The words are not true synonyms when one takes into account dual meanings.
Independence can be defined as freedom from outside aid or support, as being separate, self-sufficient, whereas freedom more refers to personal liberty, ability to speak or act openly, and to be spared of imprisonment or being confined.
One can be free without truly being independent. One can be independent, but not free.
Independence Day is not interchangeable with Freedom Day for this very reason. It was America’s moment as a competent state, one endowed with freedoms. We were not merely free. We were capable of handling that freedom.
Freedom can also be taken into the concept of being withheld from something, of being captured or contained. The argument of the soul is derived from a perception of the body as a vessel of sorts, the fallible, disposable machine through which the soul acts. When one sees the mortal failings of the physical body, it is easy to understand the idea of a soul leaving the body upon death, in a released fashion to pursue whatever lies beyond. Therefore, in a typical Westernized religious or spiritual mindset, death is when the soul becomes free of the hindering body, but also when one becomes entirely independent as well. The soul no longer relies on the body’s nourishment and maintenance, of certain physiological processes to follow through properly or psychological needs to be met. Environmental conditions are of no importance any longer either.
I am not implying that death does not come with its grief. Those left living mourn for the dead, for the loss of communication and companionship, of love and reciprocity, and in remembrance for all the person represented, accomplished, his or her attributes, and shared memories. This sense of freedom and independence, these words that are so readily used and abused today, are seen in a new light. These are just things to think about.
I’ll be in the house
with an aged, weary frame,
gingerly sorting, searching,
and discarding through
the eras of a woman’s
aged, weary life.
It was a downpour. A delicious salad had been eaten. The tip had been paid. My classmate and I waited beneath the pub awning as the rain fell in heaps. It was akin to what an irritated, giant neighbor might do to noisy giant tenants lingering outside, beneath his window, during early hours of the morning – pour buckets upon buckets of water onto them. Excuse my literary exaggeration.
So, anyway, I called up my boyfriend, and asked for a ride. He agreed, but was grumpy to say the least.
“I am not paying for a toll,” he moodily stated, as my classmate gave him directions to her address.
“Obviously, her or I would pay for that,” I said in a short, clipped voice. There was no toll.
The rain fell harder on our way back from her place. We parked in silence. Walked in silence. Entered our home in silence. Spent the next hour or so in silence. My classmate text messaged me, thanking us for the ride. I responded with an apology on his behalf. I like to smooth over social faux pas, and
“Why are you in such a bad mood?” I tentatively asked. He was watching his new favorite show, Heroes, season 2. After a moment he replied, “I don’t know. Just am.”
I probably asked the question a few more times, but did not want to nag. Becoming a nuisance or annoyance, a prodding, pushy housewife is not at the top of my goals in life. It’s nowhere on the list, actually, and is primarily one of my biggest commitment-related fears.
Later, he held my hand as we packed up to meet relatives about the previously mentioned family emergency. He said, “I was grumpy for two reasons: 1) Gyroscopic motion of bicycle wheels and I read a ridiculous article about Chinese language and how its character system makes it more difficult to type. You have to basically learn English first! It’s so inefficient. Most languages adapted away from a pictograph-based system!”
I stared at him in shock, “You’re joking, right? You were upset over Chinese and gyroscopes?”
“Gyroscopic motion,” he corrected, “and yes, It was incredibly irritating and I was frustrated. I wanted to read a different article, something to get me out of that mood, but then you called and I had no time to readjust the way I was feeling with something better.”
Somehow, I find his logic endearing. This instance is also a perfect example of the cognitive behavioral perspective, which believes that the way one thinks generally affects emotion and primarily, behavior. Reality isn’t important or even discernible – the subjective experiences and perceptions of the person is what really matters and determines how he or she views the world. The way to correct inappropriate behavior is by having an understanding of his or her thought process. Reframing one’s thoughts can have an extremely powerful effect on his or her life. It amazed me at how easily his thoughts influenced his mood and interactions with others. As soon as he began thinking more positively, his annoyed emotions subsided, and he was able to communicate more openly, causing less tension between us.
If this were Twitter, I would hash tag #psychgeek.
There has been a lot of loss lately, and suffering. I am not sure which is worse – prolonged, untreated suffering over the course of years, self-induced and negligent, or the result of that inaction, an extended passage from life. It is difficult to mandate a stubborn, fiercely independent and for most purposes, conscious, if not entirely rational being, to live in any other way. People have the freedom to make choices, even if their decisions may not be the best or the most recommended routes. Sometimes, this realization can be more painful than the death of someone dear and close. Sometimes, people can’t be saved from themselves. It takes awhile to feel comfortable in that realization. Recognizing the limit of one’s control takes awhile to accept.
How rigorous was your academic curriculum in high school? Were you pushed or encouraged to succeed? Did your self-esteem depend on your class ranking? How well did you prepare for exams required to gain admission into college, if any?
Admittedly, I was tracked in 3rd grade, but I was far from brilliant. Intelligent? Yes, perhaps even a bit above average, but no one extraordinary. I encountered a smathering of college prep classes among advanced placement. There was a distinctive quality in belonging to this relatively small elite. Yet, it was isolating. Similarly, one loses sight when exploring philosophical questions too deeply. It is easy to get lost in the analytical and theoretical. It is not easy to relate to others at times.
This separation is my weakness. It is part of my skill set. I can communicate well with people of different perspectives and life experiences, but how well do I personally fit in? Personal discomfort is relatively easy to hide beneath layers of social skills. I can scarcely imagine what it must be like for those who have been groomed their whole lives to be remarkable, geniuses even, for those who were born with those rare gifts and intelligences.
