original fic: whatever you are, be revolutionary
Title: whatever you are, be revolutionary
Author: V.M. Bell
Summary: Just me, talking about me, my life, my thoughts, through fifteen vignettes for fifteen years of existence.
Rating: G
Pairings: absolutely none - dude, it's my life you're talking about!
Word Count: 2,626
Author's Notes: This was originally written for an English assignment from this past year, and I was rather bored and tired, this Fourth of July, so I decided to type it up and post it. There's not a single contraction in this - it was supposed to be "formal writing," after all - and, no, I'm not afraid to wax dramatic, romantic, or poetic at any time, thanks. :) I also remember there was a write-what-you-know meme going around earlier in the year, so I shall say that this is a belated answer to that.
This is me at basically what is my most personal, so go forth and read! Feedback would be lovely.
--
I.
So here we are. The journey begins. Search through the layers that have accumulated from the years, the dust and the shadows, the trappings above. Dig far and dig deep. There is much to tear away, these superficial things. But in the end we’ll find it. Because it’s there. It is always there.
Homeland. Motherland. Heritage. My nation true and free. Call it what you want, but it is the essence of me, of Malin. Every building has a foundation - strong, sturdy, and unfailingly trustworthy. People, I suspect, are much the same. The winds may howl, the rain may pour, the beams and roof pulled away, but the foundation is still there. The foundation is always there. You may not like it, you may feel disenfranchised or alienated, but the foundation is always there. There is no running away from it. When all else is stripped and gone, your foundations bears its proud standard.
Zhong guo shi wo de gu xiang.
China is my homeland.
II.
It’s difficult, isn’t it, to find that place called home? The fireplace hearth. The open arms of family. Born in Massachusetts but brought up in Canada, from China but an American by birth, how do I pinpoint that elusive place known as “home”? Is it a geographical location? Is it a mindset? Or does it not exist at all, and my life is no more than in limbo? Is there and will there ever be a place to call my own?
Through my lack of a home I find that I am incredibly adaptable. I love the countryside, picturesque in views, quiet and contemplative. I love the city, forever bustling and alive, simmering and vivid. Which one is me? I cannot say.
III.
You are special. Whether true or not, it is what is drilled into our heads from our very first step into life. You are special. You are you, and don’t you ever forget that. In a world of six billion people, there is no one else like you.
My name has always presented a problem. Malin. It’s a “western” spelling of my Chinese name yet it is neither Chinese nor western. Too many minced its delicate Oriental intonations with grating English. Some find it amusing. I had always wondered if it was possible to be too unique. I am hardly like anyone else in any culture. Reserved, pensive, logical, I am independent and autonomous. Opinioned, passionate, emotional, I am fiery and outspoken.
Regardless of what I am, I am not a conformist. I may or may not be special, but I am different.
IV.
Music is really such a difficult thing to appreciate. But to make it, to feel your fingers push and cut through the notes, to hear the notes and chords and cadences and arpeggios emanate from those same and very fingers - that is music. That music is very difficult to appreciate.
When music can crawl its way into your soul until your soul is wholly consumed, when your heart can be shattered with one note until that notes resounds and echoes in you - that is music. That music is also very difficult to appreciate.
Granted, it comes with age, this appreciation for music. My piano training began at the age of four buy only a few years ago did I fully realize the magic behind each song, each phrase, each measure, and each key. To hear that magic at last is the greatest appreciation of all.
V.
I cling to memory. I cling to the past. In it, there is such a store of knowledge and lessons, warnings for the future, but more than that, I find my imagination. Memories are only memories. Our interpretations of them change but they do not. That is why I find history so fascinating.
The past, however, can skew our perspective. Shall I be so absorbed in history that I forget to live in the present? Shall I never forget anything, even when holding onto it is a stake and a nail in my heart? Shall I forget to live altogether, history perched critically on my shoulder at all times?
VI.
There are certain experiences that change a person’s life. Whether it is brushing past someone in the elevator, a hushed bedside story, or a trinket from an ancestor long deceased, they impact us in ways that we cannot fully discern, only sensing that there has been a change, one that is subtle - perhaps not noticeable to others, but it wraps its warm tentacles around you to make it noticeable to you. And you notice it.
