A strange new emotion has hold of me and I'd fight it if only I could see. The source, of course, is clear. But the searing lane of pain from her to heart is crucibled art. Never before could I stand this bore. Or its drill. Or my core. A hedonist, by practice, never to miss a chance of new dance or place. That's my case. My mind screams, it seems, to leave, to upheave, my body to the sun. I'm surprised it has not won. Outside wonders draw me around and I always figured that's how I would be found, by others and myself. Never comfortable on the shelf, I stop for shinies of no wealth. They draw my eye and help something inside fly, sometimes sigh. But invited out I said no. My mind does shout excuse and regret, lest I forget the shielded shelf of solitude, safety, security, and sadness. Yet the core weighs more, though it didn't before. A desire so great as to depreciate my cause of embracing flaws and enjoying the noise of knowing nothing. Woah. No weight was ever so great a foundation or a flight station. I've never flown so high nor felt so nice. It's the contrast of fired veins cooled by morphine ice. To miss someone enough to stop? What's up with that? Like being hobbled by a bat. Knees weak, hands creak, eyes seek to find an explanation for my mind. Nothing. No heart beat stirs to treat the thought that aught to explain what I might gain. Yet I know no thing has the means to replace the face of her. That small part of art is more than any boring dash down a new path. Include the rest and at best you'd hold me back. The world does lack the knack to attack my desire to just hold hands. I'd love to include "ands" but that'd be enough to stuff me for now. The starved would carve wood if it should fill the pores of their bored core.
29 May 2012
27 May 2012
Short Stories
Life is merely a kaleidoscope of strange acquaintances. It was just a cup of coffee. The same every morning. Black. No sugar. The caffeine helped him wake up. The bitter helped him feel alive. The scalding heat reminded him of her. It had been years; the scars almost faded. Yet, still, he arrived every morning for the same cup of joe.
He had been young, but she had been alive. It was not the way she literally waltzed in nor the glistening tears, it was the way she ordered. She knew what she needed as well as knew what she wanted. Black, burning, teeth-staining coffee. She danced around the room with her cup and saucer. So many tears streamed down her face that it seemed the mug never emptied despite her hasty gulps. He watched her dance for fifteen minutes. She left in a hustle, jumped in an old truck, and lurched onto the road.
His first thought was, "Why do girls think they can drive stick?" The next was of the police report of the stolen, faded-blue truck the girl was now driving. A man had called the station saying his girl had ran off with his "baby" that morning. An officer knows his duty so he got up to follow her. Judging from her performance up to that point he imagined she'd stalled out before the edge of town. He regretted thinking so as he passed the sixth mile marker down the road. He knew she could have taken a dozen side roads by now but he knew she was just covering distance. He saw the truck before seeing her; he never forgave himself for that. As he got out to check the steering wheel he saw her in the corner of his eye. She was gently humming a 1-2-3 tune as he approached.
"Who are you!"
Nothing.
"Did you steal this vehicle?"
Nothing.
"Are you alright?"
She resumed her waltz.
Just before he reached her, she caught his eye with a smile. She danced off the bridge.
Her body was found with bruises and cuts uncommon for river victims, but she soon became a sad, forgotten story after her beau moved to another county. But he still saw her every day. Every morning. That same smile. So he drank pain because he could only hurt so much at once.
We've started a literary club at the Jerusalem Center. Occasionally we get together and just write. This time we all used the same first line. There is a strict time limit (this time about 22 minutes) and this is what I got.
He had been young, but she had been alive. It was not the way she literally waltzed in nor the glistening tears, it was the way she ordered. She knew what she needed as well as knew what she wanted. Black, burning, teeth-staining coffee. She danced around the room with her cup and saucer. So many tears streamed down her face that it seemed the mug never emptied despite her hasty gulps. He watched her dance for fifteen minutes. She left in a hustle, jumped in an old truck, and lurched onto the road.
