Relativity & Definity: Like Oil to Water?

Doesn’t it seem like the world is against you when you rush to the train terminal and the doors JUST closed? The time board shows a slow countdown of seconds, one by one, to the deadline of the train’s departure…but couldn’t the train just wait for just one more second? And the world seems to have the timing just right when you are in the mood to eat popcorn at your next movie screening, but for some odd reason the machine is “broken” today…How about all of those times when you were on the brink of an A- with an 89.5 but the teacher wouldn’t round up? When you arrived late to work by just ONE minute…but it was the third time this week?

Relativity or not? When I eat out with  a friend but I don’t have enough change and she covers for me, even though I will pay her back later..and when I do, I’m a couple of cents short. My personal philosophy on this matter is simply that it all smooths out at the end.

For all of those moments in which definity is called upon, relativity scoops-in a place for itself. I wonder how it is possible to measure time, money, and all other definite things–when, on so many occassions, it is hard to formulaically carve out the right portions. Are there really 100 calories in every 100-calorie pack oreo snack? And, every time there is breaking news, doesn’t the network have to re-assign the stories it had planned to air? How much of uncertainty can we predict? And how does it feel to expect uncertainty, to measure it, and realize that it occurred without you knowing? Albert Einstein once said, “Put your hand on a hot stove for a minute, and it seems like an hour. Sit with a pretty girl for an hour, and it seems like a minute. That’s relativity.”

Relativity in art occurs just as equally as relativity in science, despite the fact that scientific endeavors require precision. Are there not intervals in which polls decide PLUS or MINUS the standard deviation? Are there not endless solutions to calculus equations involving ∞?  Therefore, could it not be argued that a certain “pinch” of relativity is required in the formula of definity?

It is my impression that we are in a constant struggle to acheive every grain of measurement SO precisely so that the hourglass of definity is the same, after every twist up-side down and down-side up, each passing of sand reflects the same hour as the last. But what happens when our attachment to definity becomes dependency? If we are relying on the definite hourglass to say as it should, are we not permitting the allowance of relativity? Why has it become so unacceptable to have an extra grain of sand? Will we not need that extra grain..in case one of the others gets stuck within the crease of the wood?

Dear Death, Please Knock Before Entering.

Day after day you wake up. You mindlessly follow the daily routine of brushing your teeth and washing your face. Yeah- life tells you to stop and look at the roses, but even when you do, it can only be for a few seconds. What’s the point in even taking the time out of your day to “appreciate” these wonders of nature and wonders of life if you can’t ever seem to find time to pay respects to them? To acknowledge that lives, other than your own, occur daily around you–from the bees making honey to the skies shifting winds.

In our culture of hustle-bustle-ism, it becomes second nature to simply overlook the scenery…I get it. And in no way do I ask you to stop what you are doing just so that you appreciate the birds humming around you. Quite the contrary- I wish you and I became more aware of the unconscious, repetitive daily routines that we so mindlessly execute. Because it is these mindless executions–I think–are what entrap us in a cycle of repetition. We choose to exclude variety in our lives. We choose to do the same thing over and over again, because we never realize that we might die some time. And if we realized that death were ever so close to us, we may behave differently.

Case in point: On our way to school or work, we grab our wallet and keys. Did you ever look at your wallet and notice the expiration date? I did. You know what I thought? If I knew I was going to die a week from now, would I have to let the DMV know? How often do we get so close to death that our minds–the only thoughts preoccupying our minds–revolve around death?

Case in point: We drive the car and instinctively turn on the radio. I saw an ad for AT&T about losing a precious moment. If I once sat in a car and listened to the radio right away, I could have missed the sounds of a fire horn coming nearer to me within milliseconds. Or I could have been busy flipping a radio channel instead of rolling down the windows and simply listening to the sounds of the city–the people walking and the cars flowing.

Case in point: We grab a bag of chips before sitting down to watch tv. If I had a penny for every chip I ate in front of a screen, I think I would be the next Warren Buffet. But in reality, if I get a chunk of cholesterol for every chip I eat, I get heart disease. So if I knew that the next bag of chips I opened would lead to heart disease, would I do it?