The hardest lesson of life to learn and accept is that the world and the heavens do not exist for the sole purpose of making you happy and, ultimately, you are just one more sentient being to inhabit the earth. Logistics aside, there is no difference between George W. Bush and the cashier at Seven Eleven, nor any between Bill Gates and the city street sweeper. We are man, we are woman, we are human. Our circumstances shape who we are, but from person to person, what we are is the same.
My experience set me on this path, this path of understanding who I was and my place - my destiny, if you will pardon the cliché - in our ever changing and mercurial world. The details of it are unimportant. But my experience was my first glimpse beyond the surface and the superficial.
I am fully aware that my experience is now fading from reach and that I shall never return to it again. As much as I will rue its passing, its meaning will always ring clear.
VII.
We were never meant to know the purpose behind humanity and, therefore, we are held in continuous wonder. It’s like perfectionism. So one may strive to complete everything faultlessly, perfection is nevertheless not a destination but a direction. One may be awfully close to it but, all in all, it is unattainable. In mathematical terms, then, perfection is an asymptote. The rational behind life works in the same way. It tantalizes those who are brave enough to chase it. As soon as they leap and grasp for it, it dances only higher.
Anything is possible - except for this, the secret of humanity. No one can know it because it assures that we shall always dream and imagine - in short, make contact with our irrational and freewheeling selves.
Falling into a paradigm, a pattern, is the greatest felony on can commit against humanity. When the wonder, the spark which we call “spirit” or “being,” disappears from a life, that life is better discarded. No existence is better than an existence whose sole meaning is to live our a routine unto death.
VIII.
I am many things in life. A sister. A daughter. A feminist. A politician. An activist. A dream. A seeker (of answers). But also an artist. A bohemian at heart. A writer.
I write, and I write constantly. I know I am not the strongest, nor the fastest, nor the wittiest or the smartest. I am rarely fully confident of anything I undertake. I know, though, that my inner strength flows through my words. I know that Caesar conquered Rome with a sword; his conquest would have been for naught without the pen to support it. Words make the intangible more human and full, permanent accounts of what it means to live, to hurt, to love, to die.
I dreamt of publishing once: a grand novel of incomparable prose and plotting, all but dominating the literary scene. I wanted to tell and, more, show the world this was my contribution to make. That I would not be forgotten. That I would live beyond my earthly life.
I am not nearly as idealistic anymore. But I still have those dreams.
IX.
Assumptions are for the reckless, but here, I suppose one is needed. It is rather valid to assume that everyone searches for his/her niche in the world, and there are only varying degrees of success.
I, too, am on this timeless and epic quest to find not even a home but simply a state of mind, a shelter to which I may run in dire situations. Expect that his journey will require a lifetime. Bumps and obstacles head.
The safest place, I am beginning to find, is within my mind. Nothing outside of my mental parameters is lasting or eternal. All will waste away. So long as I retain that spirit, that spirit which separates the species Homo sapiens from other creatures, my own being and my own consciousness will provide the sanctuary I seek.
X.
Youth. What a volatile time, as all who have lived to their adult lives can attest to. What other time in my life will I be granted so many opportunities, which are then doubled or tripled under the conditions of a free society? Science and firsthand experience tells us that you learn best as a young child, free and impressionable. The children of youth are not bound to anything; they are as selfless as air.
As your progresses, so much is lost: the joy the fun, the initial amazement of seeing and learning something new. Youth is not merely an unlined face, large round eyes, and denim jeans. Youth is the chance to really and quite literally seize the day, to mold it into our own.
One is forced to wonder how dull a youth-less world would be. My own youth is passing away, my ball of clay is beginning to harden, the ink of my news press is starting to dry. How can I stop it?
XI.
To say that I am completely and utterly optimistic and quixotic about the direction of my life would be a plain-faced lie. There are days when my dream and hopes could hardly seem more irrelevant and wasteful. There are days when I would bury my head in a pillow rather than face the world, burying and burying until I found myself curled up in the center of the earth.
I am a perfectionist. Such an attitude is more often than not accompanied by a strong dose of pessimism.
