New blog posts? Or new school assignments? Take what you can get!

Hey there, whoever you are who's bizarre enough to still be checking my blog when I haven't written in forever. Or people on FaceBook. Yeah, you probably see this too. Whatever. Either way, I've made a decision. I write a lot. I write all the time. I'm constantly writing. I'm a writing major maniac. I'm insane. I just write whenever I can. But none of you ever get to see that writing. So I've decided to start multitasking some of my writing. Just because I wrote something for a class doesn't mean I can't let you guys read it too. So from now on if I have a blog worthy piece of writing that I've done for class I'll put it on my blog! Aren't you happy? Now you might actually here from me every now and then. In fact, you may hear from me rather often! Hooray! Anyway, I'm going to post some of the writing I've done so far this year. Tell me what you think!

Why can’t I write fiction?

As I mentioned a few blog posts ago I’ve been reading John Leax’s book “Grace is Where I Live”. I’ve been reading it pretty inconsistently, just a bit here and there, but when I have read it I’ve quite enjoyed it. One of the things I’ve really enjoyed about it is that I can really relate to it a lot. Leax writes about being a developing writer and struggling with the difficulties of writing. One place where I feel very much akin to Leax is that when it comes to writing I simply cannot write in the genre and style I really most want to. Both Leax and I dream of writing good fiction, of writing fictitious stories with real meaning and powerful messages. Leax struggled with fiction and ended up primarily writing poetry, despite finally doing at least one good novel. I also struggle terribly with fiction, but rather than poetry I end up primarily doing this. Some would call it prose, others personal essays. I’ve always known it just as blogging, writing. But it seems my best writing is just straight prose about my thoughts and my life.

I’ve tried writing fiction. I was already writing about vampires long before Twilight became popular, but then once Stephanie Mayer stole my mythical creature I couldn’t really do that anymore. Not that much of my vampire scribbles were very good. Then I had this idea of a thief/assassin who was either so good he was evil or so evil he was good or some such nonsense, but I didn’t get more than two pages into that before I decided it was crap. Then I had a few pages about some roguish guy who saves a girl who keeps a dagger hidden between her breasts and tries to kill him before realizing they can work together, in love, to save the world…Dang, I am so cliché. And I haven’t even mentioned my sci-fi idea about the virus that turns people into zombies. That got a few paragraphs before its rather timely death. Then recently I’ve had this idea of psychic soldiers, or some guy who gets experimented on by the government and goes on a super human rampage of revenge or some such. My fiction is the very definition of cliché. But then even if it weren’t it is still so dead.

When I write prose it’s alive. At least I like to think so, and people read it so I guess it must have some gasping remnants of life in it. I find it easy to put life into my prose because I am alive, and the world I live in is alive, and the people and ideas I write about are alive, so if I wrote about my life, my world, and the things in that sphere of life than my writing just naturally comes alive. But when I write fiction I have to create life. There is no original life to draw on. I have people that were born in my mind and fed by my imagination, and a world, whether Earth or not, which exists only within my feeble brain. So it ends up being all scripted, sounding so fake and disgusting. How do Orson Scott Card, J.K. Rowling, J.R.R. Tolkien, and P.G. Wodehouse make their characters live? I also have so much trouble with writing with anything outside my experience. I can’t write about magic or machine guns when I’ve never used them. I can’t write about life in medieval world because I live in the modern one. In the end I just can’t write about someone unless I know them as well as myself, which leaves me trapped to write only about myself. Dang I’m selfish.

At the beginning of this post I spoke about Dr. Leax’s book “Grace is Where I Live” and now I’m going to quote from it a little, because I think he does a much better time of explaining some of this. In his essay “Telling Affirmation” Leax quotes Flannery O’Connor as saying that part of the problem with beginning fiction writers is that “They are apt to be reformers and to want to write because they are possessed not by a story but by the bare bones of some abstract notion. They are conscious of problems, not people…” I think that’s my problem. I want to write about the problem of the internal struggle between good and evil, about the choices that make us what we are. I want to fully explore what a human is and write the heights we can rise to and the depths we can fall to. I want to write about the problems of society, of corruption and naivety. I want to write about these things being overcome and broken. I have the bare bones of some notion and I want to write about it, and I want to write fiction, and I want that fiction to be enjoyable and meaningful and to make people think and to change their lives. I know these problems, but I don’t know people.

