My (potentially) award winning essay!

Something superbly extra exciting happened a little while ago. For my P.O.W. (Principles of Writing) class I had one final essay to write, a persuasive narrative essay, and I was completely dry as far as ideas go. It was 2 days before it was due and I had 3 ideas, kind of, but nothing written. That night I wrote an essay about how I met and became friends with my friend, and now roommate, Gordon. I was pretty proud of it, and was especially proud that I'd have a day to fix it up before I had to turn it in. I was pretty confident that I would do well, but I knew from my past essays that I probably shouldn't be too overconfident. I'm a writing major and this is a basic writing class. Easy, right? Well I thought it would be, but this professor really challenged me. I never got lower than a B, but this the one class where I refused to be satisfied with just a B. So I let Jenny read it over (she's not just my awesome girlfriend, but she doubles as an awesome editor) and she fixed my stupid grammar and spelling mistakes and told me she thought it was pretty good.

So with some measure of confidence I turned it in to Professor Huth, expecting to do at least kind of well. I went to visit Prof Huth for a conference to discuss my paper and any changes I might want to make before I turn it in for the final grade. I was really surprised when I sat down and found that she only had one suggestion of something that needed to be changed, and she had also suggested a book for me to read (She's a really cool professor, I mentioned I'm an Anarchist, so she suggested that I read "The Dispossesed" which I am now in the process of reading)!

Now, I thought that was exciting enough, but then she made it better. Prof Huth told me she wanted to submit this essay into a contest, because it's just that cool. So after getting permission from Gordon, the subject of my essay, excitedly did a few revisions and turned it in for my final grade. I got an A of course, which was pretty exciting for me, and now she has an electric copy to enter into the contest. So, I'm super extra really excited, and I can't wait to see how that turns out. I know some people have asked to read the essay, so I thought I'd just put it on my blog. So, I hope you're as excited as I am, because here I have for you my (potentially) award winning essay, It's Not Easy Being Red... (Feel free to tell me what you think, unless you think I suck, in which case I'll hunt you down and castrate you with a pen. I'm a writing major, so I kill and castrate with writing utensils. And if you're a woman I was just reading in my Human Sexuality textbook about Clitoridectimies...) Sorry for that long and offensive little tangent, now please read and enjoy...

It’s Not Easy Being Red…

“Ghazi!” he said, “Say it with me Gh-a-zi! Make the sound in the back of your throat. Hgg!” The blond French girl looked at him, bewildered. “Hazi?” She said. “No” he replied. “Gazi?” she asked. “Hgg, hgg. The sound is in the back of your throat. Gh-a-zi.” “Gahazi?” She guessed desperately. “Call me Gordon,” he mumbled resignedly, as a look of relief washed over the girl’s face and she stole an exasperated glance at the rest of the group sitting in a circle on the quad. That is the story of how I first met my friend Gordon.

As a freshman I came to Houghton College straight from four years of living in Estonia, clearly classifying me as a “TCK”, or “Third Culture Kid”. One of the big attractions of Houghton College is its emphasis on caring for TCK and international students, and to this end Houghton has a week long transition program before the other freshmen arrive to help prepare and welcome the incoming TCK and international students. It was at this transition program that I met Gordon, a TCK from Syria.

I was instantly struck with envy upon meeting Gordon for four distinct reasons. First of all he wore glasses that just seemed to say “the person who wears me is a genius,” and his bearing and mode of speech demonstrated a great deal of intelligence. Secondly, I greatly envied his hair. Gordon had long hair pulled back in a ponytail reaching slightly below his shoulders. Gordon’s long hair gave him the image of a Cherokee warrior, which is fitting given his Cherokee heritage. Having long hair had always been an ambition of mine, yet I knew that I could never pull it off and look any good. The third reason for my envy was his nametag. While I had scrawled “Chris” in my sloppy handwriting, his nametag said something in beautiful, flowing Arabic, lending him an exotic and interesting air. Next to him I felt extraordinarily plain. The final reason for my envy was quite simple. Gordon’s parents had come with him to bring him to college, while I had come from Estonia to Houghton alone.

During a stereotypical get-to-know-names icebreaker game on the quad Gordon told us that his nametag said “Ghazi” and that was his preferred name, being the name he was used to in Syria. The only problem was that no one could pronounce “Ghazi” no matter how hard he tried to teach us. We tried making sounds in the back of our throats and even with a group so diverse that Africa, Europe and South America were represented numerous times no one could get it right. So he conceded to be called Gordon, his American name.

Afterwards the group went to play some other game and as we walked I heard a few of the other students mocking Gordon. “It’s Ghazi. Hag, guh, grahh! It’s in the back of the throat! Hahaha.” It was then that I decided that not only did I want to be Gordon’s friend, but I wanted to learn how to pronounce his Arabic name.

A few days later the group had a bonfire together and I began to see that even in a group this small it was starting to become apparent who was “cool” and who was an “outcast.” In a way I was happy that Gordon was also an outcast because it would make befriending him much easier. So while all the “cool kids” played guitar and sang praise and worship songs Gordon pulled out his Iphone and the few outcasts huddled around it to watch funny YouTube videos and tell jokes. I was glad that by the end of the night I could consider Gordon my friend.

