A Different Mindset

Today, Ahmadinejad won the Iranian presidential elections to secure his second term. Before the results came out, I kept hearing encouraging news about the main opposition candidate Mousavi. His platform was more democratic and his wife encouraged many women to support him. I began to hope, that this man would change the face of Iran. I was hoping that a win from him might change the U.S.-Iranian relations. 

However, that did not occur. And I began to wonder why. Sure, rigging could have occurred, but since Ahmadinejad won by about 30 percentage points, I find it hard to believe that he rigged it that much. So why could the Iranian people see Ahmadinejad for what I saw him for? A crazy man who hates Israel and wants to push his own agenda so much that he denies historical facts like the Holocaust. 

But one man interviewed on NPR brought up a good point. He was in New York, voting in the Iranian elections. He said that he was voting for Ahmadinejad because the current president demanded respect from Western nations like the United States. When I heard this before the elections, I brushed it off as one of probably a few people who believed this. I thought a lot of people probably would just vote for Ahmadinejad because they were somehow involved in his politics. But after the election, I realized this was not the case. 

Of course there are many reasons why people voted for him. The poorer individuals probably voted for him because he promised them his support. But I began to think of that man's reasoning again...he demands respect. Then I thought, maybe it really is our fault that Ahmadinejad won. Because of years of the West acting like they are better than our Eastern counterparts, we have driven them to turn to leaders who "demand respect," whether that be through nuclear arms, threats of hoarding oil or many other similar tactics. 

When all of the European countries pulled out of Africa, dictators started taking over. Why was that? Again, there are probably tons of reasons. But I can't help but think that one of those reasons is because the people were hurt. They were knocked down, and they needed to know that they were not inferior. And if one of their people could get up and show himself to be a strong, domineering individual, it meant they, the people, were not inferior. 

It's time we show these countries a little respect. I'm not promoting soft negotiations. We must look out for our own interests as well. But it's time we stop acting superior. It's time we try to look through another person's eyes. We think democracy is flawless elections and millions of dollars spent on political campaigns. But isn't the basis of democracy allowing everyone to have a voice? So lets see what the people of other countries see. Let's hear what they hear. Then, maybe we can understand what they want.

I have a feeling it won't be that much different from what we want as well...a little freedom, a little security, a little happiness... a little respect.

A World of Culture in My Backyard

You don't realize how much your culture means to you until you enter another culture. When I lived in Texas, I hated it. This is not typical for Texans either. Most Texans are extremely proud to be a Texan, but I thought the weather was awful and my city of San Antonio was extremely boring. Then I moved to Missouri.

Don't get me wrong, I love Missouri, but coming here made me realize how unique San Antonio culture is. In San Antonio, there is real Mexican food. In San Antonio, there are traditions that no one else has. I used to hate hearing Spanish spoken in the grocery stores, but after being in Columbia, Missouri for nearly nine months, I savor the few moments when I hear a student pass by who is speaking Spanish. 

Last weekend, I went to the outskirts of St. Louis for Easter. My roommate's mom is a youth minister, and so we helped with the Easter egg hunt that they were putting on at their church. As she was explaining the schedule to the parents, she told them she had a surprise for them. 

"This year, we have something new," she said. "They are called cascarones. Cascarones are egg shells that have been hollowed out and filled with confetti. What you do is you take the egg and crack it over someone's head."

At this point, I was so confused. Why was she explaining what a cascarone was to these parents as though they had never heard of it before? As it turned out, they hadn't. As I went out to the parking lot later to prepare the cascarones for the children, the parents were talking excitedly about the confetti eggs. "Have you ever seen these before?" one parent asked to another.

Then it hit me. Other parts of the United States don't use cascarones on Easter. In San Antonio, every year at my great-aunt's house, all the cousins would get cascarones to crack on our relatives' heads. To me, Easter was not Easter without cascarones, and no one in my family is Hispanic. But the Spanish culture had influenced us although we didn't realize it.

At that moment, with the Missouri parents awing over the cascarones in the parking lot of a St. Louis suburban church, I finally felt proud to be a San Antonian. Suddenly, I fell in love with my culture.