I don’t take criticism well. There are very few people who I can truly accept criticism from when it comes to writing, even if it does tick me off a little that I have to accept it. But one criticism which I have received both from one of the few professors at Houghton I accept criticism from and from Jenny (whose criticism I am most likely to be gracious about even though part of me still wants to think I’m perfect) is that I lack empathy. I wrote a lot last semester about Israel and Palestine and I wrote with cold logic. But I have two people saying that cold logic doesn’t leave room for the feelings of people, for the emotions of us unpredictable and fickle humans. Maybe logically what some of Israel’s actions are wrong, some downright war crimes. But they aren’t just doing it because they are evil people, because they really aren’t, they are doing it for human reasons. Those reasons may be wrong (this is highly debatable), but I need to have empathy, I need to be willing and able to see their reasons, understand those reasons, and try to see things from their point of view, regardless of how I personally feel. I need empathy.

Next semester I’m taking a fiction class. This should be interesting, because I really do struggle with fiction. I hope I’ll do well in that class. I think I will, as long as I work hard and really try to learn empathy and the skills needed for good fiction writing. I dream of writing a book that will have meaning, a story that people will enjoy. I hope I can make that dream come true. Well, at least I have a goal to work towards. And I’m not without hope. I have successfully written fiction once, if only once. It was a six page short story which I’ve kept pretty close to my heart ever since. Maybe someday I can write more fiction. Or maybe, like Leax, I will primarily be known for the style of writing that came naturally. Writing like this really does come naturally, and maybe I will someday publish some sort of prose non-fiction ramblings. It would be nice. By the way, act now and get a signed copy of my first book…once it’s published! ;-) That’s years in the future, but my oldest fans (all you crazy blog reading people) will definitely be honored. Yeah, I dream big. Anyway, that’s enough non-fiction personal essay prose for now, I think I’m going to go do something that won’t have me brooding on my lack of fiction writing ability…

On being an Officer’s Kid, though most often Brat…

I am an Officer’s Kid. I’m OK. I’m also more commonly known as an Officer’s Brat, or OB. Which reminds me of BO, but that’s a different subject. Anyway, what does that mean? Well, in its simplest form it means that my parents are Salvation Army Officers. But what does that actually mean in my life? Well, I have come to realize that I am a strange Officer’s Kid. The stereotypical OB is arrogant, spoiled, lazy, rebellious, falsely righteous, and counterproductive to their parents’ work. Despite the fact that I have probably been all these things during at least at one point in my life or another I seriously doubt that would be how most people who know me would describe me, yet I know too many OBs who give the title “brat” a new meaning. I don’t say all this to brag. I actually say all this just to point out that I’m not trying to say what an Officer’s Kid should be like, because the stereotype is already set and many would reject me from it, I’m just trying to say what it means in my life.

The biggest thing being an Officer’s Kid has done to change my life is to make me work. Until going to Houghton I never had a paid job in my life, and even at Houghton both my jobs are easy sitting jobs. But all my life I’ve worked with, not for, my parents. We moved recently and our new corps is kind of a mess. In some parts it’s just trashed (today I had a box I was about to add to the 120 I had already stacked when it fell apart because it was decomposing due to the fact that it had been sitting in a dirty wet corner so long…) and so we’ve been doing lots of cleaning and work. When I came home to Estonia for summer “vacation” I had some wild dreams about spending my time curled up with my laptop playing video games, and even having so much free time that I would rearrange my whole computer and external hard drive, and then because I would still be rolling in free time I would read books and sleep all day. My dreams never turn out to be true.

Of course pretty soon after returning to Estonia I had to start helping my family pack to move. None of it was MY stuff. I had already moved out and just had a couple of suitcases. But it had to be done, so I did it. Then we got to our new city, Narva, and we had to start unpacking, rearranging furniture, fixing broken furniture, etc., etc. Then we still hadn’t (and haven’t yet) finished that when we started on the corps. Cleaning room after room, emptying out so much stuff, hanging up and giving away clothes, carrying furniture up flights of stairs, doing whatever needed to be done. For a week and a half now every night I’ve gone to bed with my back hurting and woken up with it having gone from a flaring ache to more of dull ache which would flare up again by lunch time after a morning of work. It’s crazy. I’m tired. But why do I do it?

