There was a shooting yesterday. Another one, and although America grieved, no one batted an eyelash because we're simply used to it. People asked why but no one asked how. How to stop it. Death rates rise, students are buried, and life continues as normal. We don't question how such a thing could happen because it happens so often and obviously the world doesn't stop for a few shots on campus. Our "leaders" keep making money, spending money, scaring us into believing that the threats are outside of our borders. But the shots don't stop, the violence never ceases and because everyone goes about their life as normal, nothing gets changed. Just a few drops of blood in the snow and crosses near the sidewalk.

But then it gets closer, perhaps the shootings hit home. More lives are destroyed as senseless acts are committed and the government turns a blind eye, too smitten with power to do anything. We all absorb the information and then we check our myspaces. Security is "increased" to no avail, yet more people die. Perhaps if we all just got off our asses and decided to give a damn, things would be different.

Who's to say. I sit here just the same as you, immobile. But something struck a chord this time. I don't want to be the one who wishes they had done something sooner when they're burying a loved one. I don't want to think of others that are in the same plight. We can't keep believing that ignorance is bliss and that it won't happen to us. It will.

Something must be done.

Part of my "book"

We each have our own history. Memories that we’ll never forget, along with ones we constantly try not to remember. There are scars and keepsakes and places that remind us of the past; we can try as hard as we like, but there’s no changing history. There are songs that bring us back and people that try to pull us forward. Each piece of the past is one more addition to who we are. We have secrets that we chose to hide from others and secrets we hide from ourselves. We can lie about the past, try to manipulate it into a more pleasant experience but in the end it is what it is. People are constantly changing, evolving. We’re not exactly the same from day to day. We hate the past because it provides a mirror into who we were, who we are. I hate the past because it’s everything that I used to be and I miss that. I’m convinced that one must keep moving forward for fear of being overtaken by the past; one misstep and you’re a goner. I’ve come close a time or two. You just have to continue running: keep going and never look back. It’s gotten me through this long, but times change. I thought I was doing okay, I thought things were going along smoothly; what others don’t know, can’t hurt them. Right? Wrong. Little did I know that when I walked into the library that day, I was walking into a disaster with little more than an ipod and a good book to protect me. Apparently, you can’t run forever.
I met him between the sci-fi and mystery sections. He was holding a H.G. Wells novel and I was absentmindedly browsing through books, row by row, as usual. It caught me off guard, to run into someone in such a secluded section on a Sunday afternoon. I was accustomed to having the back of library mostly to myself this time of day, however, seeing that he didn’t exactly pose a threat to my tranquil browsing, I continued down the row without a second glance. Moments passed and I noticed that he too and wandered farther down the aisle, closer to me and farther from the sci-fi novels he had been diligently gazing at. Who is this guy and why does he keep getting closer? His proximity caused me only little alarm but seeing as the normal isolation of the library that always appealed to me had been disrupted by this stranger, I decided to call it a day and head home.

Observations

“It’s not you, it’s me”. Despite the obvious cliché, these words tumble out of the mouth of a smug looking blond male as he attempts to keep a distressed expression on his face in a crowded coffee shop. I don’t buy it. His girlfriend, or former girlfriend I’d assume, doesn’t either. The pretty brunette appears to be struggling between pulling a “smack and run” and vacating the coffee shop or simply bursting into tears. Eventually she storms out, leaving him to drown in his own tears or more realistically, grab another coffee and scan the room for future prey.
Then there’s the ever-perky cashier. Either he really likes his job or he noticed that the tip jar’s running low and is hoping to make a few bucks by chatting up anyone and everyone. Even the girl making the drinks is getting annoyed. She keeps a nice, tight smile on but it tends to slip a bit whenever Mr. Annoying Man tells another customer some lame joke that no one really gets or laughs at. He must really want more tips, but according to the near empty tip jar, he’s clearly not working it enough.
The two girls in the corner have either never been to a coffee shop or they don’t actually like coffee. The cups of dark temptation haven’t moved from their spots on the table for quite a while. Perhaps they’re just entirely too engrossed in their conversation to notice something like a mere cup of coffee but it’s doubtful. From the several and frequent pauses, the girls seem to be there more for the “scene” then to actually drink coffee and partake in conversation.
Over at the table is a frantic looking girl with her laptop. From the bags under her eyes and the disheveled dirty blonde hair, it looks like she’s been working on something big for a while. You can practically see the deadline looming over her head like a sharp guillotine. She’s paying little to no attention to anyone as she types madly types away, lost in her own world.

Jumbled Pleas

“I have emergency.” It’s a Saturday night and the E.R. at St. John’s hospital is flooded with interesting people from all walks of life; each with their own emergency. By simply sitting in one of the dingy, uncomfortable chairs in the near claustrophobic waiting room, one can observe the various ways people deal with their own specific need for urgent care. A Chinese family sits in the corner of the room, holding their young daughter who is flushed and looking as though she’s had better days. The father is attempting to fill out the excessive amount of forms that one has to endure in a hospital but seems to be struggling with the technical English terms. He leans over and asks “What is prescrip-ons?”. “Medications. Is you daughter taking any medicine currently?”. He looks puzzled and tries to form an answer that could be understood. “Oh, she take… she take…Mitron” “Motrin?” “Yes, yes Motrin but she get hot, and not stop. And she cry lot and, and she lose food. Not stay in stomach. And insurance, I have insurance!” From his explanation, two things are clear: one, his daughter is obviously quite ill and two, somewhere along the line, the Chinese man came to the sad realization that most American’s have to accept eventually: without insurance, a lot of things are not possible. He asks several more questions about the forms he is filling out including “what are wopping cough” (whooping cough) and “how long I wait to see doctor for my daughter”. Unfortunately, explaining whooping cough is much easier then estimating how long their wait will be because emergency rooms are not exactly known from their promptness. They wait several hours before anyone calls their name. During this time the mother tries to find the word for “vending machine” but resorts to rough gestures and the repetition of the word “snack” over and over until someone realizes that she is indeed not asking for a sack but for a place to get a something to eat for her family. In the face of an emergency, waiting is quite unbearable, but when there is also a language barrier, things get even stickier. At least they got their forms filled out.