifts away in the wind. An old teddy bear, stolen from loving arms. I wish that I can say I remember how my grandparents had tucked me to bed, that I remember calling old taxis like the proud child I was. I wish that I can say I remember what I was thinking, that I remember how it felt to know there were endless roads to endless possibilities. But all there is in that time of life is just a black, black void, an emptiness that lacks spirit, that lacks memories. Some things we remember forever. Some things we forget.
I remember being strapped on to an airplane, hurtling its way to Canada. Canada. What did that word mean to a wee child on a plane with her father whom she hardly knew? Parting with my grandparents was forlorn, my father was yet a stranger even after the few visits. I hadn't planned on leaving with him; I was a stubborn child, but in the end I had, if not unwillingly. Maybe it was the idea of living with my parents. Maybe it was because of curiosity. Maybe it had felt like the right thing to do.
I remember clutching my sister's hand in the land of Canada for she was the only person I knew, though she was a child too. The only one who held memories instead of the dark shadows following everyone else. It was dense to believe that her fingers could offer anymore protection that a potted flower, but then again, where was it truly safe? I also can remember looking up a bleak corridor of my sister's daycare at a short woman standing by the door. Was she my mother? In the strange land, she felt real. She felt safe.
Many people forget the value of the priceless treasures in their existence. They get so caught up with the 'now' and the 'future', constantly planning ahead. They devote all of their studying days to prepare for their following years, then after their job, they spend their time building a good fortune for their preceding generations. What happened to sitting back and flipping through worn photos and reliving the beautiful memories? Pictures have no words to speak when they have no one to speak to. Memories are what makes a person human. They are what makes up the souls, an important part of personality. The ones which seem to be perennial are often the first ones to fade away. How tragically wretched it is that we forget the names of our first friend. What a pity it is to forget our first teacher. How unfortunate it is to know that some friends are gone.
One time, I accidentally broke an old dilapidated laptop of my father, thinking it was tawdry. After all, he never used it, he never touched it, and it hardly turned on anyways. How wrong I was when he set rain and thunder down on the house after he discovered my folly. Little me couldn't understand why there was all this sorrow for a dingy laptop, why it was such an important computer. Couldn't he get another one? But that rusty computer was his first laptop. Back when there used to be no advanced technology, he had finally saved up enough for the computer. The software was all outdated, but it wasn't for the power that he kept it all these years; it was for the achievement. The pride of remembering the accomplishment was priceless.
Nothing is in the name of forever. Things fade overtime, forgotten promises lie deserted on vacant roads. How foolish it was to believe that the endless opportunities would follow us as we age? The doors get barred in and bolted shut with each path chosen. The ones left behind are often wistfully recalled, slipping out of reach. Some mistakes can be mourned over and built upon, while others cut deep, too deep to ever fix. Some mistakes are best left to be forgotten.
There are memories from the past like sand, the harder you try to grasp it, the quicker it slips away between fingers. The more you try to think about it, the more frustrating it becomes. A fragment of laughter, a scent of jasmine, pinch of colour. Sometimes, the memoirs slowly float back like haunting mirages when you lie down and think, "I remember." The shadows from the past click and find a place in the mind. But sometimes, it is best to just forget.
I remember being strapped on to an airplane, hurtling its way to Canada. Canada. What did that word mean to a wee child on a plane with her father whom she hardly knew? Parting with my grandparents was forlorn, my father was yet a stranger even after the few visits. I hadn't planned on leaving with him; I was a stubborn child, but in the end I had, if not unwillingly. Maybe it was the idea of living with my parents. Maybe it was because of curiosity. Maybe it had felt like the right thing to do.
I remember clutching my sister's hand in the land of Canada for she was the only person I knew, though she was a child too. The only one who held memories instead of the dark shadows following everyone else. It was dense to believe that her fingers could offer anymore protection that a potted flower, but then again, where was it truly safe? I also can remember looking up a bleak corridor of my sister's daycare at a short woman standing by the door. Was she my mother? In the strange land, she felt real. She felt safe.
Many people forget the value of the priceless treasures in their existence. They get so caught up with the 'now' and the 'future', constantly planning ahead. They devote all of their studying days to prepare for their following years, then after their job, they spend their time building a good fortune for their preceding generations. What happened to sitting back and flipping through worn photos and reliving the beautiful memories? Pictures have no words to speak when they have no one to speak to. Memories are what makes a person human. They are what makes up the souls, an important part of personality. The ones which seem to be perennial are often the first ones to fade away. How tragically wretched it is that we forget the names of our first friend. What a pity it is to forget our first teacher. How unfortunate it is to know that some friends are gone.
