Life Lives On Lives

Life lives on lives.
We exist to see the world through another’s eyes.

One man does not an island make.
It is with each other we must affiliate.

We co-exist in this world of ours,
Although goodness and hope seems to be devoured…

And until this world goes empty and dries—
You must never forget that life lives on lives.

“I’ll be there.”

The only saving devices.
In the event of a raving crisis,
Only unity can conquer the violence.

The money we hold is only stone-cold.
Bastardized, pocketed, then given away and sold.
Life is more precious than any amount of gold.

As the anger grew, so did troubles brew…
So many human lives it took—
Written from the sun into a lonely book,
The spoils and the casualties of war,
How many did it take to settle a score?
Shallow men guided by the heat of their own tempers,
Wholly consumed and swallowed,
They wallow in the burning passion of their own embers.

For all the innocent blood smudged between the fog and the smoke,
The fed-up peoples stood up and spoke. They piloted a new generation.
Using this occasion, these same men and women rose to fill a rift in the nation.

For every solid shoulder to carry the feeble,
This became the chance to combat a cycle of evil.
Cutting the loop, they took the forgotten names from the lonely book.
Every forgotten voice,
Each misplaced letter was now made to shine. Vivid and vibrant.
America—a mosaic that was once a pool of islands.
We co-exist in this world of ours,
We make precious our very hours.

Never alone, we walk through the land of the misplaced and forgotten.
We place a shoulder of support for the dejected and downtrodden.

Don’t let the fiery haze guide us to our final slumber.
Life is golden; and age is merely a number.

And though goodness would appear to be devoured,
The voice of reason is forever empowered.

And until this world goes empty and dries,
We must never forget,
Life lives on lives.

This poem is inspired by the wisdom of the great Joseph Campbell who, through his writings, taught me that “life lives on life.” Innately, we are all fumbling for meaning, but perhaps it was never there. We must strive and will, chasing our rightful passion, bringing meaning into our lives and thus enriching the world around us.

Essays on the Common Man (Part II)

Food for the Machine

Don’t feed the system, fight it.

Hear the screams?
The voracious fiend,
When it sets its sights on you,
You become food for the machine.

Don’t feed the system, fight it.

The American Dream, the illustrious pie in the sky,
Satellites, the all-seeing eye in the sky,
Supervision, celestial superstition,
Meanwhile, on Earth, there’s terrestrial schism:
Domestic racism, exacerbated, aggravated,
And elevated by increased terrorism overseas,
Distractions from the dismal fiscal rotaries,
Treading over rough waters, like the economy,
Like teeter-tottery,
Homelessness and poverty,
Declining values of property,
Foreclosure forces some into welfare,
And many fall sick on rising costs of health care,
While every other week presents another health scare,
A perfect storm mixing the right cocktail of conditions,
The exotic recipe appeases the system.

The experts rile feathers, push the right buttons,
Politicians, pundits, say things like it’s all redundant,
Party loyalty, constituents don’t seem to matter,
Just another rung on the political ladder,
Cut budgets while their pockets get fatter.
I’m getting tired of these screaming voices,
Outside noises, media personalities trying to influence choices,
The more you watch, the more you step inside the box,
And you might find it too much to handle, constant scandal,
“If it bleeds it leads,”
Tragedy, corruption, greed,
Murders, robberies, rape,
Sound bites, audio, video tape,
And you might find yourself in far too deep to escape,
Far too deep, in the complex of this prison,
You might find yourself in far too deep, in the bowels of the system.

Hear the screams?
The voracious fiend,
When it sets its sights on you,
You become food for the machine.

Hear the screams?
The voracious fiend,
When it sets its sights on you,
You become food for the machine.

Don’t feed the system.

It is said that no wealth equals knowledge,
And no poverty rivals ignorance.
But education is under-funded,
Teacher salaries slashed, resources hashed,
Under-performing schools leaves communities trashed,
Rising costs of books and supplies, student debt,
Tuition, dormitory and rent, all of it spent,
Trying to stay afloat,
Feel those hands around your throat?
It devours everything it touches,
The system has you in its hungry clutches.

Chasing the cheese, dodging obstacles in the maze,
A rat race, the cheese is overrated but every rat wants a taste,
9–5, 24–7 in the work economy, fast-paced, haste,
But it beats unemployment, or it seems,
Dead-end pay, too many blues, not enough green,
Don’t feed the machine.

Hear the screams?
The voracious fiend,
When it sets its sights on you,
You become food for the machine.

‘28 Days Later’ and the Zombie as a Political Metaphor

Some films occupy a special place in your heart. They have a resonating effect. To put it simply, they stick with you.