How is it that all those years, I missed it. I missed the privilege it was to live in a place where two cultures collided to form a beautiful mosaic. Perhaps it was because our lives were still quite separate. I went to a upper class private school that had less than ten Hispanics in the high school of 400. Although I constantly heard Spanish spoken around me, I know little more than hola and adios. Maybe it was the racism of my peers that I heard every day like, "Why can't they just speak English if they are going to come to our country." For a long time, I agreed with this. It took me a long time to understand how difficult it was for an immigrant to learn a new language. It took me a long time to realize that almost every single one of those immigrants was braver and stronger than I could ever be.

But now that I have discovered the beauty of my culture, I am going to embrace it this summer. This summer will probably be the longest time I ever spend at home again, and I don't want it to go to waste. If only others can learn from my mistake and embrace their culture sooner instead of wanting to run away to another so quickly, I can't help but think our home would be a place.

Small Miracles, Big Treasures

Today, a small miracle occurred. For the past year, my grandfather (my mother's father) has been suffering from dementia. It has slowly gotten worse by the month until he is now unable to tell who my mom and grandmother are. My grandmother does not feel comfortable putting him in a nursing home for fear that the change will be detrimental. She also can't bear the thought of leaving his side. So he has gone on like this for many months, not making any sense when he speaks and rarely understanding even simple sentences like what he would like to drink with his meal. 

The other day, one of my acquaintances at the San Antonio Express News, columnist Ken Rodriguez, was kind enough to call me about an article he was working on. He was writing about multimedia and journalism, and since I am a convergence major (which basically means I am learning how to use video, audio, print and photo forms of media) at the University of Missouri-Columbia, he decided to interview me. As it turned out, he wrote a glowing piece about all I am accomplishing, using terms that I thought were way to generous for the limited knowledge I have managed to gain. But nevertheless, my family was extremely proud, and my mom naturally showed the article to many family members. 

So she went over to my grandfather's house, like she does many days of the week to keep my grandmother company, and she decided to show the article to my grandfather. After she let him read it for a couple of minutes, she asked a question, probably not really expecting a comprehensible response.

"Do you know who that is, Daddy?"

"Of course I do," my grandfather answered. "That's Gretchen?"

Still unsure since my name was in the article, she asked again. 

"Yes, but do you know who that is?"

"Yes," he answered. "That's my Gretchen."

My mom says she believes he knew what he was talking about. And I believe this is a small miracle since he has not seen me for nearly two months while I have been away at college. I may never understand the human mind or the Supernatural, but I do know that I will treasure these small moments, and thank the people and God who make them possible. 

Seeing Ourselves Through Another's Eyes

This past week, Anne Garrels, a foreign correspondent for National Public Radio, came to Mizzou. Because I currently work for the NPR affiliate station in Columbia, I had the amazing opportunity to eat dinner with her one night. Her stories were amazing and her courage that these stories revealed was even more so. Yet what surprised me the most was the story she told us about the U.S. invasion into Iraq. Garrels was one of the few reporters in Iraq at the time of the invasion, and she told us about the Iraqis' reactions to the invasion. 

Some were genuinely thrilled, she said, but most were just "scared sh**less." She would later tone down her language for a more public audience. Generally I do not condone cursing, but for some reason, the way she said it painted a more vivid picture in my mind than anything else she could have said.

The pictures that came back to the U.S. from that day show the Iraqis pulling down the statue and beating it with all kinds of weapons. But notice that you cannot see the people who are actually pulling down the statue. Anne Garrels said that there were not even enough Iraqis in the square to pull down the statue. U.S. Marines had to help them pull it down. 

This shows that ethical journalism is not just about writing the truth. It is about telling the truth in every way, even if that is through pictures. Some journalists like Anne Garrels did give an accurate description of the Iraqis' reaction to the invasion, but others did not. As viewers and journalists alike, we need to stop looking at the world through ethnocentric eyes. We need to see the world as it is, even if that picture is not as perfect as our ideal world. 

The pictures above belong to Reuters.

The Triumph of Racism

I have always known that people have certain dislikes and prejudices against other races, but I have never seen it outrightly except for in a few cases. These cases are primarily seen in older people, and I generally excuse this as being "old-fashioned." But today, I heard a comment that blew my mind.