Some people have commented that this situation isn’t fair. Some of the stuff is family stuff, so maybe that’s a little more fair, but still. It’s not my stuff I was packing for Narva. It’s not my stuff I’m helping move and unpack now that we’re here. And this isn’t even where I live for more than a month or so and then I’m off to America. So some people would say that’s a little unfair. Now, the corps stuff is definitely just unfair. This isn’t my corps in any way, shape or form. I don’t know the people and I have no way of doing so because I don’t speak their language. I’m not a soldier of this corps and I never will be and I will never be here for long and there is no way any investment I make in this corps will ever pay off for me. I will never use these rooms I’m cleaning. In fact I’ll never get to see what they are used for once I’ve cleaned them. I’m not doing any work that will ever pay off for, or even have results seen by me. This is terribly unfair. This is supposed to by my summer vacation! I’m supposed to be spending all my time at the beach flirting and tanning, on my laptop gaming and surfing, or just lying around reading! So what the heck am I doing all this work for?

Well, when my parents first became officers and first started asking me to help them I considered it terrible slave labor and fought them to do as little work as possible. But as I’ve grown older I’ve started to have a slightly different perspective. I don’t do this work for me. I do this work for love. When I work I think of three loves that I work for, in order of importance to me. 1: I love God. If by doing all this terrible work and having my back hurt all the time I’m serving God I guess that’s worth it. I love God, and so I want to serve him, whether that be by sharing the gospel or by cleaning and moving boxes out of rooms that will be used for sharing the gospel or otherwise serving God than I’ll do it. 2: I love my parents. I really do. So if I can help them than I will. This only goes so far though. When somebody said my situation was unfair my mom said of course I was helping because I wouldn’t just sit at home and let my mother work so hard at the corps without help. I found this funny. I really would have no problem with sitting at home doing a second play through of Mass Effect while my mom slaved away doing her chosen work at her chosen profession where she has been called by God and gets paid. But loves 1 and 3 collaborate with my love for my parent’s to make me work. 3: I love The Salvation Army. I feel called to serve God. And at least at this point in my life I feel called to serve God through The Salvation Army. So I just love The Salvation Army. Salvationists are usually great people, and I really have a heart for the work the Army does. I just feel at home with the Army. Of course the Army has its flaws, and as an Officer’s Kid I know them better than I’d like to, but I still love it. So even though this technically isn’t my corps it’s still my Army. So, to serve God, my parents, and The Salvation Army I work.

Now I just realized one thing I should add. Earlier I typed “If by doing all this terrible work and having my back hurt all the time I’m serving God I guess I’m glad to do it.” I changed that to say it’s worth it because I realized that’s not true. I’m not always glad to do this work, not matter how much love I have. My back hurts, my arms ache, my whole body is physically tired, I’m not glad for any of that. But that’s why it’s called serving. If it needs to be done and if I love those who need it done then I’ll do it. I don’t have to enjoy it, but I’ll do it.

So anyway, this is probably the first blog post that I’ve been sort of asked to write. I wasn’t really asked to write it, I was just asked to get this message out, and I thought my blog would be the best way to do it. I think a lot of people could think about what they love and what they can do for that love. Well, I must be off now. I hope you’re glad I’m blogging again. I know I am.

Tales from Narva, or Two Tales of One City

Even though I have been whining about it for several months now I have realized that some of you may not have realized my change of location. If you never noticed me leaving Tallinn to go to Houghton then you’re WAY behind, but if you didn’t notice me returning to Tallinn only to move to Narva a month later than I guess I can forgive you, seeing as how I’ve only been negative and whiny about it up until this point and so haven’t thought it worth blogging about because it would just make the whole, if I may be so bold as to use the term, “blogosphere” so much more depressing by being filled with me fussing. Aren’t you glad that I’m kind and have waited until I had some nice stories to tell? So today I would like to tell you two tales. Not one tale of two cities, but two tales of one city. I’m sorry to disappoint you, but France is not involved, nor are there any revolutions in these tales. I’m sorry if I confused you, or if in fixing your confusion with my literary jokes I have instead simply confused you more or confused those not familiar with what I’m talking about. So anyway, on to my two tales.