Color illustration created by: Andrew Navaro
I dreamt, rolling in and out of consciousness, within the 5-minute span between hitting snooze on my annoyingly programmed cellphone (set in alignment with alleged responsibilities). Instead of its screen merely having the option of hitting ’snooze’ or ‘dismiss,’ the display read ‘burst out’ or ‘dismiss’. The image of a sandworm bursting out of the sand, or in this case, the floorboards and through the futon, emerged past my line of vision. I fully awoke, startled, and said out loud, “No, don’t burst! I won’t hit burst! I’m up!”
My roommate turned to me, clothing iron poised over a rather stubborn shirt collar and calmly asked, “What’s bursting?”
Sometimes, when people instigate, threaten, or simply do not like you, it means that you are doing something right, whether it’s following through on your job or upholding the law for the safety of others. Research (I’ll have to cite this source later) has shown that the old stereotype of bullies doesn’t necessarily hold true. At least in the study, the troublemakers weren’t the kids who were picked on, neglected at home, or suffered from low self-esteem. They were egotistical and too self-assured, even more enabled by their doting parents. Their self-esteem and feelings of superiority over their peers were high and unchecked. They treated others like dirt, because they truly viewed themselves as being better. They failed to take responsibility for their actions.
I know that I cannot please everyone. I cannot be admired by everyone, or even respected. When people do not meet one’s expectations of maturity or self-awareness, it’s wise to remember that the individual and oneself are similar. “I am also mortal and flawed.” Sometimes, the best reaction is having none at all.
“I know how I’m going to propose to you,” my boyfriend teased, pressing the pad of his pointer finger on my nose.
I looked over at him, “What? Is it going to be obvious, like you plan a big trip or dinner, something we have never, ever done before or at least not often?”
“Nah, you’d catch on way too easily,” he stated matter-of-factly.
I nodded in agreement as he continued, “So, we’re at a big fancy dinner right, and I say, ‘Go ahead, order a bottle of wine…’
“But you hate wine!” I interjected.
“Let me finish. Okay, so I’m sipping on the wine and suddenly I cough and there’s your ring, all covered in wine and saliva.”
He guffawed for a few minutes. I waited until he caught his breath.
“Charming,” I scoffed, feeling one side of my mouth rise into a smirk.
“Well, the first plan was putting it on the bottom of the dirty dishes, so you find it all covered in food and soap when you washed them, but I didn’t think you’d like that too much,” he casually said.
“Also charming,” I yawned, rolling my eyes habitually.
“I know!” he jumped up, nearly grabbing me by the shoulders in his delirious self-pride, “What if I put in one real diamond ring among a bunch of cubic zirconia copies and said you could only pick one? Then, I would return the others.”
I responded, my voice sounding doubtful and sincere, “I don’t think you would tell me if I picked the fake one.”
He glared ever so slightly, “Would so – I wouldn’t be that cheap. Okay, so what if I said the real one weighed 1 mg more than 11 others and gave you a balance, but you only had three tries. What would you do?”
“Aha!” I yelled out victoriously, “I knew you would throw a word problem in there, somewhere! I would 1) Separate them into two groups of 6 rings and weigh them, removing the lighter bunch, 2) Separate them into two groups of three and again, remove the lighter group, and finally weigh two of the rings on opposite sides. The heavier one would be the real ring, or if the scale balanced, the one I left out would prove to be the real one.”
“Man,” he grimaced, “This is going to be harder than I thought.”
Sometimes, I think he makes proposal plans that only serve as means of amusing himself. If only I could propose to him instead…
If you’re married, please share your engagement story, or how you met your current significant other. I would love to hear more about your lives for a change!
We were stretched on the grass, resting on top of a damp blanket. Crickets conversed around us and kids shrieked in delighted awe at the explosions of colors lighting up the humid July sky.
Yet, we were engulfed in our thoughts and each other, despite the overbearing crowd and the intolerable volume of exploding fireworks mere feet from us.
The atmosphere created did not necessarily have anything to do with the display or the reaction of the audience. It had more to do with being in the presence of one another.
There is something anatomically incorrect about this painting, more so than any lack of talent I have as an artist. It was done intentionally, with purposeful meaning. Can you spot this physiological aberration? Tell me what you think it means, or if you can relate to it in any way.
The door was removed from its hinges once a week, for over a month. It was a thick metal door, painted white, and had suffered multiple bruises and dents near the top. Unnerving. Taunting.
The scene shifted, and I was in a rectangular room, large and open, also painted white. There were peers there, classmates, mostly female, all pale and earnest. They were staring at me warmly. Everything was blinding and light.
“It’s time you have joined the coven,” one stated simply. Another patted the open space next to her on a white leather sofa.
“I’m not sure about this,” I replied nervously, “Do I want to be involved with people who keep breaking down my apartment door?”
They said nothing. They stared.
“I don’t like your recruitment tactics,” I glared at them.
“Don’t be silly,” she implored delicately, “You’re one of us now. We take classes together too. There’s no denying that you belong with us either.”
One of my friends wore a khaki-toned trenchcoat. He sat back, long hair in his usual uncombed ponytail, fragrant plumes of smoke drifting out of his pipe.
“What are you doing here, A?!” I gasped.
“Nah, don’t get all bothered. I just talk with these people. You know I’m off-beat, not undead.”
I nodded in agreement at the only comic relief my brain offered to me, and stirred myself out of an already restless slumber.
“Growing up sucks,” I muttered at my impatient alarm clock. I didn’t bother to hit snooze. It was nearly time to leave for work.