For me, Danny Boyle’s 28 Days Later has to be one of those films.

In 28 Days Later, a bicycle courier named Jim awakens from a coma to discover that a virus known as “Rage” has swept across England. After coming across other survivors, he must ward off the infected while striving to retain his humanity in a post-apocalyptic world.

The peculiar thing about 28 Days Later is its ability to mix beauty with bloodshed, tenderness with terror. There are moments of sheer hair-raising terror. There are also moments of intimacy, lightheartedness, and deep reflection. It is typically a very difficult and risky venture trying to get these conflicting story elements to mingle.

Conventional thinking is that people who like to be thrilled have very different tastes from those who like to be intellectually challenged. This may be especially true for horror fans, whose palettes often reflect their views of the genre. Some horror fans enjoy the visual gore, while others are fond of horror that appeals to them on a psychological level. Similarly, what is intellectually-stimulating to some is boring to others; the gore and thrills which satisfies the latter audience is base and off-putting to the former. Works like 28 Days Later defy conventional thinking, proving that, yes, there is an audience of people who like to be thrilled as well as stimulated.

The film is often credited with revitalizing the zombie genre, even though many would argue (justifiably so) against this categorization. The infected, after all, are technically not zombies. They are not reanimated corpses with a taste for human flesh but rather living people driven to raging aggression by a viral outbreak. For the purposes of this essay, I argue that the infected are conceptually “zombies.”

I have a particular fascination with zombies as a powerful political metaphor. Zombies are unique in the sense that they occupy plot, character, and setting. Let’s set aside the stereotypical perception of zombies as decaying, shambling, grotesque hordes of tired clichés and overused tropes, and start to appreciate them for what they represent. When we do that, we start to see that zombies are truly terrifying.

Zombies, of course, emblematize the end of the world and the downfall of human civilization. Hence, they provide the rich reservoir from which political allegories can be extracted. In “Metaphor of the Living Dead,” Daniel Drezner explains how zombies are used to contextualize three specific societal anxieties in particular: war, globalization, and pandemics.

More than that, however, zombies represent the subversion of reality. More specifically, they challenge the rudimentary conceptions of life and death. Because they are neither living nor dead, zombies tap into the innate human fear of death, and the uncertainty surrounding it. The idea of absurdism comes to mind, as the characters in a zombie apocalypse are thrust into a world that is fundamentally askew, in which the laws of nature are essentially broken. In a zombie apocalypse, there is no uncertainty surrounding death. In a zombie apocalypse, survivors find themselves in an absurd nightmare, where living futilely is the only way to overcome an overwhelmingly bleak and meaningless situation.

Indeed, at the heart of 28 Days Later is the unraveling of reality, prompted first by Jim’s awakening at the hospital, followed by one of the most haunting and iconic sequences in the film, when Jim dazedly roams the empty London city streets. The protagonist-waking-up-from-a-coma scenario has become standard fare in the post-apocalyptic genre, used to call into question the very solidity of the protagonist’s reality. There are moments in this film that are near-dreamlike, constantly calling into question if Jim is still dreaming. It is thus difficult to discern whether or not the suicide note Jim receives from his parents, in which they tell him not to wake up from his coma, is meant to prey upon the viewer’s suspicions. The surrealistic feel of the film is further aided by its shaky cinematography and John Murphy’s atmospheric soundtrack.

Through this essay, I have sought to outline the ways in which zombies embody meaning far beyond their literal incarnation. 28 Days Later has managed to reimagine the prototypical, Romero-esque image of the zombie while remaining true to its metaphorical meaning. Between the eye-gouging and bludgeoning and a “Rage” virus which unlocks mankind’s brutal inner nature, 28 Days Later is still a wonderfully poignant film. And like all great zombie films before it, it offers sharp insight into human nature, political anarchy, and the potential collapse of human civilization.

For further reading:

Essays on the Common Man (Part I)

I Am the Common Man

I am what you would call the common man, and in hard times you could call me the invisible man.

I struggle to make ends meet, but pressure amounts and the problems never seem to diminish. When it rains, it pours, until I find myself trying to keep afloat in this lake of misery and mediocrity. And if, for the brief moment, I ever forget how to swim, I will surely drown.

It seems that my dire concerns become mainstream only when there is an election to be won; my personal hurdles become another match point, political prostitution and mockery, a blood sport prize.

I am the common man. I am a simple man, so my concerns are not otherwise fashionable. They are rather ordinary, unadorned, like the faded T-shirt and the weathered pair of jeans I wear on the weekends. Or, better yet, like the long-sleeved pin-striped collared shirts and gray pants I wear to work each day. Not at all like the confident cardigan sweaters that I wear on casual Fridays.

