eight hours of this life

The following is presumably an eight-hour account of a day’s worth of moments, previously written for my social research class in order to analyze one’s social susceptibilities and impartiality, which I experienced on the twenty-fourth day of January in the calendar year two thousand and seven, which may be ultimately be different from other day to day experiences. I would like to interject at this point that my life in its current state is a relatively simple one, requiring only a minimal amount of actual cognition in order to function. There may be lapses of time and space as memory often eludes me during seemingly idle time, thus this account may actually contain more or less than eight actual hours worth of material due to space limitations and time constraints.

The morning alarm buzzes, that loud annoying blare which beckons me from my slumber—which has only been short-lived due to my late-night adventures in reading a comic book purchased the previous day promoting a life more meaningful. Eyes groggy, I look over and decide that it would be better to resume sleep for two more hours instead of attending the day’s first class. It is not only a lack of motivation which aids in this decision, but also the opinion that sleep is more preferable than being subjected to material already previously learned in another course two years prior, only this time being taught with the limited understanding of the underdeveloped commoner in mind.

Striving to fall back asleep, the alarm clock makes its announcement again some time thereafter. The world is all smiles this morning; I predict that today may just be a good one. After a hearty breakfast of a frozen delicacy reheated in the microwave, and making the sandwich which I will bring along for lunch in order to cut costs, therefore accelerating the accumulation of savings for future travel expenditures, the bus stop down the street awaits me. Standing in the cold with the hope that it will not rain, I notice an aged bearded African American man dressed in military clothing parched by time walking with a slight limp across the street. It seems that not only have I noticed him in his daily habits, but also I have been noticed as a possible source of information concerning public buses which may aid in transporting him to his destination in Snook. I mistakenly inform the man, possibly aged beyond his years by societal neglect, that the buses only go one-way on this street. Not entirely knowledgeable on the subject himself, yet having previously taken a bus to Snook from this location once before, the man decides to wait patiently at the bus stop to ask the next bus of its destinations. Minutes later, my assumption is proved to be incorrect as a bus with a purple marker passes on the other side of the street. Noticing the passing bus, the man makes his way down the street with hopes of catching the next one.

When the doors of the bus to campus open up where I have been waiting for some time, I take notice that I have never before seen today’s driver, who is an African American male student wearing a head covering closely resembling the sort children wore in years prior, with the fuzzy colored spherical collection of threads atop included. Taking a seat in silence aboard this heated refuge wherein the usual variety of hip hop radio music is playing overhead, I ponder if this new driver is in fact one more akin to the upbeat Caucasian influence, or one who is quick to react due to his ethnic and societal upbringing. Along the way, another student boards the bus—one of Vietnamese ethnicity, who I assume to have figured out by eavesdropping on a conversation about sports days earlier. Arriving at the campus near the library which faces in the eastern direction, the driver makes an extended stop where a plump and upbeat Caucasian female student boards the bus. They seem to be friends as they merrily discuss the dramatic lives of their fellow student bus drivers who host large festivities where alcohol is the beverage of choice. At this point, it seems that the driver, who is the former rather than the latter, will not be operating the bus towards the Memorial Student Center anytime soon. This becomes evident when he announces to the two passengers that a transfer to bus three would be wiser if there is a need for hurry.

Soon after the moment which I thought myself to be in a hurry, the imposing signs stating that it is disrespectful to walk on the grass come into my line of sight. Alas, I realize that I am much too early for my next class, and thus have some time to spend idle in the room where one would assume by its name to find worldly flags. Seating at one of the several tables where there is always an empty seat between two individuals, I power up my dependable portable computer only to be caught off guard by the sudden announcement that the Philippine Student Association in conjunction with the LT Jordan Institute was conducting a cultural rattan performance for any willing viewers. To my equal surprise, approximately twenty individuals not already in the space enter from the hallway to view the performance. Unsurprisingly, the other student seated at my table, dressed as if hunting animals was part of today’s agenda, stands up with a look of annoyance and leaves some time during the performance. Replacing the void left by this student minutes later still during the performance, is a female student who sits down leaving the usual comfortable space between the table’s occupants. When the performance ends, I begin clapping to show my approval—my fellow table companion notices my clapping and chimes in seconds later perhaps to show politeness. After a second performance minutes later, she no longer bothers to clap. At this point, I notice that I recognize one of the Filipino American students performing in the dance. However, I cannot recall his name having met him only once the previous year while volunteering my time at concessions to cook and sell greasy food items to the spectators of a home football game in order to earn a small sum of money for an organizational event which ultimately did not occur. I decide against my better judgment, and remain seated in a state of being preoccupied with the wonders of e-mail, attempts at reading news in Vietnamese, and other forms of contact communication available via the World Wide Web.

