Most memories of my childhood home revolve around simple pleasures like baseball games at sunset or the smell of hamburgers during family barbeques.  As a kid, I never thought much about the fact that the neighborhood would one day change, but as I’ve grown older I’ve started to see the effects of the years’ gradual modifications.  

It was inevitable, of course, because of the evolving nature of technology and the fact that families change over time.  The tight-knit community I once knew is transforming as children grow up, families move, and the cycle starts for another generation.   This is actually not even the first time in recent years this plot of land has undergone a complete revamping.  The block used to be a farm until land developers spotted suburban gold and turned it into what my neighbors and I would come to know as home.  Some people might view this as progress while others see destruction; I’m sure the farmers and homeowners don’t see eye to eye.

For years, I’ve been hearing similar stories about the neighborhoods my parents were raised in.  Being born closer to the time of their families’ moves to the U.S., they grew up in a community that banded together, sharing in the experience of being in a new land while possessing a common link in the same parent country.  As assimilation occurred, the bond started to disintegrate and families moved out while a new congregation took root.  What were once fiercely ethnic, familial communities have given way to poverty- and crime-ridden areas, much to the disappointment of my relatives, who talk about the old neighborhoods with the same reverence the French royalty must have spoken of Versailles.  

This discussion hit home recently as I live in Manhattan and have become acquainted with the neighborhood around West 70th St. and Broadway, an area perfectly situated with the allure of beautiful city architecture.  Back in 1971, a movie based on the northern end of this very block was released, titled A Panic in Needle Park.  The neighborhood, it turns out, used to be called Needle Park, and not because of its availability of sewing conventions.  

This street corner, which today has turned into one of the more established neighborhoods in Manhattan, was once so full of derelicts, it warranted a movie based around its drug culture.  The fact that one city block could change so much in just 35 years is remarkable on its own; it is also a remarkable example of the changing face of America.  

When Supreme Court Justice Scalia joked, “As you know, all change is presumptively wrong,” he hit upon a deeper concept: everything will change, sometimes for better, sometimes for worse.  Either way, the consequences must be examined. Every time a neighborhood is demolished or its makeup is changed, a bit of history is buried.  

For the sake of growth, we must always remember that change is not necessarily an evil; for the sake of preservation, we must remember to keep our pasts alive.

M R

95-93: The bishops’ vote that narrowly elected Bishop Katharine Jefferts Schori, of Nevada, on Sunday as the first female head of an Anglican Church.  She will be installed as presiding bishop of the Episcopal Church.

7: Total number of candidates who were in the running for the position.

9: The number of years Bishop Katharine Jefferts Schori will serve as presiding bishop of the Episcopal Church.

2003: The year the Episcopal Church in America elected the first openly gay bishop, V. Gene Robinson of New Hampshire.

2.3 million: Members the Episcopal Church.

1/4: The fraction of those members who are 65 years old or older.  

Mimi Hanaoka

Mexico and Iran — two countries that have recently become identified with their reluctance to settle issues agitating global tensions and compromising America’s security.  One has encountered an inability to curb illegal emigration; the other is moving down a path towards nuclear proliferation.  Neither currently holds an endearing position with the U.S. government, and both are the source of endless debate and political drama.  

Yet there they were on Sunday, facing off in the first round of the World Cup in Germany; 11 men per side playing for the honor of their countries and the thrill of winning a match in the world’s most revered sporting event.  Many people north of the border and west of the Atlantic haven’t found the source of excitement in a game that might go 90 minutes without any scoring, but anybody who saw the Mexican fans celebrating recognizes that there is clearly some kind of allure to the game of soccer.

I’ve been a fan of the World Cup since 1994, when the games were played in the United States and a local buzz was going around since America was the host country.  I needed a team to root for, and my ancestral country seemed much more enthused about its representatives than my home country did, so I adopted Italy as my team and Roberto Baggio as my favorite player.  After following the Azzurri for a month and rejoicing with each goal scored and lamenting each goal allowed, I found the Italians playing Brazil for the championship.  In a cruel twist of fate for a young fan infatuated with a new team, Italy lost in a shootout when Baggio, arguably the greatest player in the world at the time, clinched the match for Brazil by sending his and the game’s final kick over the crossbar.  Since that summer, I’ve looked forward to the World Cup every four years as a chance to see the world’s greatest athletes excel at the sport that has been embraced by the rest of humanity as the international past time.  There are no made-for-TV opening ceremonies; there’s no village and no curling.  There are no overly tacky, extravagant halftime shows.  There’s just soccer and its millions upon millions of crazed, invigorated, maniacal fans reveling in the chance to see their country compete with the world’s best.

