New Semester's Wishes
It is a global tradition that on the stroke of midnight New Year’s Eve a series of wishes be made. Likewise, many produce lists of goals and achievements for the coming year; they review their progress of the year past. A few weeks into the new year we arrive at school, and our first morning assembly is a transformation of the same rhetoric. We are informed about our responsibilities and are told to ponder upon our lives; indeed, we are encouraged to make goals for the semester, to reflect, to prepare.
Now, the way I see it is: the second ritual—for a ritual it is—is much more effective than the first, in practical terms. The beginning of a school year, of a semester, of a job, has many more opportunities to improve and change. It seems a more natural process. True, New Year’s Eve is important as it bring families closer and gives a reason to celebrate—but this is important in a more spiritual realm.
I do enjoy giving—and receiving—a hug on New Year’s, I enjoy the new socks and the food. I like the joyful atmosphere, and it certainly is a unifying factor across the world.
In the end, however, I find that new beginnings are adapted to our personal lives, and as such I prefer to make my choices at those particular instances. Here are a few of the hopes and decisions I made for this semester:
-Have A’s in all my subjects.
-Read more than I did last semester.
-Finish all my work as soon as I have it.
-Do away with college applications.
-Have fun and enjoy my last time at Woodstock.
-Eat good food every weekend.
-Get some exercise (I feel a few kilos heavier after the break).
-Sleep less.
What is your list? Do you have goals for the ongoing semester/work period/whatever?
And we return...
In a flash, the first two days of my last semester at Woodstock:
· Arrive at school around 1 pm, after meeting friends on the Shatabdi Express (the train).
· Find my room (which, incidentally, is the same as last semester’s, with the same roommates).
· Be cold.
· Work on Calculus and Politics homework.
· Do nothing.
· Do more homework.
· Check-in, dinner and dorms again.
· Ask mother to buy and send a book.
· Watch a movie with friends whilst falling asleep.
· Wake up at 9:50 am, in time to have breakfast.
· Spend a long time with roommates discussing the pros and cons of ordering food.
· Work a bit on Calculus.
· Long to go home and sleep in own bed.
· Go to dining hall to see what’s for lunch.
· Return and wait for the phone to be free and then order Kalsang’s food.
· Do Calculus homework and complain about elevating levels of hunger.
· Food arrives, rush to eat. Do more Calculus.
· Finish 1st section of Calculus, think about working a bit on Politics.
· Decide to eat and listen to music.
· Go for check-in, and then dinner.
· Come back, work on Politics.
· Write a little bit.
· Sleep.
Airborne
Today is a very exiting day for me. For the first time ever, I am connected to the internet, using Facebook and in fact writing this at an altitude of 10,000 plus feet. To my left, through the aircraft window, I can see cities in the US roll by as I head on to Mexico City. So far, the only real draw back on my latest flight was the two hour delay for takeoff.
However, like I said, I am happy to have internet available at this point in time. It's funny how in Atlanta I had very limited access to the web, but onboard the service works better--and faster. A bit odd, in my opinion. But I can't complain.
In about three hours I will land in Mexico, and I am anxious to de cleared of the terminal. After all, I have been waiting for many, many, many hours for this.
I still can't get over the internet access on the plane. Guess who's reading The New York Times and The Economist? Perhaps sometime in the future this feature will be a recurrent asset. I had seen the internet access feature before, but never openly. Either way, it will sure cost a fare to use it in the future--who could resist monetizing such a nice part of a flight? Soon, on-flight internet will be part of Business and First Class, while economy class will remain put down.
In a few days I will know whether Oberlin accepts my application. But, you know what would be even better? To read it here, high above the ground, in the abode of the gods, to use more dainty language.
Oh and, the capitan just told us that we will arrive to Mexico city around 9 pm, and that the whether is beautiful. Excellent way to finish a tiresome journey!