The Tale of the Bridge and the Bombs

On a dark and stormy night, which just so happened to be last night, I went over to my friend Anneli’s house to play Age of Empires 2. Between my home and Anneli’s there is a foot bridge which crosses over a bunch of train tracks. It’s a big bridge, and I rather like it. Every time I walk on it I feel cooler just for being walking on a bridge. It’s a strange life I lead, but that’s just the way I feel. Anyway, because the rain was beginning to soak through my hoody and get my hair wet I bolted over the bridge, tightly clutching my towel covered laptop bag. The towel actually worked extraordinarily well in protecting my laptop bag, and when I arrived at Anneli’s I was please to see how dry my laptop bag was, despite the rain.

Six hours and eighteen minutes of mad back-and-forth combat, gloating, bragging, taunting, and shoving down snacks later Anneli and I decided to just end in a tie. It was an amazing game. Anneli’s strength is a nearly impenetrable defense, and she had designed her city to be very close in defensive design to that of Byzantium, whereas mine is an insane all out offense, and I had attacked like the golden horde. You can see how this could go on a while if neither of us truly got the upper hand. So after a little more chatting with Anneli I headed out to hear a terrifying noise.

Don’t mention 1941. I don’t like it. 1939 to 1943 were just especially bad years for Estonia, not to mention up until 1991. The Soviet Union, being the big jerk it was, occupied us for fifty years, starting right here in Narva. I live five minutes from the Russian border. If I get bored I can go make faces at Ivangorod, the Russian castle, or at random Russian men fishing in the river. Russia is literally a stone’s throw away. This city is 97% Russian, which is the cause of most of my whining. I don’t speak Russian. Also, I have become very patriotic. Not of America, of course. American “patriots” tend to irritate me. I feel very patriotic about Estonia, so I feel a little sore when it comes to Russia, Russians, the Russian language, Schweppes Ruscshian drink, all of it, but especially the idea of Russia invading. Remember Georgia? Remember T’bilisi? What T’bilisi? Exactly. So now that I live on the Russian border the last thing I want to hear are explosions…

As far as I can tell the only redeeming quality of the Russian city across the border is the Ivangorod castle, but last night even that high quality was negated. Some genius decided to set off fireworks right over the border. They looked nice, but as I stepped out of Anneli’s apartment building the echoing blasts of the fireworks sounded terribly like tank shells exploding, and the fizzling out of the fireworks sounded quite like machine gun and small arms fire. As I walked down the empty street the effect was disturbing. It felt as if the city had been evacuated and I got left behind, and now I could hear the sounds of the resistance trying to defend the border. All I could think was, “was this what it sounded like when they invaded the last two or three times?”

So that’s just some of what my life in Narva is like. That tale wasn’t as fun as I’m sure you might have liked, and the punch line was terribly unfunny, but I think sometimes in life the punch line just isn’t funny. Anyway, enough of that depressing anti-Russian crap that’s going to get me kidnapped and silenced. My next tale is considerably more entertaining, so I hope you’re happy.

The Tale of the Birds and the Book

One of the very nice things about where we live in Narva is the fact that we live 5 minutes from a nice playground. Though in Tallinn we lived 5 minutes from two nice playgrounds and 10 minutes from a very big and very nice and new playground it’s still quite wonderful to have a playground so close. Because Peter is an energetic young five year old the best remedy for his insane amounts of energy seems to be going to the playground, so I take him a lot. I also enjoy the opportunity to sit out in the fresh air and read, listen to music, or just sit and think. Lately I’ve been reading John Leax’s book, “Grace Is Where I Live” which is quite good, despite the fact that it makes me feel like a suck up to read a book written by the newly retired head of the Houghton Writing department.

So the other day I was sitting on the bench, enjoying the beautiful weather and the sound of kid’s playing while I read some inspirational things about being a Christian writer. Despite the fact that the book had completely engrossed me the birds seemed considerably less thrilled with it. I was sitting under a tree, and apparently I was directly under the favorite perching place of some pigeons. The pigeons, being quite intent on making me aware of their presence, defecated straight onto my book, only very narrowly missing my face. It took me a moment to understand what had gone whizzing past my face and why my book was suddenly disgusting, but once I did realize I kind of freaked out.

I realized pretty quickly that if I closed the book I would ruin it, but if I were to try to go home to clean it up I could not open the locks and doors without closing the book. This seeming dilemma turned out to be easily solved. While carefully cradling the open book in one hand I called home with the other, asking my sister to bring me tissues. Once my sister arrived with the tissues I commenced cleaning off my book, as well as gesturing angrily at the birds and making derogatory comments about them and their whole species.