So when Mexico and Iran faced off on Sunday and the two teams took the field, there was much more at stake than just the final score.  There were two teams playing for pride, both for themselves and for the countries they were representing — and the world tuned in. Iran was no longer the country at odds with the world over uranium enrichment, and Mexico was no longer the country whose millions of illegal immigrants are in the U.S. right now.  These nations suddenly became ordinary men out to win and make their fellow countrymen proud.  

Most people follow sports because of the competition and dexterity which they themselves are mostly incapable of but still love to observe.  Even the world’s best watch other athletes to admire the pure excitement, strength, and grace exhibited on the playing field.  Athletes’ contributions to society are often minimal, but they are idolized because they provide a chance for the average individual to believe in human triumph.  

In a similar manner, anybody who has ever devoutly followed a team knows that an odd relationship develops between team and supporter.  The fan probably doesn’t know any of the players and has no real effect on the outcome of the game. The team’s roster is continually changing so that every ten years, there is basically an entirely new group of players representing the name.  Nonetheless, for some inexplicable reason, a fan will live and die with a team each time the squad takes the field.

The opportunity to combine sport and country results in a unique type of pride which comes out in full force during the World Cup.  Soccer might just be a game, and its winners and losers don’t change anything, but every time two teams take the field, the rest of the world stops and the only issue that matters is finding a way to emerge victorious.  We saw this on Sunday where for just 90 minutes, there were no illegal immigrants and there was no talk of nuclear warfare.  There were 22 men on a field competing for victory; for themselves, for their fans, and for their countries — and that should at least count for something.

M R

I recently caught a story online at MSNBC on the apparent rise of self-mutilation among college students. According to the article, a study led by a Cornell psychologist, 17 percent of nearly 3,000 Cornell and Princeton students had purposely injured themselves, with 70 percent doing so multiple times.

A general definition of self-mutilation (a.k.a. self-abuse or self-injury), is the act of purposely injuring oneself, either through cutting, burning, or other methods.

To most of us, the idea of self-mutilation is bewildering, bizarre, and disturbing. To those of us who’ve self-injured, it’s something else altogether.

Obviously, I can’t speak for anyone except for myself, and I am one of those individuals who, while in college, self-mutilated. At the time, there were many factors that contributed to my depression (that’s my own self-diagnosis) and, ultimately, to taking a knife and cutting myself. At the time, I’d never heard of self-mutilation, didn’t know about the “phenomenon,” didn’t know anyone who did such things. All I knew was that I needed a way to lay bare the pain on the inside to the outside.

The article notes that self-injuring is usually not considered a suicide attempt, and at the time of my experience, I wasn’t trying to kill myself by doing it. I think for me it was almost an alleviation of some kind; a way to express something that I could not verbally and a way to remove myself from increasing thoughts of suicide.

For some young people, the act becomes a rush, an addictive daily release. Although I never repeated it, I know that something changed for me when I did it. Oddly enough, I felt that things had somehow gotten lighter, that I could make my way through the “real world,” and that things would improve.

Perhaps it was the attention I received from my friends after they learned about my behavior and the care they took around me that gave me a sense of self-importance and esteem. Whatever it was, I can see how the act becomes repetitive, why it becomes seemingly vital.

Maybe self-abuse has increased, but it certainly is not new. The author of this study notes that even children as young as fourth grade have self-injured, with peers and classmates mimicking the behavior of one individual.

Whatever reasons lead people to self-injury, whatever temporary relief or help they feel from the act, the answer for me will always be same: there is a better way. Like other things once considered taboo, including depression and suicide, this practice needs to be discussed, and solutions need to be found — not to glorify or encourage the behavior, but to provide other, more positive outlets to let the inside out.