Basically, we live in a world where it is impossible to carpe diem “seize the moment”. But what happens when we stop realizing there are moments to be seized? For example, after routinistic patterns of eating unhealthy foods, people become obese. A recent Jamie Oliver discovery on the Oprah show proved one point: when an obese person dies, do you know how the funeral goes? First, they must get an extra-extra large casket that is double the size of a normal one. In carrying the casket (which can only fit through some double doors), the family is not able to give the body any dignity. Even while dead, the person is being humiliated. Ever seen the film What’s Eating Gilbert Grape? It’s about a mom who was so morbidly obese that she quit going outside in years, and eventually died on her bed. So does anyone ever think about the specifics of dying? Will we, too, lead our bodies to become machines and then die mindlessly?

Death comes suddenly, too, and can wipe out en masse–it has done so in the recent tragedies of Haiti and Pakistan. Does anyone ever look at the clouds, day by day, and think: one day it is these very clouds that might strike me?

If death can so easily invite itself to our lives, then what–exactly–defines or proves our existence? Do we prove that we exist by driving all day, getting stuck in traffic, and going home then watching tv? Or do we prove our existence by planting seed after seed and sowing the crops? How do we define ourselves when it comes time to place a tombstone over our dead bodies? “Amelia Noor- mother, wife, and daughter?” Is that a definition?

Life is an endless acre of corn fields. Each row represents a week, and each stalk is a day, and each kernel a minute. When you drive past the corn fields, they all look the same. Each one is a repetition of the last. There are a few rotten stalks, and several dead kernels. But when you drive past so fast, it’s hard to focus on them, hard to notice them, because all the life surrounds them and engulfs them. You keep driving and driving past the acres of corn fields, but you never think–could the next acre be the last one I drive past?

Real, 100% Fake Juicy Reality

That’s real deceiving. Real, deceiving- what an oxymoron, no? In fact, it is an oxymoron that Americans face everyday. The distinction between what is fake and what is real has eroded in our lives, and we are deceived by notions of a seeming reality.

Tunnel vision- that’s what I call it. That black zone, almost like the introduction part of a Star Wars movie. There’s a zoom-in and zoom-out button on your brain like a cone on a dog’s neck preventing it from viewing any peripheral movements.

So, of course, this begs the question: Do we see what we want to see, or do we see what is really happening?

Wouldn’t that be a nice question to pose to the media.

But, on a more relevant tangent, I would like to question America’s food system. How do I explain to a child that our world has deteriorated SO much, to the point th

at we must feel it is a treat to have a100% real fruit smoothie? To explain to our next generation that Monsanto soy beans have taken over nearly 96-97% of all American crops, that they are genetically modified beans (in other words, 100% fake), and that the worst part is: there is most likely a soy ingredient in any food product on the shelf of a grocery store? Maybe I should start a Facebook group- “When I was your age, we had REAL soy beans!” Even plutonian soybeans would taste more authentic- Ha!

Food, Inc is the documentary I recently watched that spurred these thoughts. Although I had already been aware of the “modifications” and hormones in food, it was a rude awakening to learn that, in all of America, there are only 13 slaughterhouses. That means, if you are buying meat at the local supermarket, chances are that the beef patty on your next burger contains a mixture of shredded beef from thousands of different cows mushed together in a single 3-inch diameter patty. News flash: some of the cows had E. coli, but were never treated. News flash: each burger has an “ammonia” filling that is supposed to wipe out all the E. coli. News flash: YOU DON’T KNOW WHERE YOUR FOOD IS COMING FROM, NOR WHERE YOUR FOOD HAS BEEN.

I have ceased eating red meat for about five months now, with the exception of a bite of kebob here and there. (Just a bite, I swear!) It is refreshing to know that I have not partaken in the deception of humanity by the industry. However, there is no escape.

Vegetables: ripened by ethylene gas in trucks, while on their way from one end of the world where they are in season, to the other end, where they are not in season.
Chicken: now have larger breasts, with half the time it takes to reach full maturity.