One time, I accidentally broke an old dilapidated laptop of my father, thinking it was tawdry. After all, he never used it, he never touched it, and it hardly turned on anyways. How wrong I was when he set rain and thunder down on the house after he discovered my folly. Little me couldn't understand why there was all this sorrow for a dingy laptop, why it was such an important computer. Couldn't he get another one? But that rusty computer was his first laptop. Back when there used to be no advanced technology, he had finally saved up enough for the computer. The software was all outdated, but it wasn't for the power that he kept it all these years; it was for the achievement. The pride of remembering the accomplishment was priceless.
Nothing is in the name of forever. Things fade overtime, forgotten promises lie deserted on vacant roads. How foolish it was to believe that the endless opportunities would follow us as we age? The doors get barred in and bolted shut with each path chosen. The ones left behind are often wistfully recalled, slipping out of reach. Some mistakes can be mourned over and built upon, while others cut deep, too deep to ever fix. Some mistakes are best left to be forgotten.
There are memories from the past like sand, the harder you try to grasp it, the quicker it slips away between fingers. The more you try to think about it, the more frustrating it becomes. A fragment of laughter, a scent of jasmine, pinch of colour. Sometimes, the memoirs slowly float back like haunting mirages when you lie down and think, "I remember." The shadows from the past click and find a place in the mind. But sometimes, it is best to just forget.
Thursday, 25 December 2014
The Start of Chicken Sunday
(This is a story extension of the book Chicken Sunday by Patricia Polacco)
The room smelled of spicy candle light and warm wood. A hushed silence made me feel relaxed. The priest spoke of prayers of forgiveness, protection, and love and I bowed my head at his words. I wasn't a baptist like my neighbours Stewart, Winston or their grandmother, Miss Eula, but I considered them as my own, so I always went with them. However today, I listened to every prayer said in the church and prayed with them. Today was the anniversary of my babushka’s death and I hoped that all was well for her in Heaven.
After a final ‘Amen’, we stood up and walked out of the church. The air was cool and sweet as it blew through my hair. I hugged myself against the cold and Miss Eula admonished me for wearing so little. “My girl, you will be as frozen as a popsicle if we don't hurry you home!” she exclaimed. When I parted with Stewart and Winston, they each gave me a hug. “Don’t worry,” Stewart told me, “she’s in a happy place now.” I smiled back at him and entered my house.
My mother sat in the kitchen peeling an apple when I walked in. The kitchen was missing the delicious aroma of the chicken soup my babushka would always make for me. It was missing the warmth and livelihood of the different spices she would use. It was missing the smell of home. I remembered her bringing the bowl of chicken soup to me on the cold frosty days like today. She would set it on the table and remind me to be careful of the heat. She scolded me when I ran to her if I burnt my tongue; she would then give me a nice cup of lemonade.
After lunch, there was a soft but firm knock on the door. My mother opened it and I rushed down of the sound of Miss Eula’s voice. “We know this is a hard time for both of you so we decided to keep you company,” she explained to my mother. Stewart and Winston gave me big smiles and waves as my mother invited them inside. Though I enjoyed the company of our neighbours, I missed the funny stories my babushka would tell me before I went to sleep, and the ways she’d comfort me. I started to tear up at her absence. Winston and Stewart were quiet as a mouse because they didn't know what to do about my sudden breakdown. Miss Eula smiled at me and marched into the kitchen while rolling up her sleeves. My mother sat down next to me on the couch and gave me tissues to wipe my eyes.
Clang! Thunk! Bang! The kitchen was making all sorts of sounds and noises as Miss Eula began to prepare … chicken? She was fumbling around for ingredients and soon enough, my nose picked up on a wave of delight. My stomach grumbled and 40 minutes later, she came out holding a big plate of fried chicken! Gravy was poured on top and there was a mixture of spices I never knew we even had. "I know this isn't the chicken soup that your babushka made for you, but I couldn't find the broth!” she frowned for a second. “This is an old traditional meal that my grandparents used to make for me as a child,” she smiled. I looked upon the golden feast and smiled back at her. It smelled of heavenly warmth and nature’s wonders. It smelled like home.