Internet resources:
www.selfinjury.com
www.nmha.org/infoctr/factsheets/selfinjury.cfm
www.focusas.com/Selfinjury.html
http://depression.about.com/od/selfinjury

Desiree Aquino

When the song “A Hard Rain’s A-Gonna Fall” was first released in 1963, an entire generation was exposed to the horrific experience that made up one man’s post-nuclear fallout vision.  That song came from a different time, one where popular music was being sung and written under the belief that it could help society move forward and be responsible for some type of positive social change.  This was an era entrenched in Cold War politics, the Civil Rights movement, and a notion of pacifism where each participant held a personal stake.  Neil Young sang the verse, “Tin soldiers and Nixon’s coming / We’re finally on our own / This summer I hear the drumming / Four dead in Ohio,” a moving response and tribute to the dead students at Kent State University.  American society’s come a long way since then, and whether or not popular music as an art has progressed or regressed is open to speculation, but one thing is certain: the lyrical poems put to music that were once intelligent, symbolic messages for a generation have almost entirely disappeared, at least as far as anything that makes it to radio.  Every once in a while a singer will write something with far-reaching overtones and say it with backbone, like when we hear Radiohead’s Thom Yorke assume the role of dictator and firmly declare “When I am king, you will be first against the wall / With your opinion which is of no consequence at all.” What’s so disturbing about this image – aside from the song’s tone and Yorke’s voice – is that the fear evoked is universal.  While it might bring to mind regimes that could enact this scenario, the song is left open, reminding us of its possibility rather than singling out an individual as the sole cause of all our problems.  It is attacking an ideology, just like the two examples above, rather than a name.  There are few things more irritating from a political perspective than listening to somebody deliver an ill-informed and harmless message about some political leader.  

Why then are we in such a state that if a music group criticizes the government, rightfully or wrongfully, they are suddenly on the cover of national news magazines and the subject of endless discussion? The answer is simple: the media, along with the heads of most powerful organizations, many of whom grew up during the 1960s and are the only vestiges of that era’s “rebellion,” are the ones who have the ability to dictate topics of discussion while simultaneously ensuring  that they remain without any real public depth.  Matt Taibbi, formerly of the New York Press, summed this up nicely, stating “In a glib, permissive age where dissent, protest, certain forms of civil disobedience, and even the occasional arrest are superficially acceptable and even encouraged, the only real taboo when it comes to having political convictions today is meaning it.”  

There was once a time when you didn’t need a weatherman to know which way the wind blew.  Jack Kerouac, a man who professed a somewhat apolitical ethos, wrote a book which influenced and shaped a whole generation.  The Dixie Chicks are all over the news today, but they’re not exactly the collective voice of a generation – one could almost make the argument that they have received so much publicity because of the non-threatening nature of their songs and the group members themselves.  There is also the fact, however, that they attempted to introduce some greater purpose into their music, and there is a real need for this.  

There have been a number of unintelligible protest songs in recent years which are usually praised by liberal outlets and criticized by conservative ones, not so much for content but for intent.  It’s almost obligatory for the major rock acts and rap artists to release the “We’re against the war” song or interview.  The problem is that while these actions might be implemented with the best intentions, it appears that the reason they’re embraced or even performed is the same reason people say they want to be Buddhists or wear bead necklaces and frayed jeans: the ideals of the 1960s have been reduced to a fashion statement, both by the people who originally lived them and by the later generations following the lead of their elders.  It is now safe to stand up against popular opinion because we can always say “we were young and stupid” once we’re old enough to really understand.  The people who grasp this concept are the ones who get picked up by the media because they bring the most flash, whether or not there is substance behind the appearance.  Anybody who simply has a message will likely be mocked; this is the mentality of our culture.  You can engage in a political conversation at a cocktail party endorsing contrarian views, as long as people understand that you’re just the crazy one of the group who has to be different.  Underneath the quirky shirt and loud voice, you’re just like everybody else.  

We can hope that there’s another Bob Dylan out there among us, but the truth is that if Bob Dylan were a 23-year-old trying to find a record deal today, he would be trying for a long time.  There seems to be a collective hope that somebody will come out with a voice and sound as powerful as those of years past who can still reach this era’s generation.  You can read reviews and tell that people want to believe they are listening to the album that will inspire and put an end to modern apathy, but so far this expectation has gone unfulfilled.  Re-living the 1960s would get us nowhere as I’m sure nobody wants to see a bunch of un-showered, upper-middle-class white kids running around, dropping tabs of acid in some imaginary Elysian field.  A vision of thoughtful, educated individuals is not so ridiculous, however – the possibility of this realization is certainly worth fighting for and shouldn’t be too much to ask for.

M R