During a basketball game (Mizzou versus Nebraska), there was a player on the Nebraska team who was appeared to be of African origin. And when I say African, I don't mean African-American. Later on I discovered that the player, Ade Dagunduro, was actually born in California. 

The two college students began the game by throwing out the "f-word" whenever they got the chance. This made me cringe every time I heard them behind me, but it was when they told Dagunduro to "go back to the bush" that my heart started pounding with anger. Later on, when Dangunduro fouled one of the Mizzou players, they continued with their racial comments. "We don't do that in America! Yeah, Go back to the bush!" It took a lot of self control for me not to turn around and tell them to stop, to tell them that that kind of language and racism should not be tolerated. Then, I realized, I was not practicing self-control. I was practicing cowardice.

What was it that was keeping me from turning around and standing up for Dangunduro and all people of different origina? I wish I could answer that question. If more people stood up against racist comments, no matter in what context they are spoken, perhaps racism would dissolve much more quickly. Instead, we do what I did and stand by, pretending not to hear it, or we just walk away. Either way, we allow it to spread and thrive in our society. 

Edmund Burke was right when he said, "All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing."

The same is true for racism, for indeed, it is an evil. 

All that is necessary for the triumph of racism is that good men do nothing.

Next time, I pray that I will have the courage to stand up and do something.

Handprints- The Mosaic of Life

Tonight, my university (Mizzou) hosted an event celebrating the Chinese New Year. I met three Chinese guys who I knew from another campus group, and we began working on a Chinese umbrella. One of them had already painted the Chinese flag on part of an umbrella. He told me that he wanted to paint the American flag on the other side. 

If you understand China and the U.S.'s relationship, this willingness to unite the two countries may seem odd, as it did to me. However, I welcomed the idea and so we started to work. He asked me if I would paint the American flag. So, with the help of the two other Chinese students, we completed the flag. 

We decided that with the left over room, we would each put our handprint. Black and

 yellow (the colors of Mizzou) seemed appropriate colors for the task. But one of the students decided he wanted to do his handprint in red. Then, since there was still left over space on the umbrella, he put another half red, half black handprint. 

Now the umbrella was unsymmetrical with two handprints on one side and three on the other, not to mention that the art was much less than professionally done. 

Still, I could not help but find the beauty in this. When I first began working on the umbrella, I imagined a beautifully organized piece of art that had perfect harmony. China on one side and the United States on the other united by the common goal of education, represented by the Mizzou students' handprints. But this is not how life works. We each have our own personalities, our own way of making handprints if you will. Some of us are more sporadic than others, and this mesh of personalities and ideals can sometimes create a mess of things. What I realized is that China and the U.S. may never get along in perfect harmony, but that is okay. The struggles that we go through because of our differences is what makes this world so unique. Perfection is not a part of this world, and complete harmony is something that should be saved for the life hereafter. Until then, I will enjoy this world, with all of our flaws and faults and see them as lines and colors in a beautiful mosaic masterpiece called the human race.

The President Does Not Decide

Today, a new President was inaugurated into office. In his speech, he mentioned the uncertainty of the United States' destiny. This statement could not be more true. Although the incoming administration has many plans and goals over the next four to eight years, it cannot completely determine the path that this country will take. 

When I was talking to a friend in the military, he mentioned the possibility of a war with Iran and how that would affect Obama's presidency. I asked him if he did not think that the change in presidents would change the likelihood of a war. While he admitted that the Obama administration's policies could help ease tension, he said that, ultimately, it was not up to the new president whether or not the U.S. went to war. Iran is the one who will make the decision on whether or not to attack the U.S. or her allies. I cannot help but wonder how true this is in many other areas of government. While there is no doubt that President Obama's decisions will have impacting and long-lasting effects on the U.S., his decisions alone will certainly not determine the course of history. 

What does, then, determine the course of history? It is the congregation of millions of minute choices made by individuals such as you and me that shape history. The decision to stand up against injustice or allow it to continue and grow into a raging monster that cannot be controlled. It is the decision to spend time with your family or work those extra hours each week that change a society from one that values family to one of workaholics. The decision to buy that item of clothing or that jewelry even though you know that by buying it, you are supporting the exploitation of workers; or to take that money and give it to someone in need. These decisions shape our lives, our society, and our world. And not for our president, but for our actions will we be remembered.