The following Sunday, we hurried home after church. The air was filled with a frosty flurry of snow! Though each flake held its own tiny miracle and blanketed the road with its beauty, it was cold. We weren’t prepared for the first snowfall of the year. Stewart whooped and jumped in a pile of fresh snow and Winston was right on his heel. However, Miss Eula scowled at the boys and pulled them out. They didn’t have enough sweaters on and their pants were already frozen over. She told us to come home for dinner before donning our coats to play in the snow.
Stewart, Winston and I jumped inside the warmth of Miss Eula’s home. Shaking off the bits of white that clung to our bodies, we made our way into the kitchen. The winter wonderland beckoned us to run outside and make snow angels, but we were starving. We sat in front of Miss Eula’s T.V. while she went to prepare our dinner. When we were called to sit and say our prayers Winston frowned. “You’re not making chicken again this Sunday?” he whined. Miss Eula blinked. “You kids want to eat my chicken again?” We looked at each other and grinned. “Of course we do!” I smiled at her. “We want the chicken every Sunday after church!” Miss Eula scratched her white little head and considered it for a moment. “I don’t see why not,” she told us and went back into the kitchen to meet our requests.
Our dinner time was prolonged but no one complained. With our lovely meal, my nose picked up on the ghost of my babushka’s soup and her smile on my lips. I knew at this moment, she was with me. Miss Eula would never replace her, no, people cannot be replaced. Instead, Miss Eula and her two boys would live in another place in my heart, a place that was meant for them.
Sunday, 9 November 2014
Can Heroes be Ordinary People?
Our heroes don’t have to be great and extraordinary people, contributing to the field of science, art or technology, but can be instead ordinary people, such as our grandmothers or perhaps your neighbor, and any person you admire for their deeds. In truth, many extraordinary people, are in fact ordinary people doing extraordinary things, such as Rosa Parks, Pheidippides and Atticus Finch from the novel “To Kill a Mockingbird” by Harper Lee were all ordinary people who stood up and became a hero.
Rosa Parks, an African American woman is another ordinary person, but stood up for what she believed in and became a hero. As a child, Parks attended rural schools and graduated. At the time, many Jim Crow Laws were passed, one of which was that black or “colored” people had to sit at the back of the bus and must give up their seats to any white passengers if there were no more seats available. After a long day of Work, Parks boarded a bus and sat at the first row of seats designated for colored passengers. After the seats for white passengers were filled, the driver asked Parks and four other colored passengers to move. Rosa Parks refused to move and so she was arrested. Following her arrest, many African-American citizens protested by refusing to ride the bus. After years of boycotting, the bus system was finally integrated. Because of her extraordinary deed, where Parks would not get up when many others would have she is considered a hero.
Pheidippides was born in Athens around 530BC and is a hero and an ordinary person. He ran 240 kilometers to Sparta in two days to request help when the Persians arrived in Marathon, Greece and after the Greek victory over the Persians in the Battle of Marathon, he ran another 40 kilometers from the battlefield to announce the victory and collapsed and died soon afterwords. Today, he is remembered whenever someone runs a marathon, in honor of the Battle of Marathon and Pheidippides' run. Even though he was only doing his job, Pheildippides is still regarded as a hero.
In the novel by Harper Lee, “To Kill a Mockingbird”, Atticus Finch, a father of two and a lawyer, lived in a town stereotyping African Americans. When Finch is appointed to defend an African American man named Tom Robinson, he is faced with a lot of controversy. However, Atticus Finch still defends man, who is convicted of rape, to the best of his ability. He presented a very convincing case to protect Tom Robinson, but Robinson is still convicted guilty. Although Atticus Finch did not succeed in protecting his Robinson, he stood up for what he thought was right, even in the face of all the disapproval, and is considered a hero.
In conclusion, ordinary people can be heroes, and many of these people perform extraordinary acts, such as Terry Fox, Rosa Parks and Atticus Finch. Although perhaps they receive much fame for their great deeds, it is how they rose and stood up for what they believe in that makes these acts truly heroic and noble.
Rosa Parks, an African American woman is another ordinary person, but stood up for what she believed in and became a hero. As a child, Parks attended rural schools and graduated. At the time, many Jim Crow Laws were passed, one of which was that black or “colored” people had to sit at the back of the bus and must give up their seats to any white passengers if there were no more seats available. After a long day of Work, Parks boarded a bus and sat at the first row of seats designated for colored passengers. After the seats for white passengers were filled, the driver asked Parks and four other colored passengers to move. Rosa Parks refused to move and so she was arrested. Following her arrest, many African-American citizens protested by refusing to ride the bus. After years of boycotting, the bus system was finally integrated. Because of her extraordinary deed, where Parks would not get up when many others would have she is considered a hero.