Fruits: planted by seeds that have patents on genetically modified formulas.
Fish: incresingly being fed corn instead of seaweed or algae that naturally occurs in nature.
Again, what am I seeing? Am I really cooking spaghetti and meatballs or is it simply the notion of spaghetti and meatballs, with artificial tastes and thus artificial pleasures? Do I even know what it’s like to feel real? To wake up due to the sun rising instead of an alarm buzzing? To drink water running in a stream instead of through the tap? To admit myself into the hospital of reality, get checked in at the front desk of dystopia, and then hand myself to a doctor for a cure?

I had afterthoughts on such questionings of reality not only after learning about the food we eat but also after having watched Inception. Although the entire premise of the film is to question the distinctions between reality and fantasy, the specific aspect of “planting the seed of an idea” into a person’s mind–Inception–is what occurred to me while watching it. By simply paying $10.50 for any movie I have ever seen in my life, I have let someone else plant an idea in my head that I cannot ever own copyrights to. Who even thought of the idea of copyrights? Why are the seeds of ideas labeled? Next time I go to Lowe’s, I would like to enter the Garden Center and purchase two varieties of Suburbia seeds, one packet of instant farm fertilizer, and ten gallons of synthetic water!

In addition to this seeming “socialization” of thoughts and realities, I find it increasingly hard to be able to explain what a real world was like back then if I ever have a chance to explain it to my children. Once upon a time, we used to have playgrounds instead of Virtual World of Fitness, version 3.0 Limited Edition. We used to be afraid of contracting skin cancer from bathing in the sun too long. We used to hate eating vegetables raw- when carrot dip, broccoli and cheese, and cool whip were inventions of the future. We used to live longer, and with fewer diseases. And the best part–we never had the attitude that if there was something wrong with us, we could pop the pill that would fix it later on.

Our facade is so eminent, that even our own mirrors deceive us. We see what we want, not what is real. We become avatars in a widely web-dominated world. When all of our information will be stored in hard drives, who will discover our communications when we are wiped out? As Albert Einstein once said, the third world war will be fought by sticks and stones. I am afraid that the world I know as it is is disintegrating before my eyes, but at the same time, I am in my own preferred alternate reality.

And so are you.

Universally Speaking

I have this theory. This theory is that the universe requires of certain masses to be at certain locations at certain times. For example, the universe requires death in order to bring life. Or one flower to bloom in order for a bee to pollinate. Or perhaps one person to miss the train on a day that a train wreck occurs. Right place, right time. And this was one of those moments.

I could sing of your love forever…Lord. I could sing of your love,  f o r e v e r. . .

Even though I heard these words a week ago, it took a while for my inspiration to truly seep in and marinate my heart. I heard these words on a sunny Sunday morning around 10 30 am, with a live band in front of me and a makeshift choir behind me. I was in the center of a mass, but since that usually connotates Catholicism, I would like to clarify and state that I was in the center of a Presbyterian church gathering on a sunny Sunday morning just seven days ago. What I learned then, I will always remember.

The pastor told a story. It was about a lesson he learned from a faucet, termites, and ants. He noticed one day, while about to fall asleep, that the faucet was leaking. Tap, tap, tap the water went…each night.. He noticed it, but chose to ignore it. After a few months, he noticed his water bill spiked a bit. Some other time afterwards, he was cooking in the kitchen when he leaned against a wall and it cracked. He didn’t want to do anything about it. A few weeks later, he noticed termites crawling up and down, eating away his walls and creating a giant hole. ..And lastly, ants were starting to creep around his house.

He decided to go to the hardware store to buy a new knob for the faucet, which took him only an hour to repair. He bought drywall and wood to reconstruct the part of the wall, taking him only one day’s worth of work for the entire wall that the termites ate. And he bought ant repellent for the ants, which took a few minutes, tracking them all back to the single Queen ant who produced them all (by the way, fun fact: for each human, there are one million ants on earth).

What was the lesson, he asked? After all of the damage that accumulated over time, he realized he could have had short, quick, simple solutions and would have saved a lot of money, time, and gross-ness. Why is it so hard to simply hold ourselves accountable? Why don’t we clean up our crumbs? ..I was at the right place at the right time when I heard the pastor tell this story because it inspired me to vacuum at 11 o clock at night today after I dropped crumbs of graham crackers all over the sofa.

