19 minutes: thoughts & reflections

Monday, August 13, 2007 T: 13 31

Maybe at some point in life, we will come to a point when we’ll question the reason for our existence, found ourselves in a self-identity crisis, and wonder who we are. I heard people talking about being ‘myself’. But I can’t help but wonder who ‘myself’ is. Is my personality a result of the expression of my genetic code, stimulated and changed accordingly to the environments that I have been in? As people, we all want to be popular; we seek the friendships of the more famous people; we want to feel that sense of belonging. After all, ‘teenage life is about fitting in, not standing out.’ And because of this, I’m without doubts that my character is shaped by the different cliques that I have been in. It’s difficult to be different. Because to be different might mean to have the whole world looking at you and start commenting what a freak you are; because being different will cause you to be stared at. And so we change to be assimilated into the social circle, or rather we adapt ourselves to suit the different environment, and unconsciously, that became part of us. I guess I don’t know ‘what color a chameleon was before it started changing’ as well. Is adolescence any easier than adult life? Adults would think not, that nothing could compare to the stress that they are not going, but they fail to realize maybe they have found their own answers to who they are.

Perhaps the question of who we are can be answered by our value of our existence; at least there are people who think this way. Lots of us may have contemplated suicide before. 25% of the kids in Shanghai do. I had too. There is of course a major difference between thinking about it and committing it, but I ponder if I just didn’t do so because I simply have no guts to do it, or I could see that silver lining in the clouds in the midst of darkness. I doubt it’s the latter. Maybe it is religion, that I fear being condemned to eternal isolation. But that don’t answer why people think about it. Maybe we thought we could find out the value of ourselves when we die. We want to know if there are people who will go to our funeral. We want to know how much difference we make. We want to know whether we will be remembered. Of course, there are some who just want to escape from reality. (That being said, there are people who wonder why people would have the courage to jump down the building, and yet could not face the obstacle in front of them. I was one of them, until I realize people fear pain rather than death itself, eternal suffering rather than that short instance of ultimate agony.) I guess what we didn’t know is that all these mundane things don’t matter anymore when we die; that the answers to all the question we seek is not of any value anymore. What we didn’t know is that time has a powerful way of making memories of you fade away so naturally. With time, the one who dies may be nothing more than a name tucked behind in the vast oceans of memories in the minds of many. Society has an eerie way of replacing anyone who has been lost. It’s that easy, that quickly. Sure, we could remember the heroes, the contributors by naming roads and streets after them. But after a while, they are nothing but mere road and street names. LKY, for all his immense and brilliant contribution to our country, is that easily replaced. Soon, he may be remembered for bringing a country from a developing country to a first world nation in 30 years, and people won’t know who he really is. And with time, he will too be forgotten. What people didn’t know is that they would be life after death, a next phase of life that is definitely much longer than the average 70 years we spent on this planet. Peter Houghton in the novel had the boldness to end his life, but what did he achieve in the end?

And if I get to heaven, and I become good, will I be myself then?

I know nuts about parenthood. Hey, I’m just a kid. But that doesn’t stop me from thinking about it all the same. Reading all these books, understanding my teenage self, I tried to imagine what a perfect father and mother ought to be, and the teaching methods they should employ to guide their sons and daughters well, to earn their friendships and respect, and not cause the huge alienation and gap often prevalent in today’s families. But when I come to think of it, there’s not really a textbook way of parenting children, is there? Each individual differ. The environments they are in differ. Their responses, sensitivity and maturity differ. They need their own room to sort things out for themselves, to come up with their own discernment and value system, and yet could not be granted too much room lest they go astray. It’s almost impossible enough to find that difference. There are not really any fixed answers, just like that’s no one solution for a developing country to move on and eradicate poverty. What works for one may not work for another. I guess what parents could do is to do their best and hope for the best.

Lewis and Lacy Houghton must have gone through a huge internal turmoil when they look at their elder son who indulged in drugs, their youngest shot for massacring in his school. The British parents of the terrorists who bombed the subways may be wondering what have gone wrong. They blame themselves, and their lives probably would be filled with self-reproach for the rest of their lives. Somehow, I feel sorry for the parents of murders and serial rapists. It sucks that so many things could go out of our control so easily, that diligence may not bring the desired result. What do they exactly feel? Did they ever foresee such a situation one day? I think I’ll never be able to contemplate the intensity of their sorrow when they are put on the witness stand trying to say something good about their sons or daughters who commit such atrocities. They never saw that coming. After all, ‘when you look into your baby’s eyes, you see everything you hope they can be, not everything you wish they won’t become.’ Maybe that’s when it’s really possible to hate and love a person at the same time. What my pastor mentioned last Sunday really make sense. The antonym of love is not hate. It is indifference.

I mentioned in my previous entry of that doggy unconditional love that humans seem not able to show. It struck me when I was reading the book that a parent’s love is probably something closest to that. A father or mother sees beyond the looks, the IQ, of their sons and daughters.

Kevin told me that he saw a significant number of teenagers reading this book. I think this novel probably relates a lot to adolescence, and a lot could identify with the characters in the story. The questions Picoult asks tags at our heartstrings, and we find ourselves trying to answer them for ourselves. It’s about finding ourselves, about peer pressure. But the question is what do we do after we finish the book? Do we just put aside the novel which we could very well connect to, or do we start examining our own lives, and ask who we truly are? Do we continue to build our happiness and entertainment on the sorrow and pain of others, continue to root our popularity on the ostracization of the weaker ones? Could we dare to break of our comfort zones sometimes?

We are called to stand out in this crazy world, to be sojourners on this short journey. I think we need not bother about finding out who we are when the Bible already tells us. We are called to deny self and embrace others. Do we?