From Four Years Ago to Now

It's that time of year. The election is coming up in a few months. I'm finally able to vote, to make my mark on American politics. 

I can still remember four years ago, when President Obama won the election. I was a freshman in high school. During his inauguration, our teachers repeatedly told us how historic this moment was, and that we were lucky to be living through it. 

I and my classmates even got to miss fifth period (math, YES.) to watch the inauguration. We all stared at the TV, watching this indeed historic moment. 

The moment didn't last long. Growing up as a Mormon in Georgia, I was surrounded by conservatives galore. Not long into the class, while we were still watching the inauguration, the whispers began. They weren't nice whispers. They were filled with hate and vitriol and only a slight willingness to have some respect for the President. They at least had the courtesy not to whisper while President Obama was being sworn in. But during every other part of the coverage, and well into the next couple classes, the whispering continued. 

It piqued me. What reason could my classmates possibly have to whisper about a President? We talked about it. They pointed out several of their moral disagreements with his policy ideas, and various other things they heard from their parents. There was also the birther arguments and Muslims and terrorist disagreements they had. 

I agreed with some of their arguments and disagreed with others. One thing I will always give my classmates at Central, we all had the ability to have at least civilized debates. If all else failed, we just agreed to disagree. Not to mention also the fact that most of their arguments they had gotten from their parents. I could forgive their arguments because of the fact that we were all young and hadn't quite formed our own political ideas. 

One thing we all agreed on. Obama was still the President. There was nothing we could do about it, except wait four years until we could vote. 

Imagine then, after my civilized discussions and debates with my classmates, when I got online a few days later and got on Facebook, where I saw adults, grown people whose opinion I trusted and respected, metaphorically shouting about how Obama getting elected would bring about the end of the world. 

I felt horrible. This was terrible. This... this was what our country had come to. Name calling, derogatory comments, and an irrational ability to shut out facts or the truth. 

I pointed out some of these comments to my mother, and asked her why people would do this. 

"Well, Carina, they're just stating their opinion."

"But... Mom... he's the President. And this isn't... there is nothing nice at all about this. He's the President!" 

"Some people just don't respect him." 

"I can see not respecting him as a person, or his policy, but... they should at least have respect for his office, if nothing else." 

"They should. But they don't." 

And the walls of my political innocence came crashing down. Here I was, a young girl, still in high school, looking at the adults around me while they tried to teach their children moral codes and how to act as a proper adult...

And the contradictions that presented themselves whenever they started talking about politics. They couldn't even walk their own moral high ground. 

I grew up. Time passed. I learned more about the intricacy of our government, our politics, our Constitution. I began discussing policy issues and the upcoming election with my parents and friends. I turned 18 and registered to vote. 

The whispers haven't stopped. The only difference is that now I have access to hear the whispers that come from both sides. And at times, they aren't even whispers. Sometimes they're shouts, and no one seems to be able to stop shouting long enough to deal with the actual problems. 

I despair for the future of our country. This behavior is juvenile and ridiculous. This lack of compromise will destroy us if we don't do something about it. 

Our country was created on some of the best examples of compromise ever. 

The Constitution wouldn't have been formed if there had not been compromise. 

Yes, compromise takes time. It takes hard work. It takes listening to both sides. 

IT TAKES GIVING SOME THINGS UP. 

The Constitution took months to create. In the middle of summer. With closed windows, no air conditioning, and far too many clothes to wear. 

Today's politicians have all year, heating and air conditioning, and well, in their opinion, probably still far too many clothes to wear. 

However, if this is what is getting in the way of compromise, I vote they all dress up in ridiculous clothes, lock themselves in a room, and not come out until every single problem is solved. 

In the middle of a humid summer. Or a blizzard. Either one would work. 

Or just locking them in a room together until they come up with a solution. If that is what it takes, I will be more than happy for them to do that. 

Because the alternative isn't nearly so pretty. At least, one of the several not-pretty alternatives, if we keep going the same way we are. 

I've told you before, Amber and I are writing a dystopian spy story. It's set several generations into the future. 