Next. It was Saturday night–the night before I was making fantasy plans in my head about going to church one day. I told my roommate to come if she wanted, that I was going to go to church on Sunday. Somehow I started explaining the three Abrahamic faiths to her–Christianity, Judaism, and Islam–and what they all share in common. About how Abraham’s story is universally accepted–God gave him and Sarah the ability to bear children at old age. God tested him. God and Abraham-a story surpassing the confines of scrolls.

Little did I realize that I was yet again at the right place at the right time. The pastor talked about Abraham the very next morning at church. Hello, the universe called. It was asking you to be at the right place at the right time. Thank you, good bye. ?!?!

Okay, now this one tops them all.  It was as if the whispers of all the energies in my head somehow sprinkled dust into the mind of the pastor. When he said, “..and sometimes, God speaks to you. In different ways. Sometimes he speaks to you through a dream, sometimes through other people, or sometimes just by chance.” That was really, really spooky. I can’t believe it. This whole time I was thinking about how the universe finds a way to put you at the right place and right time (Oprah had said it this way before) and yet, the very theory that I thought I had minted, was ejecting out of the mouth of this pastor.

It was the perfect Sunday for me to go to church.

Your Diagnosis: Greed. Source of infection: Materialism

Perhaps the organic vines of hatred spiraled and sprouted as I moved from Orange County to Los Angeles. These vines were implanted by greed, watered with money, and sustained through the culture of materialism. As the hatred absorbed the satisfactory effects of material pleasures, the vines torpedoed out of control. Perhaps the light of reason or the heat of pressure would kill these vines of hatred, perhaps the vines would turn into weeds. Alas none of this has happened and I await the time that I can scoop the dirt from their roots, and transplant them onto soil that breeds immaterial pleasures, unconditional and everlasting happiness.

In speaking of these vines, I refer to materialism and how deeply I feel against it. Perhaps I align with Sayyid Qutb in his hatred for Western notions of materialism winning happiness, but simultaneously, I align with the third richest man in the world, Warren Buffet who still lives in the same $31,000 house he bought in 1958.

Materialism embodies the American spirit of buy now, pay later, and think about it later. Instant gratification sells! Buyer’s remorse exists..

..and Materialism only encompasses the rainbow of brands that so many admire and aspire to own. It is an infectious disease that has taken nations by storm, allowing people to be swept away by price tags and foreign names. What I wonder is: if it doesnt make a difference to a child’s eye, a foreigner’s eye, or a sheltered eye, then why do you make it such a point to be seen? Brands, that is.

If you somehow ended up randomly one day in the middle of the Polynesian islands and you were wearing a Burberry shirt, would they care that you paid $400? Would they even know what the hell Burberry is? Who gives a shit? And if you somehow landed into the depths of the Alaskan natives, would you eat caviar in front of them to indicate that your food is superior, and appropriately corresponds to the high class society you belong to? If you had to sleep on a concrete rooftop for one night in the middle of New York City, on a high rise apartment building, with only one item to wake up to, what would it be? Would it be a necessity or would it be a frivolous, show-off item? Could a child tell the difference between ice cream that spilled on his $200 coach shoes versus $20 payless shoes? If it doesn’t matter to them, it shouldn’t matter to you.

Are we cows? For humans to desire brands, to wear them, to be easily identified? Are we THAT alike–so indistinctive, undistinguishable, that we need to brand ourselves? I’m Hugo Boss and you’re Bebe. Oh wait, you’re Bebe too, so I guess you and I have been branded twice by the same iron. What a dismay.

Are we insecure? For humans to think that they must be defined by subscribing to someone else’s tastes, someone else’s expression of art, someone else’s creation–isn’t that called theft/plagiarism/un- uniqueness?! We are so undefined, that we must wear clothes, buy accessories, and show off these BRANDS so that it is easy to understand us. Easy to categorize us. Easy to see which class we are from. And this is all from the surface. Girl meets girl, understands her surface, and quickly turns away. Split-second eye contact, quick judgments, and the disease has spread into a plague.