Pheidippides was born in Athens around 530BC and is a hero and an ordinary person. He ran 240 kilometers to Sparta in two days to request help when the Persians arrived in Marathon, Greece and after the Greek victory over the Persians in the Battle of Marathon, he ran another 40 kilometers from the battlefield to announce the victory and collapsed and died soon afterwords. Today, he is remembered whenever someone runs a marathon, in honor of the Battle of Marathon and Pheidippides' run. Even though he was only doing his job, Pheildippides is still regarded as a hero.
In the novel by Harper Lee, “To Kill a Mockingbird”, Atticus Finch, a father of two and a lawyer, lived in a town stereotyping African Americans. When Finch is appointed to defend an African American man named Tom Robinson, he is faced with a lot of controversy. However, Atticus Finch still defends man, who is convicted of rape, to the best of his ability. He presented a very convincing case to protect Tom Robinson, but Robinson is still convicted guilty. Although Atticus Finch did not succeed in protecting his Robinson, he stood up for what he thought was right, even in the face of all the disapproval, and is considered a hero.
In conclusion, ordinary people can be heroes, and many of these people perform extraordinary acts, such as Terry Fox, Rosa Parks and Atticus Finch. Although perhaps they receive much fame for their great deeds, it is how they rose and stood up for what they believe in that makes these acts truly heroic and noble.
Torus: Chapter 8
Steve jolted awake to the sound of his alarm clock. His heavy hand found the snooze button and the noise ceased. Normally, he'd wake up to his stomach grumbling or when his body is well rested and the afternoon sun is up. Puzzled, he stared at his alarm clock and wondered why his wife, Tracey Ludavic, set his alarm to 6:55 am. His mind started to clear and he remembered. His wife didn't set the alarm, he did. Today was the special day where S.P.A.C.E. would be launching the Wubble. Today, the world would be saved. Steve splashed his face with cold water and smiled. He wasn't going to be late and delay this occasion.
As he entered the launch room, he was dismayed to see that everyone was up and waiting for him, although he woke up extra early.
"Steve, we’re ready for dispatch," Joe Chipman said. "Your seat is here, beside Viktor Conti, Head Launch Administrator, in charge of this launch."
Steve followed the direction of Joe's finger and located an empty seat next to a young Italian man. The two shook hands and took their seats. Conti reached for his earpiece and began speaking rapid Italian.
"Preparare il lancio cuscinetto!"
With the little Italian Steve knows he knew that they were preparing to launch. He also noticed how one section of the operators began clicking buttons and pulling switches. Each had an earpiece and communicated with short code lines. Around him was a few of the most important administrators and managers of S.P.A.C.E here to monitor the launch. Finally, over the intercom, Steve heard:
"Ready to launch, sir"
Steve's stomach fluttered in anticipation. This launch was to be kept a secret until it was successful. He could even see himself in the paper, giving his already thought out speech on how he saved the world. Almost everyone in S.P.A.C.E. was watching the Wubble being launched. Steve imagined the crowd being his interviewers but was soon snapped back into reality by a heavily accented English.
As he entered the launch room, he was dismayed to see that everyone was up and waiting for him, although he woke up extra early.
"Steve, we’re ready for dispatch," Joe Chipman said. "Your seat is here, beside Viktor Conti, Head Launch Administrator, in charge of this launch."
Steve followed the direction of Joe's finger and located an empty seat next to a young Italian man. The two shook hands and took their seats. Conti reached for his earpiece and began speaking rapid Italian.
"Preparare il lancio cuscinetto!"
With the little Italian Steve knows he knew that they were preparing to launch. He also noticed how one section of the operators began clicking buttons and pulling switches. Each had an earpiece and communicated with short code lines. Around him was a few of the most important administrators and managers of S.P.A.C.E here to monitor the launch. Finally, over the intercom, Steve heard:
"Ready to launch, sir"
Steve's stomach fluttered in anticipation. This launch was to be kept a secret until it was successful. He could even see himself in the paper, giving his already thought out speech on how he saved the world. Almost everyone in S.P.A.C.E. was watching the Wubble being launched. Steve imagined the crowd being his interviewers but was soon snapped back into reality by a heavily accented English.