America doesn't exist several generations into the future. In the history of our story, Canada, with an intellectual aristocracy, saw what was happening to America, and the rest of the world. They had had enough of Americans being petty and always arguing and creating problems because our government stopped functioning. The political hatred and vitriol didn't lessen, it grew greater, and it was affecting the world because we couldn't function. 

So Canada bombed us. Destroyed us completely. Wiped us all out. We had grown so embittered in our hatred of someone on the opposite of an invisible political line that we as a people would no longer listen to reason. Force was the only way to deal with us. And that's what they did. 

And with that, all democracy in the world died. 

We need to stop this path of self-destruction it looks like we've managed to place ourselves on. 

I noticed in some of our local elections, that some of the nominees would advertise themselves as being able to work with both sides of the political fence. 

Politicians shouldn't need to advertise the fact that they know how to compromise. They should ALL be able to do that. 

I don't ask you guys to share my stuff often. Or, ever, I think. But this is something that's really important to me, and it should be important to all of you, no matter your political views. 

But please, share this post. 

Put it on Facebook. 

Twitter. 

Your own blogs. 

Email it to your friends. 

Send it to your representatives. Local, national, state. All of them. 

If you can even find a way to send it to Romney and Obama, more power to you, and please do. 

This lack of respect and lack of willingness to listen is tearing our country apart. I don't want to face a future where this problem has escalated to the point that we can't respect our leaders or function as a country. 

I still have some small faith in humanity left. It's eroded, and often overpowered by cynicism, but there's still a small part of that little freshman in high school who believes that people don't deserve unadulterated hatred. No matter what. 

A Mess of Books

You know you've done something right when this is your favorite mess.

I came into my room the other night to discover that my little brother had been 'reading' in my room. I didn't know the little kid could read all those books in the space of a couple hours.

He's trying to look innocent. Cute little boy. How does he know I can't say no to him playing with books?

I mean, how do you say no to that? Who am I to deny him the chance to read and go on literary adventures?

Have fun reading, little buddy. Even if it's only to escape cleaning up the mess you made. :)

Writing as a Calling

So, yesterday, my friend and I were talking and hanging out, when our conversation turned to our favorite topic--writing.

We were actually originally talking about her Korean drama she's obsessed with currently, and how she loves the main character. I pointed out to her that there's a very good chance he's married and has kids. Although I really don't have any idea.

She looked confused, before realizing that I meant the actor, not the actual character. Then we were talking some more, and I said, "You know, though, if your mom's book theory is correct, somewhere in the universe, that story does actually exist. They all exist."

She turns to me. "That's not very comforting, Carina. That means that all the horrible things I do to my characters is my fault. That means that somewhere in the universe, I'm creating terrible lives for these people."

But then I had a thought. It's not the first time I've had this thought, but it hit me again right there. "Well, actually, I don't think we actually do the horrible things to them," I tried to explain it to her. "It's like... we just see what happened to them. We get the privilege of seeing their lives and writing it down for others. We're sharing their story."

That thought was slightly more comforting to her. But... why? Why do we, as writers, get the privilege-the responsibility-of telling these stories? What is so important about the telling of stories? Why is it that I feel this need to write every single day of my life?

Then, somehow, our conversation turned to the topic of freedom.

"You know, Amber, Loki had a point, in the Avengers movie," I said. "We humans... we do naturally crave subjugation. We don't even think about it. As much as we say we want freedom, a leader shows up and takes charge, and we follow him. We're like sheep, we don't even think about it."

And that thought, the notion that even me, if someone were to show up, use some force on people, and scream at us to kneel and worship him, would kneel as well... it scares me.

"But there was that old man," Amber points out. "He stood up to Loki. And he was awesome."

"Yeah," I said. "But what if we don't have any awesome old men to stand up and remind us that we have our agency? The human race will just fall, because someone has incredible leadership power and we get so blinded by it we don't even question him."

"Well," she said slowly, "I think that's part of our job. That's what writers do. I mean, all the prophets are storytellers. It's always been that way."

It made sense to me. "Well, look at history. The reason we learn the lessons we do is because they tend to be told to us in stories. We remember stories."

"I think... I think writing.. to be a writer... is a kind of calling. It's not a hobby. It's not even an addiction. It's a calling. We need to tell these stories, so that we can remind everyone about life and everything else."