So if you didn’t have your Dolce and Gabbana perfume, your Louis Vutton bag, your Armani Exchange pants, who would define you? Are you that plain, that insecure, that colorless, that you need someone else to decide who you are? Someone that you are willing to pay HUNDREDS and HUNDREDS of dollars to, just so that you can wear a name, a brand, and let others judge you? Wow, you must be the most shallow and most fluid person ever. And by fluid, I mean that you are so quickly passing through my fingers that I can’t hold you for a minute to get to know you.

What a shame, no? You’ve been infected by the credit cards, permanently immunized to feed into this consumer culture. You are so brainless that you allow others to make decisions about who you are. You no longer have a real desire to express yourself, you are no different, you are simply a uniform of BRANDS. BRANDS BRANDS BRANDS, that’s all you are. You wear watches, you were purses, you think you are better than everyone else.

And you can only stop this disease if you figure out, within yourself, that the cure is a simple realization of time. Time will test you. Time will erode your beauty, your money, your … life. When you die, and you weren’t born into an Ancient Egyptian civilization, you will be buried with nothing but insects and dirts besides you. Your only expense will be oxygen.

So please tell me: What is it about status that so many of us are seeking to gain? Why must we impress people we don’t like? Buy temporary fixes to long-sustained, permanent problems? Why do we submit to the commercialization of our emotions–buying chocolates for “love”? No wonder our next generation is so confused about the lines separating love and physical infatuation. Why does buying equal happiness?

How far will you go until your greed is finally satisfied?

Exhibit A: Identity on Display

I wish there was a word for this. You know how “bittersweet” captures that perfect mix of sour and sweet? I feel that way, but with emotions-can’t tell if I am happy or can’t tell if I’m disappointed. So, a little bit of both. I’m happointed.

This morning I discouragingly woke up to the sound of an 8 am alarm which I snoozed for 32 minutes and arrived at my 9 am class wearing my pajamas. What was I wearing? I proudly represented my Al Talib T shirt, but–somehow–not consciously. I wore it as I wore any other pair of pajamas, like they were abandoned canvasses. Marks of makeup, remnants of food, and other histories added to the character-funk of my PJs. But this was a brand new white T shirt that had the term “Al Talib” written in Arabic, translated in English, and then a tagline stating “the muslim newsmagazine at UCLA.” So I walked into my discussion class with not an entirely conscious state of mind; rather, I was not very well aware of my actions.

I hungrily went to grab a smoothie after class ended. At the order counter, I usually state that I would like the “mango smoothie with no sherbert, please.” But sometimes I just feel bad for the order takers and I just ask for a regular smoothie, and then I later clarify it with the smoothie artists that I ONLY want mangos and soymilk. In the past, I’d say, ten times, I have not encountered a problem with it. Except once. A lady denied me once! She flat out rejected my order, shaking her head left and right, with this look on her face that she wouldn’t “cater to anyone’s ‘special’ needs.” That look deeply irritated me. She kept insisting that I change my order, so that I may get a different smoothie that already has soymilk in it. “Get the orange smoothie,” she said. I was mad, and a volcano was brewing inside of me.

As always, its because I kept the frustration to myself. I kept thinking, does this lady have no regard for the benefit of the doubt? Granted, not every situation is worthy of doubt, but did she even entertain the fact?

No.

So I responded to her. I said, “I can’t get the orange smoothie because my stomach cannot handle acid.”

Did she know, that at the tender age of 14 years old, I was diagnosed with GERD (Gastro Esophageal Reflux Disease)? Did she know that I occasionally regurgitate actual vomit? For no reason, other than I have too much acid? If I got an orange smoothie, it would not be the end of the world. But WHY, why, why…why did she have to make life that much harder for me? And for herself?!

I told her, I just want a smoothie with Mangoes and soymilk. That’s it. And I had gotten it so, so many other times before, that I simply could not wrap my finger around why this lady seemed to have a personal vendetta against my order, or me for that matter.

Finally she agreed by saying that she would make it only this one time and that next time I better get the orange smoothie.

