Thank you

I have always thought that Thanksgiving is to holidays as Communism is to government: great in theory, not so successful in reality. A time to celebrate everything that we as a country and as individuals have to be thankful for. But Thanksgiving has been full of contradiction from day one: a feast for the life-saving Indians that we would later massacre and ship to the worst scraps of land that we can salvage. Nowadays it's not quite so dramatic, but still pretty corrupt. A day to be thankful that is dedicated to oversized air balloons, overpaid football players, and overeager early-bird madness. America in its glory. When I was assigned the task of writing about all that I have to be thankful for, I'll admit that I couldn't avoid an inward groan. But as I sat down to do this, I checked my email and notcied an old chain letter I received:

"One day a woman's husband died, and on that clear, cold morning, in the warmth of their bedroom, the wife was struck with the pain of learning that sometimes there isn't 'anymore'. No more hugs, no more special moments to celebrate together, no more phone calls just to chat, no more 'just one minute.' Sometimes, what we care about the most gets all used up and goes away, never to return before we can say good-bye, say "I love you." So while we have it, it is best we love it, care for it, fix it when it is broken and heal it when it is sick...Suppose one morning you never wake up, do all your friends and family know you love them?"

My life is certainly something to be grateful for, and I would like to thank everyone who has shaped it to be what it is.

My family. My mom for always coming down hard on me, for being demanding and pushy and telling me that nothing less than my best is acceptable. For encouraging me, letting me take it out on you sometimes, and telling me I'm a selfish brat when I need to hear it. My dad for telling me when it's ok to break the rules and giving me the independence that drives everyone crazy. For appreciating my humor and being the only one able to stand up to my stubbornness. My brother for taking my side, making me laugh, and sharing the backseat on family vacations.

My friends. The friend who knows me well enough to see the worst side of me and still not hate me-I'll never cease to be amazed by this. Thank you for making me laugh, letting me cry, and knowing whether I need white lies or brutal honesty. And also for letting me return these favors. The friend who never runs out of acceptance and tolerance, for teaching me generosity by splurging on ProductRed items that you hate. The friend who shows me how to lighten up, laugh, and appreciate a moment for what it is. The friend who lets me know it's ok to be girly and frivolous, and the another who will discuss books and politics over coffee. My friend who has shown me more strength than I can even fathom being able to muster. Friends who have betrayed me and taught me what I never want to be. Old friends who hug me like no time has past and new ones who are willing to overlook the fact that I'm practically a stranger.

Teachers who go well beyond the what's covered in textbooks and curriculums. For demanding insight before I could even comprehend the full meaning of the word. The teacher whose class spun my life around within a month of school. For encouraging me, driving me crazy, being repeatedly impressed, and not being afraid to tell me when if it really sucks.

Coworkers, employers, and customers for giving me lessons in the "real world." For teaching me to work hard and remember to smile and say please and thank you no matter what you receive in return. Strangers who run to return the change that I leave on the counter. The lunch lady who greets me with a smile everyday. The overseas family I never met who called long distance months later to say thanks for a simple favor, because it means that much. The old man next to me in church who has holes in his coat but puts more money than me in the collection tray.

All of these people have helped me in more ways then even I am aware of. I'm still weighed down with turkey and potatoes and I can hear my cousins' loud laughter ringing in my ears as the holiday winds down. It's a routine I have been through many times, and I hope that taking a moment to write down the appreciation that goes unvoiced each year will carry on in my personal tradition. So while I have the chance...Thank you.

Self-Inflicted Poverty

While reading Jeanette Walls' memoir The Glass Castle, I found that her description of the poverty her family lived in changed some of my former opinions about people living below the poverty level, or at least made me consider a new perspective. As a strictly liberal person (in case those of you who know me haven't been able to guess!), I surprised even myself when I realized I had little or no sympathy for Rex and Rose Mary Walls. As the memoir developed, I grew increasingly more frustrated and impatient with them, at times nearing the point of downright anger. The attitude and mindset that the couple held pertaining to their poverty was aggravating enough, but when they decided to have children and raise a family in such conditions, I was infuriated. As two able-bodied adults, capable of improving their quality of living at least to the level of being able to put food on the table, I feel they lacked the maturity and the drive to change their situation, if only for the sake of their children. They stuck their noses up at countless opportunities to stabilize their lifestyle and in doing so, inflicted the suffering of their own lazy poverty upon their children.