This apparently touched a nerve in the pigeons, or maybe in the old Babushka, who I personally believe was Baba Yaga, because very quickly the birds decided to assault me again. It was a very well planned out maneuver, I’ll give them that. To my left, as I stared up into the tree making my insulting opinions known to the birds who had first attacked me, was an old woman with a bag of bread. On my right was a flock of pigeons, poised and ready to defend their honor.

As I was getting to a really good part in my tirade, the part where I comment on the quality of the eggs they hatched from, rather like we humans insult each other’s mothers, the Babushka A.K.A. Baba Yaga in disguise released a handful of bread crumbs. Within seconds the flock of birds on my right was all around me, flying straight past me to get to the bread crumbs. Being the manly man I am my response to this was to cover my head with my now clean book while spinning in a circle and shrilly screaming “Oh my God, Oh my God!” This of course drew some dirty looks from the Babushka and the parents at the playground, because when you see a man screaming in English at a flock of birds you know he’s either insane or American or both.

So anyway, I hope you enjoyed my tales. Life in Narva is very different, but overall it’s okay. But I just need to say one last thing. I don’t think the Estonian birds in Tallinn would have attacked me like that! It’s these darn Russian birds, they’re out to get me…

My struggle

Sometimes I struggle with what seems the two realities in which I live. On the one hand I have the seeming “real” world. I have the laptop I’m typing on write now. I have my college education and textbooks that need to be paid. I have a life after college that needs to be figured out and planned for. On the other hand I have what might be called the “spiritual” world. I have my commitment to God. I have my desire to follow his calling. I have my faith that He will provide for my future. I feel like I have a great struggle between these two realities. I feel like I want to fully give myself to one or the other, but just can’t. Sometimes when I’m on FaceBook I browse the profiles of old friends, acquaintances, and crushes. Yes, I am that creepy. I see things on their profiles that make me think two things, both “there is a person enjoying their life!” and “there is somebody who has fallen away from God/never known Him at all.” I look at these people, and on the one hand I look at my life and I see how boring it is. When do I go to crazy parties? When do I have wild sex? When do I make out with beautiful women? When do I live selfishly and just enjoy life? On the other have I look at these people and I look at my life and I see how fulfilled my life should be. I have good friends that help me to live a good life. I have a wonderful and loving girlfriend who, even though we don’t have sex or even kiss, is amazingly caring and who I can talk to about absolutely anything. I see the way God takes care of me in little ways all the time, from just having safe travels to having the ability to go to a good college without a fear of too large a debt.

When I look over that last paragraph I just have one thought, one way of describing myself. I am a terrible ingrate. I have a wonderful life, not by my own doing by any means, but just because God loves me. Yet I don’t know what causes this ingratitude and this terrible struggle of discontentment. Maybe I’m just an ungrateful person, but I’d like to think not. I think sometimes, maybe most of the time, I focus far too much on what many would call the “real” world. I focus on the present. I focus on myself. I focus on what I can touch and feel and enjoy. Life is so much bigger than that. It’s terribly frustrating. I need a better focus. I need to look at what’s real, what’s important. But somehow I just can’t. I can’t see beyond today to see myself in three years, knowing that the struggles of today are worth it. I can’t see through to myself when I am truly a man, having found my calling and purpose. I can’t see through to myself when I am married. I can’t see through to the big picture, and it’s so frustrating. I know there’s a big picture, I know life is bigger than what I can see right now. It’s just that I don’t see it right now.

2nd Corinthians 4:17 and 18 say: “For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all. So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen. For what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal.” I know that this is true. It’s just so hard to truly live it in the day to day. What I see is temporary, but it’s all I see. What is unseen is eternal, but I don’t see that at all. Life is hard. But God is strong. I just need faith.

Some thoughts on blogging

I haven’t blogged in a REALLY long time. In fact, I feel that it’s been too long. I hope to make blogging a regular habit again, but for the time being I’m not so sure that will happen, and allow me to explain why. I am a writer, and I have a deep primal urge to write. I don’t understand why I have such an urge to write, but I just have a great desire to put down my thoughts, feelings, and life experiences down in words. It’s a gift and a curse, because when I don’t have my laptop with me but I’m filled with desire to write then I try to hand write the thing and then I feel fussy because I hate hand writing things. But it’s also a gift because writing so improves my life. I used to fulfill these writing cravings through my blog, finding a sweet pleasure in every single post. But this summer have I not been writing? Has my writer’s spirit been killed? Not at all. I merely have had a different writing outlet. This summer I have been having almost daily e-mail correspondence with Jenny, my girlfriend. When writing her I write more than I would in my average blog post because I know she cares to read it. So, because I’m already writing about my thoughts, feelings, and life far more intimately and intricately than I normally would on my blog I just haven’t felt like blogging about anything.