I am also a cynic. Does a view like that pervert whatever innocence exists, or does a view like that guard me from becoming too idealistic, as youth is inclined to be? My cynicism leads me to have little faith in those I know I cannot trust. My cynicism is, in many ways, my independence.
XII.
“Forgive and forget” may be the best and least stressful way to live life; it is not how I live mine. Without thinking, I can name at least a few events that I will never forgive or forget.
Those I feel I can personally justify. They hurt me in irreparable ways. Yet as recent as a few years ago, I would find myself bubbling over in unexplainable rage over the minutest of details or problems. What more, I would not forget them until at least a few days had run their course.
Not allowing small disruptions in my life to distort my perspective has been an ongoing war. From where I stand - neither at the top of the mountain nor moping at its base - I see the progress that has been made. I must have learned, then, that life really does go on, whether we are ready for it to do so or not. It is our conscious choice to remain pouting.
XIII.
It always irks me a little bit when people around me complain about the rain. How frizzing their hair becomes. How soaked their books and clothes are. The rain, for me, has always been a time of solemn contemplation.
Close your eyes now and feel darkness envelop you. It is nighttime after a blistering summer’s day: the owls hoot into the air, the wind whispers through the grass, a trickle of rain falls on your roof pitter-patter as it slides and flows through the gutter, carving a stream where the July dust has gathered. Throw open the window and lean your head outside. Let the rain wash away everything, let it leave you blank, let nature baptize you so that you are born again to find your surroundings fresh and beautiful, touched by the rain.
But the rain pelts you until a brand of chilled ice is seared upon your skin. Forks of lightening illuminate the sleeping houses, the dormant children. Pull back, shivering.
The rain is such a paradoxical thing, nourishing as it kills, breathing as it suffocates. That is why I love it so, because I, being human in every possible way, am a paradox too.
XIV.
While my other fellow citizens seem to be born with a sense of what it is to be from the United States, patriotism and nationalism - in the American sense - have been difficult lessons for me to learn. I am an American citizen by birth; however, accepting this country as my home (whether it will be a permanent or temporary one remains to be seen) has been painstaking.
In many ways, I am hardly American. I do hold Canadian citizenship alongside my American one. I cannot hide from my Chinese heritage and culture, nor do I want to. My historical passion does not lie in the Boston Tea Party or the Missouri Compromise but with the balance-of-power politics that defined European history. I am also very critical of my country’s actions, but again, I am critical and skeptical about nearly everything.
Karl Marx, that philosophical great, might have been able to remove nationalism from the picture of his communist theory but I cannot ever forget that I was born here. I wonder, though, how many American citizens by birth truly appreciate what it means to be an American and to live by her ideals? I find it truly ironic that those who would wave the Stars and Stripes without hesitation are those who do not vote, or that those who cry while singing “The Star-Spangled Banner” at football games do not know what rights the First Amendment enshrines.
I have had to fight for my patriotism and my right to be an American, to chew through everything that I already am to find the American within. For me, this earned sense of American pride makes me realize how serendipitous I am to live here and to be a part of this great experiment in modern history.
XV.
When I began middle school, I started collecting a few words of the wise for my own musings. One of the first ones I copied down was one of Mahatma Gandhi’s: “Be the change you want to see in the world.” From the very youngest of ages, I have been told repeatedly that I ought to stand up for my beliefs, that, to paraphrase Eleanor Roosevelt, no one can make me feel inferior without my consent. This message is powerful and has inspired some of the greatest reformers in history, but its words never meant much to me until I matured enough to understand them not just as a call to individual courage but to change.
Those who have stood passively by and accepted situations have never made a mark on the course of human history and memory. Those who have the conviction and the fire of belief have changed the world. Jefferson. Napoleon. Gorbachev. Such figures are my heroes because they dared to act in the face of the expected and the status quo, because they dared to be revolutionary.
What would I be if I were not myself? What would I be if I were not determined to better the world in some sense? What would I be if I were not revolutionary?
--
jessica_v_darcy, I'll send you a letter once I get my sekrit fic for you written. *laughs* You're going to love it. ;)
Oh, and thewhiteprophet's anon-hate meme? I have but one statement: if you truly hate [insert name here], at least have the fucking balls to say it to that person's face. Be an idiot, but don't be such a bloody coward.