"Well, I mean, it's awfully selfish to write and not share it," I said. "You can't. I mean... it's not writing if you don't share it. It's just something you wrote. But... it's a story when you share it. And we... we have the power. To remind people. To be that awesome old man who stood up to Loki in the Avengers. We can remind people that they have agency, that they aren't the only ones who go through hard times, and that there's always a way back."

I'm still thinking about that conversation. Throughout history, storytellers have been both welcomed and condemned. Ever wonder why free speech is limited in so many countries without democracy? Leaders who rule their people without proper authority know--they fully understand-- the power of words. They know that it would only take one person--running on one story--to realize the truth of their lack of authority, and to challenge it.

For years, America didn't allow slaves to learn how to read and write. The slave owners knew the dangers of getting an educated slave. They might get all uppity with this freedom thing. Maybe challenge the status quo. And they were right. Education is a dangerous and powerful tool. Reading, stories, writing... they are some of the most powerful things humans can access.

In the story Amber and I are writing together, it's a dystopia. The common people--such as there are--have no idea what's going on with their government. Because their entire education has focused on accepting their governments without question, they don't question it. They fear it. But every once in a while, people do realize. And they fight back. (and then the government kills them all, but that's not exactly the point.)

History is written by the victors, and that might be a reason we don't learn well from history textbooks. History is never written by the losers who actually made the mistakes. We don't get to learn what they learned.

Words are powerful. They're some of the most powerful things I've ever dealt with. I've never felt more empowered, more in control, than when I'm sitting at my computer, writing. I have a message to share with the world. All writers do. We might not realize it when we're trying to figure out how to write the next chapter, or doing stupid things so we can accurately describe it in our stories. But we do.

And I just hope I can choose my words carefully enough.

The Hobo Adventures: A Hobo Walks Down An Alley

Hobo Joe stumbled as he stepped up on the curb, and looked down to see what had made him trip. Nothing was there but a white glove stained with blood.

Hobo Joe dismissed it. He wasn’t in the best part of town, and anything could have caused the bloodstain on the glove. If it was even a bloodstain. It could have been Kool-Aid. Or melted Jello. Or really red dirt. He shrugged, and continued on his merry walk towards his dumpster, where his cat was waiting for him.

“Hey, Hobo Joe!” Hobo Poe called out to him. “I got you some chicken!” A chicken dashed out of a trash can, running into an alley and disappearing.

“Looks like the chicken was to go,” Hobo Joe said, cracking a smile. It was his favorite joke, and he used it every single chance he got. 

“Sorry, Joe,” Hobo Poe said. “I’ll get back there and fetch the chicken again.”

“Nah, I got it,” Hobo Joe said. He followed the chicken back into the alley, where he was startled to find not a chicken, but two tall men blocking his way.

“Excuse me, mister,” one of the men said. “Could you tell me if this smells like chloroform?” He held up a rag.

“Well, I would be mighty glad to help you out, but I’m afraid I don’t know what chloroform smells like,” Hobo Joe replied politely.

“Trust me,” the other man said. “You’ll know.”

Hobo Joe shrugged. It looked like the chicken was long gone. “Might as well give it a try.” He leaned over and sniffed the rag. 

A Hobo Follow-Up

Well, dear people, it has occurred to me that you may be thinking my last post might just be missing the actual story part.

It's not. I haven't actually written it yet. That post was a teaser for later this week, when hopefully, I will get pictures and have the first story written. (Of course there will be more than one. Adventures is plural.)

So worry yourselves not. All shall be as it should.... eventually. :)

Honestly, I was just so excited about this project I had to share it with you immediately.

So keep reading, keep following, keep sharing with your friends, and I shall strive to entertain you with hobolike whimsies.

Hobos Of The Internet

Meet Hobo Flo. 

One day, she was an ordinary student, ready to live out her life. Until she received a text from her friend. Normally, this wouldn't be dramatic, but during the course of their conversation, they decided they should make a career change. 

They should rid themselves of their former identities, their former lives, and use their as-yet-undiscovered superpowers to don the identities of hobos. 

They are, Hobo Flo, Hobo Moe, and Hobo Zoe, Hobos Of The Internet. 

These are their stories.