I have gone thus far
My Facebook status: "
At last, I am in Indira Gandhi International Airport waiting for my departure—in about 2 hours. The last few days have been an incredible rush; on Thursday I was late for my journalism exam because I thought it was in the evening. I hadn’t realized that Advanced journalism differed from journalism, nor that the former exam would be in the morning. And thus, I ran up from Hostel to the Gym and arrived half an hour late.
After that, I had an AP Comparative Politics review session. Interestingly enough, the teacher gave us new material and homework for the vacation. As for the review side, we went through our latest test question by question—we spent the whole time speaking about Russian politics.
That afternoon I studied—or tried to, for it soon became impossible. Indeed, politics is not one of my strengths, and studying for an exam less so. So there I sat, idly flipping through my textbook or looking at random websites—try quizlet.com, for one. Although Aurnab and I decided to sleep early for the next day, around 11:30 I wandered to the bathroom and I saw the recent vote on tuition fees by the House of Commons in England. I struck conversation with another student, for we both believed this to be a terrible mistake by the British government. I still had to finish packing.
After the news program finished, I finished packing and finally went to sleep. Far too soon I woke up and headed for my exam, filled with dread. I knew I would do terribly.
The exam itself was a bore. I finished early—I am not sure, however, whether it was from a lack of knowledge or not—and waited for 45 min. to be let out. As I still had to wait 3 hours for the final assembly, and did not want to go back to dorms, I simply sat in the library talking to whoever came and went.
When it was 3:30, I headed to the Media Center for a “special tea.” I, along with other 20 or 30 students, was to become an “ambassador of Woodstock” that would inform anyone interested in Woodstock back home. In my opinion, this is a great idea, for, as Mr. Wildman said, it is the best way to actually know a school.
The final assembly was not unlike any other I have been to: final remarks about the semester so far, several farewells and such things. What I thought was a great highlight was that the Jazz Band performed several pieces, all of them exquisite.
The assembly lasted for an hour, perhaps a bit more. That night we didn’t sleep, as we had a 12 hour bus ride to Delhi the next day. Aurnab, Jocelyn and myself again cooked in the dead of the night—although this time the dorm parents didn’t care. The few times I passed a lounge, I saw rows of students playing Warcraft or games suchlike.
Hours and hours did we wait, until finally the time struck when we hoped in our respective busses and left for Delhi. It was 6 am.
Subsequently I went to an art exposition of Anjum Singh, a famous artist in India, with my mother. I do not wish to offend her art or anything, but to be honest I have never understood the craft. Yes, I can see the value in paintings, when they resemble real life or when they are obvious commentaries on society. Yet, if you take it further than that, I am at a loss.
From there I went to my grandmother’s house, where I stayed for a day. I met my uncle and my grandfather—who knows my love for books and gave me one of his: Countdown to Partition. Finally, and to my slight relief, I left for the airport, where I now find myself.
It’s funny how when I was smaller I used to love airports and flying. I even wanted to be a pilot. Now, I just can’t wait until I land in Mexico City. But until then, I have an 8 hour flight to Paris—5 hours—then another 8 hour flight to Atlanta—3 hours—and a 4 hour flight to Mexico City.
And finally, home!
Solzhenitsyn's novel
Yesterday I finished reading One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich, the book I spoke about a couple of days ago. The impression I got from the book is that of a desecrated form of life; a terrible instance when the humanity of a person is stripped away through brute force.
What Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn portrayed in his novel is the life of a man whose hopes have been destroyed, and his only aim is to survive. It is a crude depiction of a Siberian labor camp. The cruel interactions between prisoners, forced so low because of the Soviet system, convey the tragedy that human scheming can cause.
The novel is a form of Darwinism, a fight of the fittest to survive in a hostile environment. What is more striking about this novel, and I mentioned it earlier, is that it takes place in the post-World War II era, a time not so distant from our present.
To be honest, I am glad I finished the book. The atmosphere and the tone are gloomy, despairing and the only sympathy that arises comes from the inherent goodness of Denisovich, and the helpful manner of a few more characters.