Signing off, V.M. Bell
Author: V.M. Bell
Summary: Just me, talking about me, my life, my thoughts, through fifteen vignettes for fifteen years of existence.
Rating: G
Pairings: absolutely none - dude, it's my life you're talking about!
Word Count: 2,626
Author's Notes: This was originally written for an English assignment from this past year, and I was rather bored and tired, this Fourth of July, so I decided to type it up and post it. There's not a single contraction in this - it was supposed to be "formal writing," after all - and, no, I'm not afraid to wax dramatic, romantic, or poetic at any time, thanks. :) I also remember there was a write-what-you-know meme going around earlier in the year, so I shall say that this is a belated answer to that.
This is me at basically what is my most personal, so go forth and read! Feedback would be lovely.
--
I.
So here we are. The journey begins. Search through the layers that have accumulated from the years, the dust and the shadows, the trappings above. Dig far and dig deep. There is much to tear away, these superficial things. But in the end we’ll find it. Because it’s there. It is always there.
Homeland. Motherland. Heritage. My nation true and free. Call it what you want, but it is the essence of me, of Malin. Every building has a foundation - strong, sturdy, and unfailingly trustworthy. People, I suspect, are much the same. The winds may howl, the rain may pour, the beams and roof pulled away, but the foundation is still there. The foundation is always there. You may not like it, you may feel disenfranchised or alienated, but the foundation is always there. There is no running away from it. When all else is stripped and gone, your foundations bears its proud standard.
Zhong guo shi wo de gu xiang.
China is my homeland.
II.
It’s difficult, isn’t it, to find that place called home? The fireplace hearth. The open arms of family. Born in Massachusetts but brought up in Canada, from China but an American by birth, how do I pinpoint that elusive place known as “home”? Is it a geographical location? Is it a mindset? Or does it not exist at all, and my life is no more than in limbo? Is there and will there ever be a place to call my own?
Through my lack of a home I find that I am incredibly adaptable. I love the countryside, picturesque in views, quiet and contemplative. I love the city, forever bustling and alive, simmering and vivid. Which one is me? I cannot say.
III.
You are special. Whether true or not, it is what is drilled into our heads from our very first step into life. You are special. You are you, and don’t you ever forget that. In a world of six billion people, there is no one else like you.
My name has always presented a problem. Malin. It’s a “western” spelling of my Chinese name yet it is neither Chinese nor western. Too many minced its delicate Oriental intonations with grating English. Some find it amusing. I had always wondered if it was possible to be too unique. I am hardly like anyone else in any culture. Reserved, pensive, logical, I am independent and autonomous. Opinioned, passionate, emotional, I am fiery and outspoken.
Regardless of what I am, I am not a conformist. I may or may not be special, but I am different.
IV.
Music is really such a difficult thing to appreciate. But to make it, to feel your fingers push and cut through the notes, to hear the notes and chords and cadences and arpeggios emanate from those same and very fingers - that is music. That music is very difficult to appreciate.
When music can crawl its way into your soul until your soul is wholly consumed, when your heart can be shattered with one note until that notes resounds and echoes in you - that is music. That music is also very difficult to appreciate.
Granted, it comes with age, this appreciation for music. My piano training began at the age of four buy only a few years ago did I fully realize the magic behind each song, each phrase, each measure, and each key. To hear that magic at last is the greatest appreciation of all.
V.
I cling to memory. I cling to the past. In it, there is such a store of knowledge and lessons, warnings for the future, but more than that, I find my imagination. Memories are only memories. Our interpretations of them change but they do not. That is why I find history so fascinating.
The past, however, can skew our perspective. Shall I be so absorbed in history that I forget to live in the present? Shall I never forget anything, even when holding onto it is a stake and a nail in my heart? Shall I forget to live altogether, history perched critically on my shoulder at all times?
VI.
There are certain experiences that change a person’s life. Whether it is brushing past someone in the elevator, a hushed bedside story, or a trinket from an ancestor long deceased, they impact us in ways that we cannot fully discern, only sensing that there has been a change, one that is subtle - perhaps not noticeable to others, but it wraps its warm tentacles around you to make it noticeable to you. And you notice it.