My struggles are not to be exploited, worn and shelved and worn again as the situation demands. They are not a pair of shoes to be polished only to then be retired and collect falling dust in the closet. I live with this back-breaking burden every day, like the daily tax for living. My struggles are a plea for relief, a cry to ease the burden that may one day cripple me.

I am the common man, driven by unwavering faith and untarnished optimism, despite these harsh trials. My driving faith keeps others moving. As long as my feet are planted firmly on this earth, I don’t have the option to lift my arms to the unmoving heavens in pitiful surrender. If my children see me weep and bellow in sorrow, they will lose faith in their own futures. If I fail to lift my weary head, they, too, will ignore the opportunities before them. Yes, I am the common man, but to my babies, to my darling wife and aging parents, I am an extraordinary man indeed.

Until the time when my travails become more than a footnote in modern political discourse, I will work tirelessly to ensure a more prosperous lifetime for the next generation. And though I may stub my toe, I will continue to trot onwards, toward fulfillment and happiness, because my uncolored commonness is my dazzling uniqueness. I am strong because I am in the company and fellowship of many other common men and women. I am the overworked, underpaid, overburdened, underrepresented man.

You may otherwise refer to me as the common man.

Why ‘Vote Your Conscience’ Is Flawed Advice

“Vote your conscience.”

I have heard this adage repeated with great regularity in political discourse. It is most often issued as advice to young and undecided voters – those who are “on the fence,” so to speak. And while I do not doubt that those who issue this advice may be doing so benignly, I strongly encourage them to reconsider just the shallowness of those words.

Imagine being given a question on a standard multiple-choice exam with four possible answers. However, by processes of your own reasoning, you were able to eliminate two of the four options. Imagine, then, that you were offered a “lifeline,” which allows you to consult with your teacher only once for advice on selecting the best answer of the two viable options. Would you not be offended if this teacher’s only advice to you is to “select with your conscience”?

Many may take objection to my analogy, and rightfully so. It is, in a sense, incongruous to compare the voting process to responding to a multiple-choice question. After all, in a true multiple-choice question it is understood that each choice is equally plausible. The same cannot be said about the voting process. If I were to use this analogy, I would first have to assume that elections are fair playgrounds.

I sadly cannot hold this assumption to be true. In any election, there will be clear outsiders who have much lower chances of winning. It is simply pretension that some names are placed on the ballot for the sake of appearances only. Whether those outsiders are disadvantaged because they lack the political resource to be true contenders or because they hold unpopular views, the truth of the matter still remains: They are outsiders and not equal players on the playground.

Another factor leading to this imbalance is the ‘flocking’ that usually occurs during elections. In life, people prefer to associate with (or flock to) winners. The larger the flock, the more likely the candidate is to attract followers. These followers may even be outsiders who were once contenders.

In theory, voting is a declaration of individualism and self-expression. In reality, it is a deliberate act that is best described as placing one’s penny in the right jar. In theory, voting is conscience-driven. In practice, it is very much group-driven. This glaring discrepancy between what voting should be and the reality is the source of much voter frustration and cynicism.

My first quarrel with telling people to vote their conscience is that it seems so detached from reality that it appears almost nonsensical. In fact, I’m tempted to believe that those giving this lackluster advice are doing so evasively. It is a nice, easy answer that shifts the full burden of responsibility to the one receiving the advice. This is the case in the example I provided above, in which the teacher, in a very subtle, devious way, tasks the test-taker with finding the answer. This response from the teacher chides and befuddles the test-taker more than it helps. If such is the case, one is better off not seeking the advice in the first place.

Finally, I take offense with the assertion implicit in the phrase “vote your conscience.” I find it quite condescending, actually. Never is the question asked “what if your conscience is wrong?” In real life, people make informed decisions based on the facts available and the options presented to them. Many of us are misled in good faith. Plenty of us have regretted occasions when we have acted purely on our gut instincts. Human beings are Homo sapiens, “wise men,” beings of sapience and sentience that act not just in good conscience but with good reason.

I completely understand why some people are quick to tell others to vote their conscience. It is, in less-offensive terms, another way of saying “make up your own mind.” It upholds the delusion that voting is the only decision one makes in which reason is subsidiary to conscience. It is in keeping with the false notion that elections are fair playgrounds where each player is equal in stature and each vote is equal in measure, while at the same time renouncing the unpleasant pennies-in-a-jar view of the voting process.

I find this advice particularly appalling when used to discolor the attitudes of our young voters who may already be estranged from the voting process. Young people are not unreasonable or foolish, they just need informed advice. And if we want to give our young citizens good advice, let’s not talk in abstractions by telling them offhandedly to “vote their conscience.”