"Launching in 5, 4, 3 …"
Steve rested his chin on his hand as his brows were knit together.
" … 2 …"
Everyone leaned forward.
" … 1! Launch!"
Viktor's hand firmly pressed the red launch button.
The roar was deafening. In just 5 seconds, the Wubble already gained a speed of 100km/h and was continuing to increase. A live feed appeared at the front of the room. It showed the Wubble getting higher and higher. 2 minutes later, it was out of Earth's atmosphere and hurling it's way towards Theio.
Everyone sighed as the burden of the world lifted. Then they cheered and clapped. People crowded around Viktor, partially forgetting Steve, but he didn't care. He knew that he would finally have a good night's sleep.
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Steve rested his chin on his hand as his brows were knit together.
" … 2 …"
Everyone leaned forward.
" … 1! Launch!"
Viktor's hand firmly pressed the red launch button.
The roar was deafening. In just 5 seconds, the Wubble already gained a speed of 100km/h and was continuing to increase. A live feed appeared at the front of the room. It showed the Wubble getting higher and higher. 2 minutes later, it was out of Earth's atmosphere and hurling it's way towards Theio.
Everyone sighed as the burden of the world lifted. Then they cheered and clapped. People crowded around Viktor, partially forgetting Steve, but he didn't care. He knew that he would finally have a good night's sleep.
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Sunday, 2 November 2014
An Idealistic Approach
An idealistic approach is often seen as less pragmatic compared to a practical approach. However, an idealistic approach is sometimes more important for a practical approach. Throughout history, many people have shown that the use of idealistic approaches may be more beneficial in achieving their goals. Amelia Earhart, was an idealist and spent many years of hard training to become a pilot. Nelson Mandela, who spent 27 years in prison, became the first black president of South Africa and led a revolution. Also, we can see that the idealist approach has worked for Eleanor Roosevelt's who advocated human rights and was later be dubbed the "First Lady of the World".
Amelia Earhart is an example of an idealist. She was a nurse in World War II and became fast friends with many aviators, causing her interest in flying. When she finally decided to learn how to fly, she spent hours studying books and got a series of jobs to earn enough money to take flying lessons. She had dedicated her life to aviation, cutting her hair short and wearing his leather jacket for 3 nights to make it look more "worn". Earhart suffered from the Spanish flu pandemic that caused the victim to suffer from dizziness after hard work. Once she fell ill on a 10 hour flight and was nearly killed. Yet Earhart kept pursue her dream, and finally finished her course. In 1922, Amelia Earhart set the world altitude record for women pilots, 14 000 feet, and in 1932 Earhart was the first pilot to fly solo across the Atlantic, establishing herself as an aviator. With the idealistic approach, Amelia Earhart was able to become an accomplished aviator.
In addition, Nelson Mandela used the idealistic approach to achieving his goal. He has led numerous campaigns against the South African government and advocated for human rights. Although, in 1963, Mandela was sentenced to prison for life and was treated badly in prison because he was a coloured prisoner, he obtained a law degree. However, because of the growing local and international pressure, the government released Mandela in 1990. After being released from prison, Mandela declared that he would not stop advocating human rights until the black citizens had the right to vote. After being elected president of the African National Congress in 1991, he began to negotiate with President F.W. de Klerk for the right to vote and in 1993, both Mandela and de Klerk received a piece of the Nobel Prize. In 1994, South Africa held its first democratic election in which Nelson Mandela was appointed president. Thanks to him, the economy of South Africa began to grow and the government has funded many projects to create jobs and homes. Again, this is the result of an idealistic approach.
Eleanor Roosevelt, sometimes called the First Lady of the World, had been active in many women's rights movements such as the League of Women Voters. She became the first First Lady to hold her own press conferences and allowed women journalists, who had previously been banned from the conferences, to attend. Eleanor Roosevelt began advocating for the rights and needs of the poor, disadvantaged and minorities. She also traveled across the United States to observe the conditions and report these observations to the President.
Although some argue that a practical approach is more reasonable and realistic, an idealistic approach is just as valuable as well. With idealistic dreams, we can achieve larger goals. Amelia Earhart, Eleanor Roosevelt, Nelson Mandela, and many others have proven this. These people changed themselves and the world around them.