His first thought was, "Why do girls think they can drive stick?" The next was of the police report of the stolen, faded-blue truck the girl was now driving. A man had called the station saying his girl had ran off with his "baby" that morning. An officer knows his duty so he got up to follow her. Judging from her performance up to that point he imagined she'd stalled out before the edge of town. He regretted thinking so as he passed the sixth mile marker down the road. He knew she could have taken a dozen side roads by now but he knew she was just covering distance. He saw the truck before seeing her; he never forgave himself for that. As he got out to check the steering wheel he saw her in the corner of his eye. She was gently humming a 1-2-3 tune as he approached.
"Who are you!"
Nothing.
"Did you steal this vehicle?"
Nothing.
"Are you alright?"
She resumed her waltz.
Just before he reached her, she caught his eye with a smile. She danced off the bridge.
Her body was found with bruises and cuts uncommon for river victims, but she soon became a sad, forgotten story after her beau moved to another county. But he still saw her every day. Every morning. That same smile. So he drank pain because he could only hurt so much at once.
We've started a literary club at the Jerusalem Center. Occasionally we get together and just write. This time we all used the same first line. There is a strict time limit (this time about 22 minutes) and this is what I got.
23 May 2012
"Demonstrations"
I just got back from Turkey! And I don't really want to write about the place until I put pictures up. Hopefully by the end of the week.
When we got back (Sunday) we were told we could not go out because there were going to be "demonstrations" all day. No one told us what was going on though. We heard lots of fireworks (I've heard fireworks three nights this week already). The next day I found a local newspaper that covered the events of the previous day.
What I assumed was a small protest or some violence was actually a large and official celebration. Kinda. Monday was Jerusalem Day. It celebrated the 45 years that Jerusalem has been one city after the 1967 war. Sounds great. Unity is good. Jerusalem is good. Right? Sadly, not all is well in zion.
Many prominent speakers told of Jerusalem never being divided again. Netanyahu said, "We saw the words of the prophets come true. We saw the rise of Zion, the return of Jewish sovereignty in the Land of Israel, the ingathering of exiles, and our return to Jerusalem." He later added, "Our capital will never be divided" later in his speech. Wonderful words. A reporter and scholar, Ilana Brown, wrote in the paper that there is no Zionism without Jerusalem so the city must be preserved to protect the identity of Jews and their hope. Again, nice things.
15 people were arrested during the celebrations. That is down from last years 24 arrests. The reason the arrests are down is because last year the march (the main form of celebration during the day) (it was 50,000 strong this year and mostly peaceful) went anywhere in the city but was limited to Israeli West Jerusalem this year (last year's march involved damage to private property, such as smashed car windows, in the East Jerusalem, where Palestinians live). 5 Palestinians were arrested this year for throwing things at marchers. 10 Israelis were arrested for shouting racist slurs such as "Death to Arabs!" and "Revenge on Palestine!"
That's jacked up.
I can think of no excuse for such behavior. If that is how the city celebrates such a holiday why keep the holiday? If the celebration only reminds people of hurt and division then why celebrate? Acknowledging mistakes and petitioning people whether they would like such a holiday could be a good idea. Disbanding the holiday and seeking a better celebration would be great. Why celebrate your victory over the people you work, live, and worship near? It only creates division to proclaim your superiority and ability to keep a city under one disputed rule.
It's a mad world.
(23 May 2012)
When we got back (Sunday) we were told we could not go out because there were going to be "demonstrations" all day. No one told us what was going on though. We heard lots of fireworks (I've heard fireworks three nights this week already). The next day I found a local newspaper that covered the events of the previous day.
What I assumed was a small protest or some violence was actually a large and official celebration. Kinda. Monday was Jerusalem Day. It celebrated the 45 years that Jerusalem has been one city after the 1967 war. Sounds great. Unity is good. Jerusalem is good. Right? Sadly, not all is well in zion.