Police Slayings: Our Pain Becomes Our Poison

After Police Slayings, One Asks: What is Our Night?

Editor’s note: This column, written in response to the 2016 murders of police officers in Dallas and Baton Rouge, was originally published July 27, 2016 in the York Daily Record.

Imagine waking up to a fog of pure blackness. It’s 8:30 in the morning, and there’s night all around. You’ve risen from bed and stand ready to charge ahead, toward another workday, expecting daylight to brighten the skies just as it did the day before. Yet, there is only the curtain of night.

Only in The Twilight Zone could such an unimaginable scenario become imaginable. Those familiar with Rod Sterling’s surreal anthology know of the rich trove of allegories. From Death posing as a hitchhiker to an accident victim (“The Hitch-hiker”) to a witch hunt unfolding in a suburban neighborhood beset by small-town hysteria (“The Monsters Are Due on Maple Street”), Sterling’s catalogue explores the depth of man’s fears and the magnitude of his faults. Of all the entries, “I Am the Night—Color Me Black” is my favorite from the collection.

For those who haven’t seen this episode, I strongly recommend that you do. The narrative follows the final days of a condemned man convicted of murder. On the morning of the man’s execution, darkness replaces daylight in the small town. The town’s newspaper editor arrives at the sheriff’s station to interview the murderer – a self-described “bad guy” – who has no regrets about taking the life of a racist tormentor.

A crowd of eager spectators show up to witness the execution, including the newspaperman and a town reverend. The reverend, a black man, speaks to the condemned man, who is unrepentant even in his final moments. “I know it all too well,” says the reverend, searching the man’s heart. “You’re guilty.” The man rebukes the reverend for siding with the majority opinion. Recognizing that injustice cannot be repaid with injustice, the reverend laments: “the minority must have died on the cross, 2,000 years ago.”

color-me-black-screengrab1
A reverend (Ivan Dixon), left, and a newspaperman (Paul Fix), right, speculate about the source of the town’s night.

When he is finally hanged, there is no solace. There is no satisfaction in schadenfreude and little comfort in revenge – only horror. Talking to the speechless gawkers, the reverend explains the source of their night. “It’s the hate he felt. The hate you felt. The hate all of us feel.” As more darkness smothers the town, the townsfolk begin to realize that they are the night. Hate, like personal poison, can never be contained. It festers inside us, bubbles to the surface and darkens our vision.

Returning to the station after the execution, the newspaperman, the wearied sheriff and his deputy contemplate the day’s events. As they turn on the radio, they realize that night has also descended upon other places of hate around the world: West Berlin, Vietnam, Birmingham, Chicago, and in Dallas. Dallas, at the time, was where an assassin’s bullet claimed the life of a charismatic president. The wounds of history would be reopened decades later, in much the same way, again in Dallas.

It seems, sometimes, that night is followed only by night; hate reciprocated by hate. But in the deluge of darkness, eyes cannot discriminate between black and white, or, I dare say, black bodies and blue uniforms. In the deluge, we seek only the outline of our fellow man. In the deluge, our own insecurities become abundantly clear to us, as we fumble and seek the touch of others. “In the darkest times,” tweeted actress Rashida Jones in response to the shootings in Dallas, “we must love even harder.”

It might be more reassuring if there were some mystical explanation. Perhaps, the darkness would be more tolerable if it were the act of a divine power or the result of some incursion by extraterrestrial forces. Instead, it so happens that we are the source. We are all hurting over the loss of black lives as well as the loss of blue lives. It should suffice to say we grieve the loss of all human life. As we wrestle with our pain, we guard it just as well, because suffering is no great leap from hate. And hate, when it boils and brews, spills into our streets and byways, with malice like that displayed in Dallas and, most recently, in Baton Rouge.

That is the nature of our country’s unprecedented “crisis,” as hailed by cynical pundits and a certain presidential candidate. However, these challenges, while doing nothing to diminish the emotional toll, are not unique to our time and certainly not unconquerable. Our country has faced racial tension and violence. The 1920s, with the explosion of organized crime fueled by Prohibition, was one of the deadliest decades for law enforcement, according to the National Law Enforcement Officers Memorial. In that same decade, our country also witnessed the resurgence of the Ku Klux Klan and the spread of its “Invisible Empire.” The challenges of today, as painful as they are, must be treated with caution and perspective, as to not inflame the wound.

At what point does our pain become our poison? At what point does hate begin to seep into our lives? The hate felt by those cop-killers in Dallas and Baton Rouge was the result of a hurt shared by many in this country. It spilled over and became our night.