This, however, does not stop the dread of opening another page, of observing the things that the victims of The Gulag are put through.
Yet, this is a must-read for anyone with interest in history or in the Soviet systems. In context, the work of Solzhenitsyn is the more frightening and impacting. At the same time, it provides with an invaluable view into the lives of people who were caught in the big political game.
Night's cravings
“I swear, the best ideas always come when there’s music playing.”
It’s Tuesday, just past midnight, and my room is bustling with activity, while everyone else is in peaceful slumber—except perhaps our immediate neighbors. It’s not an unusual scenario; many a times I sit until late reading, while Aurnab and Jocelyn, my roommates, draw—both of them want to be artists, and are applying to art schools.
Today, or should I say tonight, is different. Jocelyn came to our end of the room—Aurnab’s bed and mine are on the far end—and is drawing a comic of us three fishing on a sewage hole. It’s a tad awkward, because he keeps asking me to sit still, staring right at him. Likewise, Aurnab sits on his desk, drawing something—for he’s back is against me and I can’t see. A pair of speakers is booming music, and we idly chat about this and the other*.
Because we are very hungry, as we are almost every night, we plan on creeping to the kitchen—two floors above and past a long hallway—to cook us some Wai Wai and a plate of French food that Jossy brought from home (He’s actually half-French and half-Tanzanian).
Just now, when I mentioned what I’m writing, Aurnab exclaimed, “Ah, I can’t wait to eat some food!”
Such are our nights at Woodstock, and some of the most interesting moments in dorms. For it is here where we gather to talk about the day’s comings. It is such a refreshing activity—and we’re so used to it—that our room request forms have been filled with a signature from all three of us, asking for this very same room next semester.
What do we talk about? Well, Jossy is usually concerned with his paintings and drawings. He constantly asks us to opine on his works—there is a huge, 1 by 1.30 meters painting on the side of the room, on which he has been working for the past four days. Aurnab and I believe Jocelyn has OCD, for he is much too worried by details. I imagine this is a positive thing in the works of an artist. In the end, I think there is a general consensus placing Jocelyn up above in the pyramid of art skill. There is no one—no one—who will not praise one of his works (And I already convinced him to give me a piece or two to take home).
Aurnab is far less explicit about his work; rather, he speaks about movies and music, the latter being a clashing spot for us. Whenever we want to see a movie, or just need a recommendation, Aurnab is the person to ask. His hard drive is filled with films of excellent quality—Waking Life, American Beauty, Me you and everyone we know, Star Wars, The Squid and the Whale, Fight Club, Blow, Dazed and Confused. To make this post more complete, I asked him what his favorites are. Instead of a solid response, I received a barrage of titles, many from the above list, that represent but a fraction of his interests.
I said our music interests clash. Here’s why: What Aurnab listens to over and over is Dubstep; on the other hand, I am far into rock and metal (What he calls old-men-music). In this respect, Jocelyn is trendier, so to speak, than either of us. In any case, we have constant disputes about whose turn it is to blast the speakers.
Returning to the present, Jocelyn asked a moment ago whether we should go cook now. It’s all dark outside, and no one will see us. The risk is, however, that our dorm parent came in a while ago and explicitly told us, “I hope you guys aren’t planning on cooking.”
Perhaps we will wait for a longer time. Meanwhile, Aurnab continues drawing, Jocelyn is lost somewhere (as he is many timees) and I will return to my latest book, When the Sleeper Wakes by HG Wells.
“Yo, should we cook?” suddenly asks Jocelyn in a whisper.
“Alright, let’s go!”
*Note: I will be uploading some pictures I took. However, I need to wait until I download them.
"Let us pray, Dear God," exams and literature; what happens on a Saturday during exams.
“Let us pray, Dear God, for the Korean peninsula, for the Miners in NZ and above all, for the students who are about to take their mid-term exams. Amen.”