Many prominent speakers told of Jerusalem never being divided again. Netanyahu said, "We saw the words of the prophets come true. We saw the rise of Zion, the return of Jewish sovereignty in the Land of Israel, the ingathering of exiles, and our return to Jerusalem." He later added, "Our capital will never be divided" later in his speech. Wonderful words. A reporter and scholar, Ilana Brown, wrote in the paper that there is no Zionism without Jerusalem so the city must be preserved to protect the identity of Jews and their hope. Again, nice things.
15 people were arrested during the celebrations. That is down from last years 24 arrests. The reason the arrests are down is because last year the march (the main form of celebration during the day) (it was 50,000 strong this year and mostly peaceful) went anywhere in the city but was limited to Israeli West Jerusalem this year (last year's march involved damage to private property, such as smashed car windows, in the East Jerusalem, where Palestinians live). 5 Palestinians were arrested this year for throwing things at marchers. 10 Israelis were arrested for shouting racist slurs such as "Death to Arabs!" and "Revenge on Palestine!"
That's jacked up.
I can think of no excuse for such behavior. If that is how the city celebrates such a holiday why keep the holiday? If the celebration only reminds people of hurt and division then why celebrate? Acknowledging mistakes and petitioning people whether they would like such a holiday could be a good idea. Disbanding the holiday and seeking a better celebration would be great. Why celebrate your victory over the people you work, live, and worship near? It only creates division to proclaim your superiority and ability to keep a city under one disputed rule.
It's a mad world.
(23 May 2012)
12 May 2012
Mother's Day
Yo! You all got mothers. I like having a mother. I hope you do too. I heard a poem today that made me want to write a poem. So I did. Here is foreign poem first. Then mine. Then some thoughts about me mum.
Blessings on the hand of women!
Angels guard its strength and grace,
In the palace, cottage, hovel,
Oh, no matter where the place;
Would that never storms assailed it,
Rainbows ever gently curled;
For the hand that rocks the cradle
Is the hand that rules the world.
Infancy's the tender fountain,
Power may with beauty flow,
Mother's first to guide the streamlets,
From them souls unresting grow--
Grow on for the good or evil,
Sunshine streamed or evil hurled;
For the hand that rocks the cradle
Is the hand that rules the world.
Woman, how divine your mission
Here upon our natal sod!
Keep, oh, keep the young heart open
Always to the breath of God!
All true trophies of the ages
Are from mother-love impearled;
For the hand that rocks the cradle
Is the hand that rules the world.
Blessings on the hand of women!
Fathers, sons, and daughters cry,
And the sacred song is mingled
With the worship in the sky--
Mingles where no tempest darkens,
Rainbows evermore are hurled;
For the hand that rocks the cradle
Is the hand that rules the world.
By William Ross Wallace
So I wrote this:
When I think of mom one scene does stand out,
a night and the week that I was left curled.
Never thought what it took to hear me shout.
She kept my bedside so I'd heal the world.
But beyond one moment, the life she led
was live with love, left prejudice hurled.
Teaching me not to die until I'm dead,
she recited tales so I'd see the world.
Seeing and living are all fine and good,
but hearing the growth was done more to twirl
the lines of life as any good one should.
She taught me music so I'd know the world.
Yet unknown why she gave this life unfurled,
she rocked my cradle so I'll change the world.
And I realized how thankful I am that mom did not get to have one of her dreams (yet). Growing up she told me about how much she wished she had waited to be married so she could travel. She wanted to see Europe and Great Britain especially it seemed. But she got married. I'm thankful because it meant I got all my brothers. Her reflection of that time has made me question many of my goals. One reason I'm in Jerusalem right now is because I knew I couldn't wait. I do not know if I'll be married this next year, but I did not want to have to decide between Jerusalem or my wife. (Should it be between Jerusalem *and* my wife? I'm not sure) I imagine her desire to see the world has encouraged her to accept and excuse opportunities like going to Carnegie Hall and then taking me as well. And hearing her stories about travels, future desires to travel, and places she wished she could travel to inspires me to want to travel to those places. And because she did so much to help us travel it only seem appropriate that we bring the places we go back to her. Gifts, memories, pictures.