As I began to do more research on the matter of "chosen" poverty versus inevitable poverty, I obviously found many, many situations in which poverty in not a chosen of self-inflicted lifestyle but an inescapable plague passed down from many different causes, including war, disability, social class, etc. However, I also found an alarming number of circumstances that, to me, implied a negligence on the behalf of the poverty-stricken individual rather than an inability to escape the situation. For example, Mayor Bloomberg has proposed a new welfare plan for NYC in which families will receive monetary rewards for specified tasks that they perform. Attending a parent-teacher conference, for example, will result in a $25 reward, holding a full time job will result in $150 a month, and the list goes on. Why are we giving people an incentive to perform tasks that they can and SHOULD be doing without an additional prize at the end? Shouldn't the motivation stem from the benefits that are gained by doing these things, not by bribery? To me, this welfare plan not only proves the existence of a poverty onset by laziness, but it encourages it. When an outside party is working harder to improve someone's life than the individual themself is, the balance has been offset and something is wrong.

On the flip side of "chosen" poverty, there are those who do nothing to escape their poverty because they are content in the lifestyle they live. They do not ask for "handouts" and even refuse help when it is offered. This is the mindset of many people in India who live below what we in America would consider the poverty level. To us, their lifestyle is completely undesirable and we long to be able to "help" them. The slum of Dharavi inside the capital of Mumbai is a prime example of such a clash in mentalities. One wealthy, westernized Indian man wishes to revamp the entire, huge slum and supposedly improve the lives of the many people who live there. Nearly all citizens of the slum, however, protest such a change and resent the man for attempting to do so. They are proud of their homes and their lives, and do not wish to see the lifestyle they grew up with be completely turned upside down. It is not laziness that provokes them not to change but contentment.

After my exposure to this new side of poverty in both Walls' memoir and in recent articles that correlate to it, I was very surprised to see such a mentality in some individuals. I personally feel that if poverty is to be a choice, it needs to be a personal one that will affect no one else. The moment another friend or family member becomes involved, especially a child, it is time to make sacrifices to ensure that every opportunity is available to them, regardless of your personal choices.

Some very heavy women!

The title The Things They Carried could not more appropriately epitomize the theme of both the tangible and intangible weights and burdens that are placed upon soldiers. I think that one of the most cruelly ironic burdens that permeates throughout the novel and the lives of the soldiers is the burden of hope. It is hope that manages to keep the men struggling through the pains and challenges of their fully transformed daily lives, but it is also the crush and loss of this hope that is ultimate downfall of many men. And quite frequently, this hope is manifested in the women of the story.

Ted Lavender's death, or more specifically the guilt it evokes in Jim Cross, shows us our first glimpse of the glorification of women and the consequential defeat that follows. Cross' obsession and continual daydreams of Martha lead to the careless loss of Lavender. Lavender, whose name alone indicates the "mellow" stupor through which he coasted, stands out amongst the characters as least capable of self-sufficiency, making the death seem only more blame worthy to the reader. Cross accepts full blame, and acknowledges to himself the fact that his fantasies of a woman back home are responsible for such an error. This woman, however, this hope and strand of attachment to reality, is not even the one steady perfection that Cross wishes and needs her to be. Martha is placed upon a pedastal, glorified and worshipped by him, but she is not his girl and possesses no desire to be. It is a desperate and delusional attempt to remain connected to society and humanity, but in the end, it brings not satisfaction but demise.

Kiowa's death also shows the destruction that breeds from a preoccupation with girls, or at least how it is perceived to be so by the soldiers. The young, nameless boy feels responsibility for the death, but still cannot stop from relentlessly digging through the shit field in search of the photo that supposedly provoked the raid. He is searching for a girl who is no longer his, but represents all that he formerly had. It is a withered, feeble hope based not in reality but in wishful fantasy, as the boy digs in hope that "...something might finally be salvaged from all the waste," (173). It is the waste of his life and his future, and a last ditch effort to scrape together some meaning and beauty from pieces of his past that no longer belong to him. Compassion and love are not a soldier's duty, but the terrified boy and his comrades cling to them in fear of losing themselves entirely.

The metamorphosis of Mary Anne articulates this point most clearly. Even Fossie's girl, a binding link to humanity who is at least willing to return his love, turns out to be a false illusion once truly tested. War destroys the one clean and pure element of Fossie's life, and erases any treasured facade that allowed for happy simplicity. The very core of his future, the piece of stability in his life, is a weak mirage that disintegrates in the face of fear and death. He struggles "...to appreciate the full change" and comprehend her "utterly flat and indifferent" eyes and human tongue jewelry (110). His hopes have been dashed and his illusions shattered, leaving him to face the harsh realities of war without the filter of stability and simplicity awaiting him at home.

O'Brien is telling us that emotions, civility, and essentially any qualities that make a person more than a thoughtless soldier are a recipe for destruction when in war. Hope is a bittersweet necessity that keeps the men striving from day to day but spawns distractions that lead to death, or even worse, to crushing dissapointments that produce numbness and a forfeit to the horrors that they are gradually becoming a part of. Women embody all that was previously good for the men, and in their willingness to grasp at thin strands of normalcy, the men are more susceptible to very evil they so desperately wish to avoid.