The hardest lesson of life to learn and accept is that the world and the heavens do not exist for the sole purpose of making you happy and, ultimately, you are just one more sentient being to inhabit the earth. Logistics aside, there is no difference between George W. Bush and the cashier at Seven Eleven, nor any between Bill Gates and the city street sweeper. We are man, we are woman, we are human. Our circumstances shape who we are, but from person to person, what we are is the same.
My experience set me on this path, this path of understanding who I was and my place - my destiny, if you will pardon the cliché - in our ever changing and mercurial world. The details of it are unimportant. But my experience was my first glimpse beyond the surface and the superficial.
I am fully aware that my experience is now fading from reach and that I shall never return to it again. As much as I will rue its passing, its meaning will always ring clear.
VII.
We were never meant to know the purpose behind humanity and, therefore, we are held in continuous wonder. It’s like perfectionism. So one may strive to complete everything faultlessly, perfection is nevertheless not a destination but a direction. One may be awfully close to it but, all in all, it is unattainable. In mathematical terms, then, perfection is an asymptote. The rational behind life works in the same way. It tantalizes those who are brave enough to chase it. As soon as they leap and grasp for it, it dances only higher.
Anything is possible - except for this, the secret of humanity. No one can know it because it assures that we shall always dream and imagine - in short, make contact with our irrational and freewheeling selves.
Falling into a paradigm, a pattern, is the greatest felony on can commit against humanity. When the wonder, the spark which we call “spirit” or “being,” disappears from a life, that life is better discarded. No existence is better than an existence whose sole meaning is to live our a routine unto death.
VIII.
I am many things in life. A sister. A daughter. A feminist. A politician. An activist. A dream. A seeker (of answers). But also an artist. A bohemian at heart. A writer.
I write, and I write constantly. I know I am not the strongest, nor the fastest, nor the wittiest or the smartest. I am rarely fully confident of anything I undertake. I know, though, that my inner strength flows through my words. I know that Caesar conquered Rome with a sword; his conquest would have been for naught without the pen to support it. Words make the intangible more human and full, permanent accounts of what it means to live, to hurt, to love, to die.
I dreamt of publishing once: a grand novel of incomparable prose and plotting, all but dominating the literary scene. I wanted to tell and, more, show the world this was my contribution to make. That I would not be forgotten. That I would live beyond my earthly life.
I am not nearly as idealistic anymore. But I still have those dreams.
IX.
Assumptions are for the reckless, but here, I suppose one is needed. It is rather valid to assume that everyone searches for his/her niche in the world, and there are only varying degrees of success.
I, too, am on this timeless and epic quest to find not even a home but simply a state of mind, a shelter to which I may run in dire situations. Expect that his journey will require a lifetime. Bumps and obstacles head.
The safest place, I am beginning to find, is within my mind. Nothing outside of my mental parameters is lasting or eternal. All will waste away. So long as I retain that spirit, that spirit which separates the species Homo sapiens from other creatures, my own being and my own consciousness will provide the sanctuary I seek.
X.
Youth. What a volatile time, as all who have lived to their adult lives can attest to. What other time in my life will I be granted so many opportunities, which are then doubled or tripled under the conditions of a free society? Science and firsthand experience tells us that you learn best as a young child, free and impressionable. The children of youth are not bound to anything; they are as selfless as air.
As your progresses, so much is lost: the joy the fun, the initial amazement of seeing and learning something new. Youth is not merely an unlined face, large round eyes, and denim jeans. Youth is the chance to really and quite literally seize the day, to mold it into our own.
One is forced to wonder how dull a youth-less world would be. My own youth is passing away, my ball of clay is beginning to harden, the ink of my news press is starting to dry. How can I stop it?
XI.
To say that I am completely and utterly optimistic and quixotic about the direction of my life would be a plain-faced lie. There are days when my dream and hopes could hardly seem more irrelevant and wasteful. There are days when I would bury my head in a pillow rather than face the world, burying and burying until I found myself curled up in the center of the earth.
I am a perfectionist. Such an attitude is more often than not accompanied by a strong dose of pessimism.
I am also a cynic. Does a view like that pervert whatever innocence exists, or does a view like that guard me from becoming too idealistic, as youth is inclined to be? My cynicism leads me to have little faith in those I know I cannot trust. My cynicism is, in many ways, my independence.