Last week—the last one before exams—someone stood up on Parker Hall to give the usual morning assembly devotion; a classic analysis and interpretation of a Bible verse tipped with a moral point. However, the closing prayer caught my attention. I am not a believer, but I see the use, and for some need, to pray for world peace and the blessings of utopia. It is a good thing to hope that the Korean tensions don’t explode, that the miners in NZ survive, and so on. But what not many caught in the prayer was the “above all, for the students who are about to take their mid-term exams. Amen.”
Indeed, what could possibly be more important than these exams?
I know the prayer was well intended, and I don’t mean to attack the speaker. Besides, after having my AP United States History and Environmental Science yesterday, I see why we need the strength of God through this week. Calculus is next, and what can I say about it?
Today I spent half the day buried in equations, differentials, rates, derivatives. The wretched “F(x)” now hunts me, and I want to know nothing about whether it is differentiable at a point, or continuous, or concave. And tomorrow, I will go on into optimizations and related rates. Ugh!
The other half of the day was spent in a more blissful manner. I went up to the library in the morning and found by chance the Head Librarian. Because the winter holidays are coming, I had been looking around for a few books to take home; Mrs. Swanson provided me with a good answer. She asked me what kind of book I was looking for, and I asked her for something along the lines of Brave New World, or perhaps 1984. After all, dystopian literature is always a joy.
Here are the books I came out with—only three because we can’t take anymore:
Cat’s Cradle by Kurt Vonnegut.
This one I had never heard of before. According to the back cover of the book, “Vonnegut is George Orwell, Dr. Caligari and Flash Gordon compounded into one writer… a zany but moral mad scientist.” From what I read in Goodreads.com, it’s a fine novel, written with a satirical voice. “An apocalyptical tale of this planet’s ultimate fate.” So far, so good. What did sound odd, however, was that the main protagonist is a midget. But alas, let’s only hope its worthwhile.
Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury.
What to say about this book? I love dystopian future, particularly when it is about clashing ideologies. And Bradbury has made his name many a-times. For long I have heard about the marvels of this book, but never got around to reading it. So here’s my chance.
One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich by Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn--I spent a good deal of the day reading this, instead of studying.
One Day is the story of Denisovich throughout one day—now there’s a surprise—in the Gulag. It is Solzhenitsyn’s most acclaimed novel, which he wrote based on his own term in prison because of the criticisms he offered about Stalin. I read half the book today, and I hope that after my exams I can finish the other half, so I can take a different book home. Until now, Solzhenitsyn has offered a crude peek into what it was to live in a Soviet prison. What really set me thinking was an article I read on the web: It pointed out how surprising—and unnerving—it is to read stories of prison camps like this, something that is usually associated with a more, say, barbaric age—and yes, Nazi concentration camps are just as unnerving.
So here’s the last Saturday of the semester in a flash, and the end of a rather disconnected and divergent entry.
The apogee of a tortuous search
College applications are underway; what we have to wait for is nothing more than a “yes” or a “no.” I described earlier—and it appears to be ages ago—the difficulties I faced in many attempts to begin, and particularly end, a personal essay. What I understand from such pieces is that the college official will see us in a clearer light through our writing. After all, the essay is intended to tell more about us students than a simple, objective GPA. However, I wonder how effective this is; for I am one of those who believe that life is barely composed of a single event or a single impression. It is made of a series: it is a process.
As I told my mother when I was searching for a topic, “If I was to describe or present what I am today through an essay, I’d have to write 17 years of history,” beginning the day I was born. And perhaps it would not be enough, as I would have to add the experiences and ideas of those around me. For example, on Thursday Dr. Campbell from the Class of ’65 was awarded the Distinguished Alumni Award for his work in the mountains, his love and passion for nature and his overly determined striving for a better world. While on stage, he said that he owned his achievements to his class, “without whom [he] would have never been what [he is]” Now Dr. Campbell is a truly remarkable man, but it was not a single event or idea that elevated him to his present position. It was a combination of experiences and acquaintances, as well as fair amounts of hard work.
