I'm listening to The Strokes for the first time in a while. Room on Fire, to be specific. I haven't picked up their new album (whatever it's called), though I mean to eventually. As a whole I actually prefer Is This It? (is there a question mark in the title?), but Reptilia is my favorite single song, and I think I would appreciate it more right now.
But yes. It's Sunday night, and I have Statistics homework to do. It's not too bad, really. I just don't feel like doing it. And when I don't feel like doing work, this is the place for me to go. It's been a while, though, I must say. Last semester was kind of weird for me in several, mostly undefinable ways, and some of them must have contributed to my non-blogginess.
This semester should be better. In fact, let me share my class list with you, since that's always fun:
ECON 102: Intermediate Macroeconomics
ECON 151: Development Economics
ECON 181: International Trade
STAT 112: Business and Economics Statistics 2
FREN 004: Intermediate French 2
Fun list, eh? I love how four of them have a great deal to do with economics (which, for those of you behind the times, is my second major now).
It's kind of funny actually. I remember taking AP Economics in senior year at Cinco. I naturally pantsed everyone (cause I was awesome). I didn't particularly think of doing economics or anything after that, though, except once towards the middle of the year, when I thought to myself "Jesus, what am I going to do with my life?" I don't remember what the ultimate decision was in that particular thought train, but I do remember considering economics and making it a third or fourth alternate or something, since I was good at it (but did I really like it?).
And now here I am. International Affairs (concentrating in International Economics) + Economics. Total craziness.
But economics does rock. I'm excited.
On a note that's likely less boring for my readership (which I pray to replenish to at least 5), we played Balderdash tonight. Balderdash is, of course, one of many word-oriented board games that the companies market to adults who like to have fun with that sort of thing. It's a pretty simple game that involves being given an obscure word, name, acronym, movie title, or law and trying to come up with a definition/biography/expansion/summary/operative word for that thing. It's nifty. And I like it.
There were six of us: Dan (my roommate), Danielle (my girlfriend), Derrick (my secret boyfriend), Chasya (Derrick's girlfriend), Lindsay (Chasya's roommate), and myself. Derrick wound up winning, with Danielle finishing a distant second, and me finishing in last place. Alas, such things happen.
But you don't care about who won! You care about interpersonal experiences and interesting writing! Don't you?
Well, here's one. It's a rather unfortunate one, though.
As I said, Dan and I are roommates. We also have another roommate who's new (story on that to come eventually). A week or so ago, Dan and I randomly decided to be racists. Which is to say that we spouted off racist remarks and responded to Anders's (for that is resident #3's name) confused questions with patient explanations of the racist reality of the world. For example, he'd ask what I thought of Hitler, and I'd say, "Hitler wasn't really all that great a guy, but he really had some good ideas. Now I really don't think that Jews should have been put in concentration camps, but when you really sit down and think about it, you realize that they kind of deserved it." Terrible things like this that are in some ways worse than saying things like, "Fuck yes they should have been interned and exterminated" since it's easier to believe that someone would say (and believe) the former and since it's making more of an attempt to rationalize the Holocaust.
We had Anders believing for quite a while that we were actually racists (despite our laughter throughout most of the ordeal). It was a bit creepy.
But it was hilarious.
And here comes the more interesting question. When does humor go too far? Is it too far when two friends joke with another about the deaths of approximately six million people? I would say yes and no: yes, because it really is quite irreverent to the memories of those who suffered and died, but no because we appreciate the enormity of the catatrophe, the sheer folly of the whole endeavor; we don't laugh because the millions died, but because we are human beings, and it's almost a survival mechanism to create humor from inherently humorless situations. Now, of course, our survival is not at stake, and the phrase "survival mechanism" is a poor one for describing what I mean. I'll change it if I can think of something better. But what I mean is that we cannot comprehend something like racism or bigotry or its consequences without reference, without perspective. Listen to me and be horrified. Let me listen to myself and be horrified. And then let us both laugh, because it is all so absurd. This is humanity, folks; I love it.
And playing the bigot provides another beneficial bit. It helps me unleash and destroy the bigot within me. Most, if not all of us, have that fellow within him. That racist that acknowledges white people as white, black people as black, Asian people as Asian, and so on. The racist that does not see humor, but sees simple fact and records it. We may not believe racist things, nor may we wish to treat anyone any differently because of the color of their skin, but damn if we don't perceive these differences as something more significant than hair color. The racist takes note of dark skin, but not the same way that you take note of dark hair. The racist sees dark skin and attributes unknown, subconscious traits to the person, which may or may not be somehow warranted. The racist does not make aesthetic judgements. He simply sees and takes note. And then suggests possibly different reactions to these people.
It's hard to elucidate my point here. But think about it. Let me give an example of the foil to this inner racist, which is the fearful man. Say you had a friend. What if you had to point out your friend in a crowd? What if he were black, and there was a white fellow right next to him? How do you distinguish? How comfortable would you be to say, "the black dude"? I don't think you'd be too comfortable. Nor would I. And that's unfortunate, because skin color
should be like eyes and hair; it should be descriptive. I shouldn't be afraid to explain that my friend is the black guy; his skin color is just his skin color, just as his hair color is his hair color. But we wouldn't often explain that he's "the black dude" because of the fearful man. The fear from this inner man scares us into omitting information that should not be omitted; information whose omission is actually racist despite efforts to the contrary.
And my, my was that a digression. I had meant to explain that during the game the topic of Dan and my conversation with Anders surfaced. Dan, Danielle and I found it quite funny. But Derrick didn't seem to enjoy it very much. And we were lighter when we duplicated the conversation. I was planning to make the point that the ability to laugh at my feigned racism was something that every boy and girl needs.
Perhaps I'm a good actor. Perhaps Derrick is too serious. Or perhaps I'm so good an actor that I can embody the feelings I so shun. I'd prefer it be the first and/or second. I don't want to actually believe what I say, even for a moment. Not unless there's a distinct purpose. The human mind can corrupt itself, after all.
More later. Now for Statistics! Hope you folks enjoyed this particularly incoherent edition of Hasta la Byebye.