XII.
“Forgive and forget” may be the best and least stressful way to live life; it is not how I live mine. Without thinking, I can name at least a few events that I will never forgive or forget.
Those I feel I can personally justify. They hurt me in irreparable ways. Yet as recent as a few years ago, I would find myself bubbling over in unexplainable rage over the minutest of details or problems. What more, I would not forget them until at least a few days had run their course.
Not allowing small disruptions in my life to distort my perspective has been an ongoing war. From where I stand - neither at the top of the mountain nor moping at its base - I see the progress that has been made. I must have learned, then, that life really does go on, whether we are ready for it to do so or not. It is our conscious choice to remain pouting.
XIII.
It always irks me a little bit when people around me complain about the rain. How frizzing their hair becomes. How soaked their books and clothes are. The rain, for me, has always been a time of solemn contemplation.
Close your eyes now and feel darkness envelop you. It is nighttime after a blistering summer’s day: the owls hoot into the air, the wind whispers through the grass, a trickle of rain falls on your roof pitter-patter as it slides and flows through the gutter, carving a stream where the July dust has gathered. Throw open the window and lean your head outside. Let the rain wash away everything, let it leave you blank, let nature baptize you so that you are born again to find your surroundings fresh and beautiful, touched by the rain.
But the rain pelts you until a brand of chilled ice is seared upon your skin. Forks of lightening illuminate the sleeping houses, the dormant children. Pull back, shivering.
The rain is such a paradoxical thing, nourishing as it kills, breathing as it suffocates. That is why I love it so, because I, being human in every possible way, am a paradox too.
XIV.
While my other fellow citizens seem to be born with a sense of what it is to be from the United States, patriotism and nationalism - in the American sense - have been difficult lessons for me to learn. I am an American citizen by birth; however, accepting this country as my home (whether it will be a permanent or temporary one remains to be seen) has been painstaking.
In many ways, I am hardly American. I do hold Canadian citizenship alongside my American one. I cannot hide from my Chinese heritage and culture, nor do I want to. My historical passion does not lie in the Boston Tea Party or the Missouri Compromise but with the balance-of-power politics that defined European history. I am also very critical of my country’s actions, but again, I am critical and skeptical about nearly everything.
Karl Marx, that philosophical great, might have been able to remove nationalism from the picture of his communist theory but I cannot ever forget that I was born here. I wonder, though, how many American citizens by birth truly appreciate what it means to be an American and to live by her ideals? I find it truly ironic that those who would wave the Stars and Stripes without hesitation are those who do not vote, or that those who cry while singing “The Star-Spangled Banner” at football games do not know what rights the First Amendment enshrines.
I have had to fight for my patriotism and my right to be an American, to chew through everything that I already am to find the American within. For me, this earned sense of American pride makes me realize how serendipitous I am to live here and to be a part of this great experiment in modern history.
XV.
When I began middle school, I started collecting a few words of the wise for my own musings. One of the first ones I copied down was one of Mahatma Gandhi’s: “Be the change you want to see in the world.” From the very youngest of ages, I have been told repeatedly that I ought to stand up for my beliefs, that, to paraphrase Eleanor Roosevelt, no one can make me feel inferior without my consent. This message is powerful and has inspired some of the greatest reformers in history, but its words never meant much to me until I matured enough to understand them not just as a call to individual courage but to change.
Those who have stood passively by and accepted situations have never made a mark on the course of human history and memory. Those who have the conviction and the fire of belief have changed the world. Jefferson. Napoleon. Gorbachev. Such figures are my heroes because they dared to act in the face of the expected and the status quo, because they dared to be revolutionary.
What would I be if I were not myself? What would I be if I were not determined to better the world in some sense? What would I be if I were not revolutionary?
--
jessica_v_darcy, I'll send you a letter once I get my sekrit fic for you written. *laughs* You're going to love it. ;)
Oh, and thewhiteprophet's anon-hate meme? I have but one statement: if you truly hate [insert name here], at least have the fucking balls to say it to that person's face. Be an idiot, but don't be such a bloody coward.
Signing off, V.M. Bell