What a waste-my whole explanation about my stomach problems did not seem to deem a valid enough reason to get a “special order.” Why not? When food items contain peanuts in them, people go out of their way to make sure there aren’t peanuts. When some recipes have pork or lard remains, the chefs usually accomodate. And even out of simple good nature, why would you reject someone else’s desires–ESPECIALLY in the work force, where professionalism is so highly dignified?

Nevertheless, today, I went in for a mango smoothie again. I observed that today, the smoothie artist was the same lady. I felt like I had already crossed a hurdle with her, so that I would not have to fight this battle again.

Alas, this time, it was war. I hate war. But I asked if she could simply put mangoes and soymilk. Nope. She would not. In fact, she refused to even do it–again. She kept pointing to the juice machine that there was no such thing. So I pointed to where the mangoes were, and said that I just wanted mangoes, and soymilk. But at this point, I was literally begging her.

Nothing worked. She insisted that she would call her boss. I became enraged only because I felt like she was disregarding any thoughtfulness, any morality, any kindness–all for the sake of her pride, so it seemed. It seemed she was too proud to serve my “special order” needs. I even reminded her, again, that I have stomach issues. I even insisted that I had gotten this very same order plenty of times before. But after she kept nodding her head left and right, shutting her eyes in utter disagreement and condescending disapproval, I decided to take matters into my own hands.

“Fine, I will just ask the manager myself.”

I proceeded to the manager. He looked at me as if to observe a statue. Without my conscious realization, I had noticed that he read my shirt. He noticed the Arabic. He knew who I was.

I am Muslim.

I explained the whole ordeal about mangoes and soymilk, my stomach, and that the lady simply refused although I had gotten it many times before. And he just walked with me, almost disregarding anything I had said to him as if he understood the more important things in life, and simply stated, “I will make it for you myself.”

I was instantly humbled.

He went around to the back of the smoothie counter, made it in front of my eyes, and proceeded to converse with me.

“So, you are Muslim….”

He was Muslim, too. From Ethiopia. Held some Ramadan dinners at the campus dining hall. We talked for a minute or two and I was happy. After such a long struggle. I was formerly so disappointed in mankind and its lack of empathy, but everything reversed in such few moments. As he personally handed me the smoothie, he told me that the lady was simply following orders–they are not allowed to deviate from the original smoothie recipes. But he said, of course, accomodations can be made for dietary reasons. He mentioned that by having only mangoes and soymilk, the smoothie doesn’t churn as well, so that was another reason why she did not want to make it (but is that a valid reason, or is it laziness, or is it just pride–that I will not make you a smoothie because that requires more effort than you are worth?) He assertively, but gently, reminded me that the lady was only adhering to the rules and she was not trying to be mean to me. Oh, if only he knew.

In the end, I have some things to say: (a) I had never realized the power of displaying identity so forwardly. Had I not worn my Al Talib shirt, which clearly proclaims my Muslim pride, would I have gotten different treatment? Did I get different treatment because of it? and (b) is wearing a shirt that screams “I am Muslim” have any weight in terms of replacing it with a headscarf? I.e. If I wore a shirt for the rest of my life stating “I am Muslim,” how different would it be than wearing a scarf on my head? and (c)If this difference exists, then why are people so afraid to approach those with headscarves, if t shirts can be equally as threatening or equally as inviting?

and (d) How damn important is it to follow the rules? The lady seemed to be fine in bending the rules the first time. She completely disregarded my dietary explanations the first AND the second time. What made her do it the first time? What was the big deal in doing it again? I mean, it’s just a smoothie, and if she doesn’t follow the rules, she is not gaining or losing anything–no managers were supervising her.

and lastly (e) I am ashamed. After the humbling kindness of the manager, I felt like my Muslim identity had been compromised due to my strong thoughts against the lady. I felt like I was wearing the t shirt–I was walking the walk, but not talking the talk. And usually, it’s the other way around.

She put me in check.

My Crayola Crayon is Granite Gray. And I like to color biiiiiiiig gray areas with it!