I really love my mom. I do not know why women shape my life so much, but I have greatly appreciated it. Mother started it all. I felt safe talking to her. I almost never felt judged or scared. I could be different. I could try things out. I could do stupid things. I knew she would punish me if I went wrong. I knew she could get angry and frustrated, but I know she loves me. And my brothers. And my dad. And her parents. And pretty much anyone I have seen her meet. She has gotten mad at me. She has asked me to go away, to not bother her, to just stop. Now, the growth I have seen in her ability to handle, love, forgive, and withstand me is incredible. That feels weird to say as her son. It is honest though. She is more patient, more kind, more expressive. She communicates more honestly and completely. She is willing to take of herself but is so ready and able to help others. She is great. I am thankful that she has me.
08 May 2012
Fighting
Earlier this week I saw three fights on the same day. It was Sunday and we had decided to get up early so we could go to the Dome of the Rock. Well, we did not know that they only opened breakfast at 7:30 (when we wanted to leave) so we ended up getting a group together and leaving at 8:15am. So we arrived at the line for the done at 8:45. It opens at 8 (when we wanted to arrive), so the line was very long. A group of students had arrived earlier than us so I went up to talk to them. Some of their group had to leave so we tried switching with them. The people behind them did not approve of this idea and accused us of cutting in line and were very direct in their opinions. I apologized that their opinions were different than ours, because I felt that we had done nothing wrong. Well, the argument just seemed to continue. Honestly, I think no one had anything better to do. Seems like a silly reason to argue. But I continued to jab with them. Eventually it was boring and I knew I would go back to the group I arrived with. At that point I just wanted to get to know a stranger. They would have nothing to do with it. No information about their native language, homeland, or anything about them or their trip. Quite a shame really. I hoped I could appease at least something and not ruin their experience in a holy place. Actually, that was what made me feel the worst about the whole engagement, Matthew 5:23-25. I didn't see them again and feel no way to reconcile myself.
After everyone was cleared from the temple mount at 11am we went to the Austrian Hospice for lunch. It is a beautiful building designed to assist pilgrims from Austria and Germany. It was a lovely church inside. Several pillars and levels adorn the outside for people to study and eat. Quite nice. As we were leaving I saw a group of young boys. The six or seven of them looked to be between the ages of 6 and 10. Two of the older ones were pushing each other around. A few shekel coins fell to the ground. Food in a bag was involved. I couldn't tell what was going on but it did not seem friendly and eventually the boy with the bag of food left and everyone else stayed there.
We went to the Israeli Art Museum (and only got through a third of the exhibits) and then walked for a couple hours back home. We got gelato on the way and talked with a couple from New York. Then as we were passing Old Jerusalem, Damascus Gate to be exact, I saw two men in their twenties or early thirties fighting. Their faces mixed between rage and smile so quickly I could hardly tell whether something bad was going to happen. Well, jokingly one of them picked up a metal dolly over his head as if he was going to throw it at the other man. They both started laughing and he put it down. As he was putting it down the old man next to him (to whom the dolly belonged. It looked as if the old man had transported the goods he was selling down the steps with the dolly) punched him in the face. Seriously. Right in his face. The young man reacted with a look of "well that seemed kind of extreme but I guess I deserved it..."