But I digress. In the end, I wrote about how my reading habits have reflected my interests and passions over the years. From what I gather—mainly from ‘college essay books,’ the advice of my counselor and other people—is that one should take a vivid snapshot and reflect upon it. If such is the case, I fear I will disappoint those reading my work. I didn’t write about a single instance that changed my life; I wrote about a process that has taken many years.
I have a deep wish that the admissions officer who will read my essay will develop a positive impression from it. Regarding the essay itself, I have no qualms. My grandfather once told me, as I showed him an opinion piece I’d written, to not concern myself with what or what-not should people do; rather, to say what I truly think. And, as Mr. Plonka once said, if I manage to anger someone at least I had an effect.
In closing, I believe it fair and appropriate to share my essay:
As James Bryce once said, “The worth of a book is to be measured by what you can carry away from it.” I can recall many memories from my early years when my mother used to read bedside stories to me. From childish fairy tales, she slowly moved onward to Harry Potter. However, when I was 8 she had less time to help me and I was forced to read the Spanish edition of The Prisoner of Azkaban on my own. Seeing as she did, that I was delighted by books, my mother—a frugal person by nature—did what she could to satisfy my newfound cravings. Before long, and following this trend, my dad gave me Emilio Salgari’s collected works—12 hardcover volumes—for a birthday present.
Such was my introduction to literature.
When I was nine or ten, my enthusiasm to read The Goblet of Fire forced me to transition into an English library, for the Spanish version of the book was not out yet. After Harry Potter, I delved into Tolkien’s mythopoeia, The Lord of the Rings, where Middle-Earth opened a new world for me, one of myths, legends and heroism. I was greatly impressed by the wisdom of the elven race and dreamt of growing up to be like Elrond or Celeborn. At the time, it was just a fun story, but it turned into a love for a Romantic view of the past, of knights and fantasy. I became fascinated with the history of the Middle-Earth, its gods and races and how it all culminated with The Return of the King. The Silmarilion then proved to be, to my young eyes, the first primary source I would meet, so to speak.
My fascination with history established, I began to move away from fantasy and into historical fiction. I must have been around 13 at this point. The Three Musketeers has been, for many years, one of my favorites, for it contains all the perks of fiction and the beauty of history.17th century France soon became a sort of Eden; it was there, in Paris, when Athos, Porthos, Aramis and d’Artagnan saved King Louis from the claws of Cardinal Richelieu that I fell in love with Dumas’ writing. When I finished The Man in the Iron Mask, I plunged into stacks of books of the same genre.
By the time I entered Woodstock I had decided I wanted to study history. During a European History class my teacher spoke about Cesare Beccaria’s On Crimes and Punishment as we studied the Enlightenment. She drew a parallel with Dostoevsky’s novel, Crime and Punishment and I, in a fit of curiosity—as well as a desire to read great classics—bought the book. It was around this time that books evolved from simply being plot lines to arguments and tools that I could use to describe a particular time.
This sparked a hunger to learn more about history, the subject I was growing to love. So when my history class reached 1939, nationalism and tyranny became our focus, and I was captivated by The Third Reich at War, a book I picked up at a book fair. This marked a turning point in my reading habits as I stopped looking for novels in libraries and started reading non-fiction: essays and books with arguments and philosophical thoughts to edify my own knowledge.
Thus, I bought Plato’s Republic: my first formal engagement with philosophy. Subsequently, I became fully interested in philosophy and political theory, almost as much as in history. Eventually I arrived at what I am currently reading: Iris Murdoch’s Sartre, which will join my bookshelf in Mexico City a few months from now, and will certainly rouse my interest on a different subject. The journey is not over, and I am eager to see what books the future will bring, and how they will shape who I am.
The Festival of Lights
Diwali—also known as the Festival of Lights—is a religious festival in Hinduism; it commemorates the return of the deity Lord Rama after an exile of fourteen years. Legend has it, Lord Rama returned to Ayodhya—the same city that was under dispute just a few weeks ago—and, as Wikipedia says, “Vanquished the demon-king Ravana.” The people of Ayodhya were overjoyed when the tyranny of Ravana was finally destitute, and thus lit the kingdom with thousands of diyas (Oil lamps).