There was a moment in my recent memory that really hurt my feelings. I was in a group setting where I, with a bunch of other students, was learning the meaning of integrity. We did a couple of exercises: if you agreed with a statement, you go to this corner of the room; if you disagreed with the statement, you go to that corner of the room. Oh, and let me not forget–if you STRONGLY agreed or if you STRONGLY disagreed, you also go to this or that corner of the room. (By the way, this room only had four corners… in case you were wondering )

Some statements: “If you are driving your car in a school zone when there are no children present, it is okay to go over the 25 mph speed limit.” “If your college is offering a $300 discount to a study abroad trip for current students only, and you just graduated two months ago, it is okay to take it.”

After we all nomadically moved to different corners of the room in agreements and disagreements to these statements, we had a debrief. Here’s the part that hurt my feelings:

The proctor asked, “So after this exercise, do you feel that there is a gray area in integrity?”

And I rose my hand and said, “Yes, a huge one.”

As usual. Naively expressing my opinion without a care for what the consequences would be. Even if it meant that everyone in that room was judging me.

And here is what she replied: “Oh really, a huge one?”

And I said, “Yeah, I do not think everything in this world is black and white. For example, pretend that I’m a student who is going to study abroad in order to teach English to underprivileged kids. Not only that, I obviously have a deep financial situation that necessitates aid. Does that mean that I shouldn’t take advantage of the $300 discount, simply because I graduated two months ago?”

The proctor simply replied, “But you already graduated.”

The room was pin-drop silent and I felt my thoughts scrambling out loud like a twister, about to plague the room, without even being spoken out loud. I was so hurt that someone could imply that I do not have integrity. That I would dishonestly take advantage of a $300 discount.

I tried again.

“But I am different from a student who, say perhaps, is studying abroad recreationally and going to a country just for the sake of it and just to be a tourist in a foreign nation. In fact, I am doing good by teaching underprivileged kids how to speak English.”

She was cold this time.

“You already graduated.”

I felt like I was personally attacked. There is no justice. Why would I exploit someone else of a discount? Are we not all worthy of that discount? Oh wait, we are only worthy if we are currently students–not graduated students, but currently students. So, that means, even though in real life we are all able to receive the discount, the simple fact that there is an expiration date on it disqualifies us.

I felt dishonest.

I am not a dishonest person.

That moment urged me to really seek out the gray areas that I battle with constantly. In my every day life, I encounter so many gray areas. So do you. Gray areas come in so many different forms, in so many different ways, directions, shapes, what have you. I mean–the fact that the room had sections of “STRONG” disagreements/”STRONG” agreements implied that there are varying shades of the “gray area.”

But before I move on, I want to state: be wary of the day that you see this world in simply black and white. This will be the end of your sanity and the end of your justice.

Why? Because the gray crayon is in your hand. You decide how much of a gray area there is, whether there is one at all, and if there is–then how big or how small it should be.

When we think of gray areas, this is what we do with them to make ourselves feel better:

1. We qualify them.
2. We justify them.
3. We embellish them.

But my concern is not that we have the wrong gray areas. Or that we are shading them in too big. Or too small. My concern is twofold: (1) that we have become so caught up with how big or small the gray area is that we can occupy entire conversations talking about how the gray area should be smaller or should be bigger; and (2) we actually accept the gray areas by doing the above mentioned things, and therefore have a total disregard to the fact that these gray areas can, at times, be potentially dangerous (especially when matters of morality are considered.)

So, aside from all of this, then, I would like to propose a completely new spin on gray areas: The next time you try to think about Robin Hood and whether it is wrong to steal from the rich to give to the poor, whether it is wrong to steal in general, and whether blah blah blah blah blah.. I would like you to ask yourself:

WHICH of these gray areas really matters? Some situations are life or death, some aren’t.

But think of this: I have a friend who works at Taco Bell. And she has the ability to give me a discount on my food, since I am an acquaintence of hers and she would not mind punching in a few buttons for me. Am I doing the wrong thing by taking the discount–even considering the fact that this discount is not available to everyone else? That my friend is not friends with everyone else? Is it unfair that I am taking advantage of this discount when others do not even have it available to them? How unfair, right?!

Ah-hah! So…brings me back to the question…won’t you pleeeeeeeeeeease let me use the $300 discount to study abroad? Por favor?!