Amelia Earhart is an example of an idealist. She was a nurse in World War II and became fast friends with many aviators, causing her interest in flying. When she finally decided to learn how to fly, she spent hours studying books and got a series of jobs to earn enough money to take flying lessons. She had dedicated her life to aviation, cutting her hair short and wearing his leather jacket for 3 nights to make it look more "worn". Earhart suffered from the Spanish flu pandemic that caused the victim to suffer from dizziness after hard work. Once she fell ill on a 10 hour flight and was nearly killed. Yet Earhart kept pursue her dream, and finally finished her course. In 1922, Amelia Earhart set the world altitude record for women pilots, 14 000 feet, and in 1932 Earhart was the first pilot to fly solo across the Atlantic, establishing herself as an aviator. With the idealistic approach, Amelia Earhart was able to become an accomplished aviator.
In addition, Nelson Mandela used the idealistic approach to achieving his goal. He has led numerous campaigns against the South African government and advocated for human rights. Although, in 1963, Mandela was sentenced to prison for life and was treated badly in prison because he was a coloured prisoner, he obtained a law degree. However, because of the growing local and international pressure, the government released Mandela in 1990. After being released from prison, Mandela declared that he would not stop advocating human rights until the black citizens had the right to vote. After being elected president of the African National Congress in 1991, he began to negotiate with President F.W. de Klerk for the right to vote and in 1993, both Mandela and de Klerk received a piece of the Nobel Prize. In 1994, South Africa held its first democratic election in which Nelson Mandela was appointed president. Thanks to him, the economy of South Africa began to grow and the government has funded many projects to create jobs and homes. Again, this is the result of an idealistic approach.
Eleanor Roosevelt, sometimes called the First Lady of the World, had been active in many women's rights movements such as the League of Women Voters. She became the first First Lady to hold her own press conferences and allowed women journalists, who had previously been banned from the conferences, to attend. Eleanor Roosevelt began advocating for the rights and needs of the poor, disadvantaged and minorities. She also traveled across the United States to observe the conditions and report these observations to the President.
Although some argue that a practical approach is more reasonable and realistic, an idealistic approach is just as valuable as well. With idealistic dreams, we can achieve larger goals. Amelia Earhart, Eleanor Roosevelt, Nelson Mandela, and many others have proven this. These people changed themselves and the world around them.
Saturday, 18 October 2014
Summer Showers
In the deep void of the universe, the center of our life and the start of our existence burns in its glory. A star that we have come to depend on and who gave us life. It sits in the middle of the solar system watching the planets and beyond, holding the answer to the deepest of mysteries: the Sun. And at just the right distance a planet revolves around the Sun, the only known planet to hold life, our Earth. And so a beam of life giving light and energy travels towards the Earth. The light will take thousands of years to reach our Earth, but its heat and warmth is no less welcome.
In a garden, thousands of years later, the plants and animals receive the Sun's Gentle touch. Squirrels run about, chasing each other and butterflies dance in the wind. The summer heat rose as insects buzzed. Animals and humans alike sought the cool relief of shade. In a corner of the garden, tucked between bushes was a flower, the dirt its roots dug into was dry and cracked under the Sun's intense heat. Its leaves were gone, fallen victim to insects and so its beauty was marred. It looked with envy upon a rose, the gentle and delicate red petals greeted the sun's warmth with grace.
And suddenly the heat began to dissipate and a chill breeze brought a tense demeanor. Dark clouds rolled in, refusing the thousand year old light to warm the ground. The robins stopped chirping and returned to the safety of their nests and the squirrels scampered back towards the trees. The leaves of the flower quivered in anticipation. A storm was coming.
The first drops of water hit the ground, moistening the parched dirt and filling it with nutrients. The rain began pouring down, dumping the excess water back to the earth, returning the cool air. The water continued to patter on the ground. Under the trees drooping leaves the flower received the cool water as it rolled down into a pitch, Its stems, which once held leaves caught the droplets and held them close.
The storm's anger died down, its anger evaporated as the contents of the dark clouds were spent. Once again, the sun's rays hit the Earth, Tentatively, the squirrels peeked its head out of the thick canopy and put its foot down on the soft spongy earth. With more courage, it frolicked around the wet grass, exciting the other chipmunks and squirrels. As the sun fully emerged behind the clouds, its rays caught the water droplets on the leafless flower. The water sparkled in the sunlight, throwing out rainbows. The leafless plant stood tall and proud as the sun smiled down on its beauty.
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