I remember the terrifying feeling of waking up to more night, the night after those five officers were killed in Dallas. I have become wary of the night, just as a small child is wary of the unseen monsters lurking in his closet. It is the intimate fear of an imaginative threat. Maybe the monsters will never leave that vault. Maybe the darkness will never fully descend over the waking world. Still, the child will be in a state of constant worry each fretful night, always imagining what abominable beasts may be prowling. Only, it is hate, begotten of suffering and lurking within the soul, which occupies my fears.

All Things Desired

Strive for love, virtue and placidity in a world of hatred, blindness and drudgery. This is the resonating message from Max Ehrmann’s inspirational poem, Desiderata, which helped shape my personal philosophy on love and desire. The poem underlines that we all desire certain things – be it fame, success or admiration. Yet we are kept in bounds by what I believe is a very conflicted and cynical world. Why are we so critical of dreamers? Why must we dilute hope? Why must we tell our children to dream freely only to then assert that dreams, wishes and wants are nothing more than mere flights of fancy?

Desiderata warns of a harsh world awash with pain, disenchantment and unfulfilled desires. We are encouraged to separate our wants from our needs. We are encouraged to find our place in this universe and fulfill that place obediently. We are encouraged to live a life without regrets, far removed from earthly vexations and tribulations. Although I came to know Desiderata’s words, I quickly realized that knowledge does not always equate to understanding. The attitude of resignation, a sort of passive resistance against the crushing pressures of the world, contained in Desiderata was quite radical to me at the time.

I know that what exists within this world is a cycle of wanton suffering; a system that is indescribable, indefinable and inevitable. No one desires suffering, but perhaps Desiderata is trying to explain that pain is necessary, and that only by the support of each other can we grow to overcome our personal troubles. Most have heard the common metaphor of walking in another’s shoes, that it is impossible to truly understand a person until you know his or her struggles. Growing up, I had my share of struggles and detested others for not understanding my pain. After hearing that expression, I opened up to the painful experiences of others: poverty, divorce, sickness, loss. I learned in time that I wasn’t the only person living in a world of pain. That realization, prompted by Desiderata’s words, strengthened my resolve, and I sought to understand others more deeply and overcome my own pain in the process.

It is very difficult to leave our personal prisons, but when we do we see that we are not alone. The idea that we bear sole responsibility for our successes and failings is a dangerous proposition. I uphold the belief that no man is alone in his struggles. “All men know something of poverty,” W.E.B. Du Bois once wrote. He went on to state that the true tragedy is that “men know so little of men.” I want those who are depressed and lonely and even those contemplating suicide to genuinely consider this truth: You are not alone. What you are experiencing is not unusual or atypical. You are alive not to suffer alone but to find comfort and acceptance by joining in the universal expression of suffering. As expressed beautifully by Ehrmann, “you have a right to be here.”

We desire to be accepted and be loved – human nature defines it. But it’s hard to see love’s true image and easy to seek fake companionship, false acceptance and selfish lust masquerading as love. We are quick in taking illusions, painting them in our image, and labeling them as love. But that fake love is exclusive, and I only was to see those confined to the cold gloom of hospitals, prisons and slums. The unloved. Our desire to experience true love may ultimately be the sum of all desires. Love is the lifelong hankering which the other desires cannot placate or can only satisfy for brief stretches of time. Success, fame, beauty, admiration and the myriad of other desires serve their purpose in attempting to bring us closer to the true image of love.

One of my favorite biblical passages describes how love is patient and kind. Love is not envious and keeps no record of wrongs. One summer camp experience reinforced my faith in the tremendous human capacity for love and compassion. As a teen, I spent one summer at a lakeside camp in New York with adolescents who, like me, have been diagnosed since birth with mortal illnesses. The camp’s counselors and other supervisors were caring to say the least. I saw them talk to terminal young people – not about the pain that society says they are cursed to be born with, but about their hopes and dreams for the future. These counselors were just ordinary men and women with problems of their own, but who brought light to the blind and hope to the desperate. It is not enough to just be there for the one you love but to be there with them. I am sure that every child who left that camp felt blessed to experience love in its truest sense – not the disillusioned world of false love.

I find it difficult to keep peace in the noisy confusion of life. I still get anxious and weary in the face of adversity, but Desiderata’s words continue to be a source of inspiration and guidance. The world is at times hostile to dreamers, leaving them disarmed, disenchanted, disheartened and discouraged. The coming of age brings with it pain, doubt and the “sham” of lost love as we know it. I desire to dream even when I am rudely awakened by life’s unpredictable turmoil. I desire to learn from past mistakes while continuing the precarious undertaking of balancing my desires and needs.