For Jainsim and Sikhism, Diwali is also a festive day, albeit for different reasons. With the former, Diwali commemorates Vardhamana’s achievement of nirvana—Vardhamana is the founder of Jainism. The latter, in a clear parallel with Hinduism, celebrates the return of Guru Har Goind Ji to Amritsar, after he liberated several Hindu kings from the hands of Emperor Jahangir.*
In Woodstock, we also celebrate Diwali. For those interested, there is a special dinner; for everyone else, a show of fireworks tipped with masala chai.
We stand aloof.
It is in the heat of a dispute that the best—or worst—of people appears under the light. Certainly, through controversy, we can appreciate the methodology of others; their reasoning—or perhaps their irrationality. We see their train of thought in full flare, in an attempt to substantiate a particular argument.
Although perhaps self-evident, this principle never appeared to me as clear as it did in Dharamshala—and thereafter I have seen it in the hallways of school as well.
While I am oblivious to the planning details of our trip, it is clear that something went amiss. Or perhaps it didn’t, but we just had a bad plan. Either way, what I do know is that throughout the trip we visited three monasteries, one museum and a momo making class: I expected a more, say, enlightening experience.
Now, we were in Dharamshala for four days; the other four: in a bus. Perhaps it appears that one monastery a day, a visit to a museum and a momo making class on the last is sufficient, but I strongly disagree. Not only because each monastery took less than a quarter of a day, but because at each stop we were surrounded by Buddhist tradition, in general something of a novelty for us, and we were told nothing but a rudimentary outline about the place and culture.
Indeed, the most informative thing we did was taking Lhamo’s Momo Making class. There, I, for I am not sure if everyone did, learned—what a surprise!—how to make momos. I must say, I have been a fan of momos for years, and I never imagined they would be so easy to cook.
The next thing in line would be the photography exhibition: A Long Look Homeward. In this exhibition we saw the plight of the Tibetan community, a people who went into exile from the oppressive Chinese government. The museum culminated with the documentary of Lhamo Tse, a woman whose husband was taken, and still is, prisoner in China because of a movie he made attesting the reverence that Tibetans still hold for the Dalai Lama; even if such reverence is officially kept underground.
On the second last day of our visit we went to the Norbulingka Institute, a place intended to maintain Tibetan culture, even in exile. We were shown different crafts, from woodworks to paintings. After a short while, however, we left the institute.
All in all, the trip fell far short of expectations. While we saw several places of interest, which are teeming with culture and tradition, there wasn’t that educational side to it: what I spoke about in an earlier post was not exposed at all.
This brings me back to my opening sentence. On Thursday, after several days of this ongoing academic lethargy—which gave us absolutely nothing to do—our chaperones decided we would return to Woodstock a day earlier. However, as soon as this decision was announced our bus burst into anger and shouts polluted the tranquil environment of Dharamshala.
Several students, or perhaps most, I didn’t really count, became passionate and began arguing and, if I may, whining, about the new decision. Their whole line of argument rested on the fact that the trip had been planned for an extra day, a day on which we would see the Dalai Lama.
If the latter had a chance of coming to existence, I would have agreed with the unruly students. However, from what I had heard, the secretary of the Dalai Lama had no responded, and thus we were stumbling in darkness.
Yet, back in school, I was told different versions: apparently, we were going to meet the Dalai Lama: moreover, we we’re going to have a special dinner with some important person (whose name I can’t remember right now).
But whatever the outcome, I was irritated—yet not surprised—with the amount of complaints that the last decisions spurred. That last drop of acid took something away from the complacent mood that we had fallen into, and degraded the atmosphere into an indignant one. Perhaps this was one of the reasons I was so glad to come back.
The only hope I hold now is that we, as an institution, will grow out of this boisterous behavior, and replace it with a more reflective one. Thinking before acting never hurt anyone.