But now I think it’s a habit I need to take up again. Last year when I was at Houghton I just couldn’t find time to blog, and I would only blog when I was in an extreme, either extremely triumphant or extremely morose. So now, in the interests of blogging regularly at Houghton, I would like to start that habit again now. Ideally I will start blogging daily, but I may have to work my way up to that. Anyway, I will definitely blog later about Mayerm and how my summer has gone, because my life has actually been pretty eventful and I am quite sad to know that you have been missing out on it. I need to fill you in! You must be going crazy! All my crazy screaming fans from here to Mars must have been having panic attacks thinking I was dead! Don’t worry fan girls, I’m still alive! But I have a girlfriend now, so I guess none of you have a chance anymore. Sorry. Anyway, I’ll write a lot more this summer, because I quite enjoy it and I know there are at least some people in the world who do too.

Until next time,Your beloved Chris

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.

Allow me to introduce Jenny

My hair is dripping wet. My hoody and fleece are both soaked through. My holey sneakers are wet and covered in mud, my socks drenched. But I am extraordinarily happy. Why? Jenny. I haven’t blogged in forever, but if I had then I probably would have mentioned Jenny many times. I think I did mention her a few times, and I think she mentioned that she’s my girlfriend, but have I told you about her? No, not at all. It’s time for me to remedy that. I just got back from a walk with Jenny and so I’m in a rather romantic mood, and since a lot of my best writing is done when I’m in a romantic mood and I have free time I am totally going to write, and it will be me being hopelessly romantic. I haven’t written on my blog in far too long. First I’ll tell you the basics. Jenny is from Maine (the way life should be) and is an Intercultural Studies major here at Houghton. I think she should get extra credit for her major by dating me, seeing as how I’m all intercultural and whatever. Jenny is kind, caring and a lot of fun. She’s pretty much the most fantastic person I know. She’s also extremely beautiful, as you can see from the creepy stalker collage I made with my crappy MS paint skills. I couldn’t decide on any one picture to show, so I decided I’d show several. She’s probably going to hate me for this.

Well, now that I’ve covered the basics and given you some of my favorite pictures of her (my mom’s favorite is the one in the bottom far right) I can get to some of the romantic stuff. Let me tell you why she’s special to me. I’ll go through a few of the reasons which I picked out from the many. Jenny is wonderful because she:
1. Convinces me that the past doesn’t matter
2. Reminds me to trust God in everything
3. Reminds me to read my Bible
4. Is the reason I look up
5. Reminds me to be spontaneous and enjoy life
Allow me to explain each of these a little more in depth. Let’s start, as most things normally do, with number 1. I trust Jenny completely, and we’ve talked a lot. I have a lot of phantoms from my past that have irked me for a long time. But Jenny shows me complete grace. The past doesn’t matter to her, and she makes sure I remember that it doesn’t matter to God either. She forgives me and helps me know that I’ve been forgiven. Now on to 2. I once said to her, “Jenny, I’m a writing major and I want to be a missionary, I’m going to be dirt poor, are you sure you want to be with me?” Her answer surprised me a lot. “God will provide.” Jenny helps me to remember that I need to trust God for everything. She reminds me that my strength comes from God, and that I need to completely trust in him for everything. Number 3 is connected to this. I’m really bad at keeping up regular Bible reading and devotions, but Jenny always asks me if I’ve read my Bible lately. She really cares about my relationship with God. I really need to explain number 4 or you would have no idea what I’m talking about. Jenny appreciates natural beauty quite a bit, and she loves to look at the sky. If it’s a beautiful starry night sometimes she’ll just stop walking and stare. I never look up normally, I never appreciate the stars or the clouds or the beauty of the sky, but when Jenny looks up I do too and I see the beauty I’d normally ignore. Number 5 is kind of related to number 4. Being here at college it’s easy to get absorbed into FaceBook and schoolwork and not look at the sky or be spontaneous or enjoy life too much at all. But Jenny and I always do really fun spontaneous things, like the walk in the rain I just got back from. Once Jenny and I were so excited that the weather was warming up that we went for a walk in t-shirts and then laid down in the snow to look at the stars. Cold, but amazingly spontaneous and fun.