As time went on I discovered that I had more in common with Gordon than I had first thought. One of these things was our taste in humor, particularly our common enjoyment of British comedy. During a shopping trip to Walmart, a rather exciting adventure for those living in the middle of nowhere Houghton, Gordon was the only person who shared my excitement when I found a special edition DVD of two of Rowan Atkinson’s movies. I was glad to be able to find someone else in America who appreciated Rowan Atkinson’s comic genius. As we laughed together I knew that I had gained a good friend.

Then one day I went to visit Gordon in his room. Gordon lived two floors above me on the international floor. I had been offered a place on the international floor but had refused due to the fact that as a prospective I had seen a Soviet flag through the window of what I had believed to be the international floor lounge. Coming from Estonia I hated Communists, and the only thing I hated more than Communists was Russians. I had felt as upset by the Soviet flag as many Jews are by the sight of a Swastika. In hindsight I found the irony of this beautiful, because as I entered Gordon’s room I noticed a rather large poster of Che Guevara, the South American Communist revolutionary. Being an Anarchist myself I respected Che for being a revolutionary, but not as a Communist. As Gordon saw me admiring his tribute to Guevara he informed that he was a Communist, and I turned to him in shock and anger.

“A Communist!” I thought, “Well, I guess this is the end of our friendship! I don’t care how cool or fun you are, I HATE COMMUNISTS!” Though I was slightly saddened at the idea that I would lose a friend I was also angered at the knowledge that here at Houghton there was a true red blooded Communist. I knew I had to confront him and tell him I hated Communists, tell him what the Soviets had done to my country, Estonia, the country I love, in the name of Communism. I had to tell him that Communism was evil. “This is the end of an extremely short and shallow friendship” I thought.

I confronted Gordon and told him all the crimes of Communism—how evil it was, how Communism had ravaged my country and killed twenty five percent of its population during the fifty years of its illegal occupation, and how I hated Communism and wish hell’s fire upon all Communists. He calmly and intelligently explained himself. He explained that I hated Soviets, not Communists because the crimes in my country were committed by the Soviets, who were not true Communists. Then he went on to enlighten me about the Communism he actually believed in. He did not believe in a Communism with a corrupt government, he believed in an ideal Communism where all would be shared equally without the need of government control. He did not believe that the Communism of the Soviets was right and true Communism, and that is why the Soviet Union fell. Gordon even gave examples of how Communism was supported in scripture by the actions of the early church. It was just as I had first thought, Gordon was extremely intelligent. After an hour of discussion going from my hostile confrontation of his Communism to a calm and friendly exchange of understanding and ideas I had a revelation. “This is the beginning of a very long and good friendship”

That day Gordon didn’t convince me that Communism is right or will even ever work. But he did convince me that he was just the kind of friend I wanted. After an hour of debate I knew that I would never agree with Gordon about everything, or maybe even anything, but that we would always talk intelligently and respectfully and with the aim of understanding each other. This was a great relief for me having just moved to America from Europe due to the fact that in Europe the understood definition of “argument” is quite different from that of the way it is understood in America. In Europe an argument is an exchange of ideas between two people with differing opinions. If one party convinces the other, that’s great, but it’s not the point. The point of argument is a mutual increase in knowledge and a better understanding of each other, even if they can’t agree. In America I have come to find that the definition of “argument” is a fight in which two people who consider themselves opponents due to their opposing ideas try to tear down each other’s ideas and convince their opponent that they are wrong and must concede. Due to the fact I rather enjoy the European definition of argument I was overjoyed to meet someone who was willing to argue with me in an intelligent way.

Over time I have become quite good friends with Gordon and would count him among my best friends. We’ve had many adventures and misadventures together, ranging from the time when Gordon got reported to the Safety and Security office for having accidentally scared some rather skittish American girls and I had to come forward as a witness and a friend to defend him in this misunderstanding, an incident that he brushed off with his now infamous statement “it’s not easy being red...”, to the infamous “red night” during which a group of friends marched around wearing red with Gordon and I while carrying a red flag. Though Gordon and I still argue sometimes we have found some common ground. Due to my belief that absolute power corrupts absolutely I have become an Anarchist because I can’t trust any government to not be corrupt. Though Gordon is an ardent Communist he and I have found a common ground in an obscure political concept known as Anarchist Communism which has aspects that both Gordon and I can agree on. So though I may still be Black and he may still be Red we are still great friends.
Due to the fact that Gordon is a double major in Writing and Psychology and I am a Writing Major with a Psychology Minor Gordon and I will be taking many classes together, and due to our mutual interest in writing we have started a blog together with some other writers at Houghton. Also, Gordon and I will be rooming together next semester due to the fact that we’re both a little too eccentric for our current roommates. We’ve agreed that we will have an equal amount of Communist propaganda and Estonian nationalism and my Estonian flag will hang next to his Communist one.

Sometimes I think back on our crazy friendship that brought us together. I still can’t pronounce “Ghazi”, though not for lack of trying. We still enjoy British humor together and watch Black Adder, some of Rowan Atkinson’s older and finer work. And Gordon and I still enjoy discussing Communism and Anarchy, though we both recognize that neither one could probably ever work. When I look back over our friendship I think of what would have happened had I not listened to him when he told me about his views on Communism, or what would have happened had he not had the patience to debate with me. I would be missing out on a great friendship, I would have a much less intellectually challenged life, and I wouldn’t have a roommate either. I’m glad I listened to his arguments, and I’m glad I didn’t reject him right away.

Hopefully now the next time I meet an eccentric outcast with crazy political views, a Fascist from Timbuktu perhaps, I’ll be more willing to listen and realize how great eccentric friends can be.