In other news, I was a stowaway yesterday. We had a field trip. Our schedule said it would start at 8am. It started at 7:30am. No big deal. Plenty of time to get ready. Well, right before we were supposed to leave I realized I forgot something in my room so I ran down to my room. Then I realized I forgot my key. So I ran up six flights of stairs to my roommate and borrowed his key. I ran back down. I ran back up, this time laden with two lunches and my backpack. I arrived at my bus as it was leaving. The other class (we are divided into two classes for ease of taking care of everyone. 40 people to a class) was still waiting on their bus and I just walked on. Well...that wasn't supposed to happen. And two people got left behind. And I was just sitting in the back. About twenty minutes into the ride, just listening to administrators talking and realizing I had to make my prescence known if I didn't want the center's security looking for me, I knew I was in trouble. It all worked out. I saw Bedouin women making carpets and several tels before going on a hike through and then up a valley. It was a wonderful day. Even unintentionally I can sneak past people very well apparently.
After everyone was cleared from the temple mount at 11am we went to the Austrian Hospice for lunch. It is a beautiful building designed to assist pilgrims from Austria and Germany. It was a lovely church inside. Several pillars and levels adorn the outside for people to study and eat. Quite nice. As we were leaving I saw a group of young boys. The six or seven of them looked to be between the ages of 6 and 10. Two of the older ones were pushing each other around. A few shekel coins fell to the ground. Food in a bag was involved. I couldn't tell what was going on but it did not seem friendly and eventually the boy with the bag of food left and everyone else stayed there.
We went to the Israeli Art Museum (and only got through a third of the exhibits) and then walked for a couple hours back home. We got gelato on the way and talked with a couple from New York. Then as we were passing Old Jerusalem, Damascus Gate to be exact, I saw two men in their twenties or early thirties fighting. Their faces mixed between rage and smile so quickly I could hardly tell whether something bad was going to happen. Well, jokingly one of them picked up a metal dolly over his head as if he was going to throw it at the other man. They both started laughing and he put it down. As he was putting it down the old man next to him (to whom the dolly belonged. It looked as if the old man had transported the goods he was selling down the steps with the dolly) punched him in the face. Seriously. Right in his face. The young man reacted with a look of "well that seemed kind of extreme but I guess I deserved it..."
In other news, I was a stowaway yesterday. We had a field trip. Our schedule said it would start at 8am. It started at 7:30am. No big deal. Plenty of time to get ready. Well, right before we were supposed to leave I realized I forgot something in my room so I ran down to my room. Then I realized I forgot my key. So I ran up six flights of stairs to my roommate and borrowed his key. I ran back down. I ran back up, this time laden with two lunches and my backpack. I arrived at my bus as it was leaving. The other class (we are divided into two classes for ease of taking care of everyone. 40 people to a class) was still waiting on their bus and I just walked on. Well...that wasn't supposed to happen. And two people got left behind. And I was just sitting in the back. About twenty minutes into the ride, just listening to administrators talking and realizing I had to make my prescence known if I didn't want the center's security looking for me, I knew I was in trouble. It all worked out. I saw Bedouin women making carpets and several tels before going on a hike through and then up a valley. It was a wonderful day. Even unintentionally I can sneak past people very well apparently.
05 May 2012
Anger
Rage rolles o'er a young man out of control,
Releasing his role; he rains in anger.
A light too right to fight reveals the hole;
Her loss lost him. He now faces danger.
Fear flows from the man o'erbearing, too bold.
Enforcing his role, he reigns in anger,
A dark, so stark, taking lights old and cold.
Their loss helps him last. He carries danger.
Peace pours through the old man whose eye is light.
Accepting his role, he reins in anger.
Lighter loads, in and out, keep bright his sight.
Darkness lost at last, he sees no danger.
Within your eyes, is light or dark what you see?
Of three paths, it's your choice which to be.
03 May 2012
Flawless or Perfect?
Yesterday I could have told you what sparked this thought but not today. I do not remember.
Yesterday I had a falafel. It was glorious. A bit of crunch before the soft center with sauce and french fries (I do not know why it had french fries but I could not complain) within a pita. Delightful. I also went to the Pools of Bethesda. Not the most spectacular place, but still very beautiful. The architecture is quite lovely. The church was the best part. According to legend, it is the birthplace of Mary the mother of Jesus. As I toured the interior a group of French tourists began singing hymns. If you have never sung in a stone cathedral before then change. It is a spectacular event. Even if you do not think you can sing well, get a group together and chant or sing some song of praise. It is a powerful moment.