So, anyway that’s my little tribute to Jenny. I haven’t blogged in far too long, and I’ve never really blogged about Jenny, so there you go. I hope I can start blogging more, but you probably shouldn’t count on it. Anyway, I’m must be off to bed now, goodnight!

Some of the struggles I have with school... (Why I refuse to "learn on the side")

Last semester I struggled a lot. I came out with a 2.4 GPA, which I am not happy about, especially seeing how good I'm doing this semester. What is the difference between this semester and last? I'm figuring out school. I've been homeschooled my whole life, so this does take some figuring out. But I am getting the hang of it. The fact that I am figuring this out is very little due to my own ingenuity, but due to the fact that all my friends help me out a lot and teach me how this works. But there is one thing that my friends try to convince me of that I refuse to go along with. I refuse to go along with the system. It seems that the system here is not to write well, know the subject matter well, or speak well. The system dictates that we exist only to serve our professors and to figure them out so we know what they are looking for and do that. The point is not learning, but people pleasing, and this irritates me to no end.

My friends love to learn, and so do I, so I asked them "When then, will I learn?" and I was told that what you do in school is "learn on the side" while pleasing the professor to get the grade. I have a big problem with this. Last semester we had a group project, and while everyone else chose which topic to work on by who else they would be working with, I chose to pick the topic that most interested me and that I most wanted to learn about without even thinking about what my group might be like. Only later did I realize that I now had a fascinating topic (homelessness and schizophrenia) but a rather difficult and dysfunctional group. In the end it was only okay because of my over zealous interest in the topic leading to me covering 11 minutes of the presentation rather than the 5 I was supposed to. Ideally, according to "the system" I should have chosen to do a project with my friend who I need would be good to work with, even though the topic interested me less.

This makes me so frustrated, because to be honest I really don't care about my grades or my GPA too much. I'm here to learn about things that interest me. Right now I'm preparing for a paper on Israel and Palestine and all the nasty conflict there. I could do this paper on anything I wanted, and I probably won't get an A because I've picked such a difficult topic that I'm not sure I can write about it so well that it would be worth an A. But that is the point. I'm not here for an A. I'm here to stretch myself, increase my skills and learn! Though I could probably get a better grade if I had chosen to write on something easier and more relevant here, such as the drinking or dancing rules here at Houghton, I choose this not only because it interests me, but because I know it will challenge me.

Anyway, that's just another rant from your beloved C. J. Clark, I must be off now. I hope you've enjoyed how much I've been blogging recently. I've just had a pretty light workload this week. But next week I'm pretty sure that will change...Cya.

What I love about P.O.W.

I love P.O.W. with all my writing major heart! What is P.O.W. you ask? Well, not Prisoner of War. At Houghton, at least until the course change come into effect, the intro level writing course is Principles of Writing, or P.O.W. I love my P.O.W. class, and since I have half an hour before I need to go to P.O.W. I think I’ll tell you some of how fantastic it is. First of all, Professor Lori Huth is fantastic, I learn a lot in class about different writing styles and how to improve my writing, which means that this is probably the only class that I fully pay attention in, and don’t let my mind wander. But even more than the lectures I actually enjoy the work. In P.O.W. we have, like every class, readings for every class. But I usually skim, don’t do all the reading, or just don’t read for my other classes. But for P.O.W. I always make sure I’ve read, no matter what, because we have surprise reader responses in class. I love this because it means that I’m always ready to write and it’s getting me in the mindset of analyzing what I read to better understand not only the writer’s idea and point, but the nuances and ways that the point is presented more effectively through skilled writing. Through this better understand I am able to apply what I learn to my own writing, as well as being able to write about the things I read. I love how this class is improving my writing.

Another thing I love about this class is that whenever we have to write a paper we have writing workshops, where we split into groups of three and critique each other’s drafts and help each other. This is a good chance to analyze other people’s writing and also to get suggestions about my own writing. For the more difficult papers we have conferences with Professor Huth too, and she critiques our drafts and gives us suggestions before we turn them in the final time. I really like this class. Anyway, I should probably be going to this class soon, I don’t know why I told you all that. I hope you know I’m enjoying college! Cya!