In the moments shortly after the performance ends, the table is once again devoid of any other life. I blissfully enjoy this time online, only to be distracted some time later when an older Caucasian man and his younger recently graduated accomplice join the table to discuss with each other business, their distaste of the youths on campus these days, and the other aspects of life which bring them joy. The older man is attempting to establish contact with the network without wires, and employs his young accomplice to inquire how he would go about doing that when they notice that I am surfing the world’s domains on my portable computer. After I provide a brief explanation, the older man appears dismayed that he does not have an account with the university in order to achieve his goals online. In the meantime, his younger self utilizes his cell phone to discuss the marvels of business transactions and to inquire what is for dinner. After some more time passes, the older man expresses his yearning thirst for liquid consumption to which his young accomplice responds that food and drink are not allowed in this room, so the sign outside says. It is here that the older man points out, to his younger accomplice, a student seated on a sofa with a drink sustained within a paper cup. Surprised that this rule has not been enforced, the young accomplice agrees that the older man should be able to drink sodas here if other individuals are allowed to do it in the same space. Since I figure that the amount of idle time I have left is dwindling, I stand up to make an exit leaving behind my two compatriots who are busy in their sly methods of soft drink consumption.

Arriving in the building where my second class of the day is held, I once again notice that I am much too early for class. I take a seat against the hallway wall, and before long one of my fellow classmates appears and says hello before asking about the day’s assigned coursework. Our discussion concludes with him offering me a stick of gum, to which I politely refuse as my lips are already chapped by the winter air. He takes his own place along the wall leaving a comfortable distance between. Moments later, a talkative female classmate appears and plops her notebook onto the floor next to where I am sitting. She enjoys giving me advice on studying for the French language placement exam which I have signed up for, as well as talking about her displeasure of having to work after class and being mistaken for being Hispanic, which she is not in her opinion. When class is about to start, my fellow classmate seated along the wall some distance down asks which room class is to take place in. Both my non-Hispanic classmate and I assure him that it will be in the room next to where I am seated, but he walks down the hall to check the other rooms anyway only to return a brief time later.

In the classroom, I make the proper introductions with three of my fellow students as I do not yet know their names—the two from just before and an Asian American female student seeking to quickly advance out of the class. Imparting my knowledge of the placement test which I had gained the previous week from the non-Hispanic student and the professor teaching French onto her, she becomes enthusiastic at the idea of testing out of the class. Realizing at this point that I have no paper for which to write on, I request a sheet from a classmate. The victor to distribute me the paper is the now enthusiastic student seated next to me.

To address the questions regarding ‘sociological themes,’ I would answer that my entry reflected what occurred accurately as it was viewed through my own lens of perception, though not without a degree of predisposition. Keeping a journal gives one the ability to further analyze events, in which the writer interacts, with greater insight in how the writer/researcher perceives those around him. This in turn may suggest that everyday experience is more subjective rather than the near-impossible attempts at being more objective sociologically. To help reduce the amount of subjectivity, the researcher could learn to become more desensitized towards the happenings of the world—a highly trained mechanical being of sorts. Alternative accounts could have been given in a list-like format with no description of personal thought, or perhaps as a removed party not paying much attention to detail. Consequently, style makes all the difference in level of interpretation. A person observing me might have seen an individual who looks like any other in the sea of students without expression of a particular mood of content or discontent. In addition, predispositions about personalities and ethnic biases might dramatically alter the account.

what's it now

Things are different now that classes have resumed and I have been back here for some time--I've readjusted to a certain degree. The feeling, that I have been feeling, is not what one which would typically be called depression. In fact, I lack the capacity to describe this feeling fully in the words of the everyday common language we as humans have created to give meaning to things.

Around mid-day yesterday, I learned that I was not one the individuals selected by the State Department who be 'lucky' enough to intern in Côte d'Ivoire. Part of their response is as follows: "The Department's intern program is a highly competitive one. Over 6,040 applications were received for Summer 2007 internships. Unfortunately, you were not selected for an internship for this session." So alas, now I am going to seek other summer opportunities abroad. My ideal preference would be to go somewhere within this globe in order to interact with and observe non-traditional cultures typically unknown to the Western world.

lone star greyed: resume = the list of things you have personally done to 'better' peoples' lives
lone star greyed: thats one definition
quyHAC: other people's?
quyHAC: peoples'
lone star greyed: peoples' as in somebody else's
lone star greyed: could be a group of people society views as underprivileged, could be lining the pockets of a corporation and your former boss

depression hits home

In the early hours of morning when sleep is considered standard fare, I am awake. A sense of dread, or downright depression rather, at the prospects of a monotonous life back in the states has hit me. It feels as though the people here haven't changed in so much as I myself feel to have. Discussions with them bring forth the standard lines of thought I have heard before, lowered ambitions not my own, ethnic inequalities, and a greater lust for material culture which I have been away from for such a long time. True, there are many hardships that need changing in this country, but they are not as blatantly apparent on a daily basis as in my previous environment.

In a few days, I will have returned to Houston--to my family and friends in a place called home. Though there is the sense of joy that will undoubtfully come at this reunion, there will be something missing.

Perhaps I am too quick to judge again. There is still time after all.