Flawless and perfect are not the same adjectives. My explanation is simple, but I feel the main purpose of this is to encourage you to use your words correctly, especially when describing yourself and God. To be flawless is to be without flaw but to be perfect is to fit your role completely. One is upon the hands of the creator and the other deals with purpose.
A table can be carved and assembled flawlessly but might not be perfect for a room (for reasons of style or fit or whatever). A puppy, full of dirty and staining flaws, might be the perfect gift for a child. It is difficult to create something flawlessly. It is almost impossible to create a flawless organism. And chances are that the creature will create flaws in itself. I figure that is where I fit. I may have been created flawlessly but my choices have flawed me. To create something perfect is a might be even more difficult. Again, easier with inert objects. Measurements, drawers, mirrors, and gadgets define a perfect vanity. A vanity might only be perfect for a specific situation though. Creatures, people especially, can change and apply to multiple situations, becoming more perfected than a simple construct because their perfection applies more often. Flawlessness is determined by creator and defined by critics. Perfection is determined and defined by the user.
So how could I become flawless? First, I would have to choose to be flawless, because I'm my own critic. Then I would have to choose whose opinions define my value. Then I would have to be recreated. And I do not think it could stop with a physical recreation. Though I imagine it takes a lot of time to reorganize a mind and redefine a soul.
How could I become perfect? I would have to be used and determine who can use me. Then I would have to fulfill their needs. Wow. That seems like a lot actually. To be applied in the correct and best way for any given situation would be complete perfection. I can think of tiny, short-lived perfections I've enjoyed in my own life and in other's. I have said exactly the right thing at the right time. It felt like my entire life had built up to that moment so I would be the right person in the right place with the right relationship with a single person. Twenty-two years for one perfect sentence. Ridiculous.
So how does God do it? Can I mean flawless and perfect while saying "it?" I do not know the answer to either question. To be honest, I sometimes imagine a God with flaws so I can relate. My finite stature and sight leads in that direction. And for God to have enough experience and understanding to be completely perfect seems outrageous. I fully accept that none other understands me as well as my creator. But life is so complicated. How could one person be the right person every time? Then I ask if Jesus Christ is the right person for everyone. I honestly think that He can be, but most people need to be prepared for that though. I needed preparation before I enjoyed curry. I genuinely think curry is the most delicious food and that everyone can like curry, but your mouth and stomach (and intestines) must be prepared for the experience.
Remember, perfection is defined by the user. The user must feel something is perfect for it to be true.
Yesterday I had a falafel. It was glorious. A bit of crunch before the soft center with sauce and french fries (I do not know why it had french fries but I could not complain) within a pita. Delightful. I also went to the Pools of Bethesda. Not the most spectacular place, but still very beautiful. The architecture is quite lovely. The church was the best part. According to legend, it is the birthplace of Mary the mother of Jesus. As I toured the interior a group of French tourists began singing hymns. If you have never sung in a stone cathedral before then change. It is a spectacular event. Even if you do not think you can sing well, get a group together and chant or sing some song of praise. It is a powerful moment.
Flawless and perfect are not the same adjectives. My explanation is simple, but I feel the main purpose of this is to encourage you to use your words correctly, especially when describing yourself and God. To be flawless is to be without flaw but to be perfect is to fit your role completely. One is upon the hands of the creator and the other deals with purpose.
A table can be carved and assembled flawlessly but might not be perfect for a room (for reasons of style or fit or whatever). A puppy, full of dirty and staining flaws, might be the perfect gift for a child. It is difficult to create something flawlessly. It is almost impossible to create a flawless organism. And chances are that the creature will create flaws in itself. I figure that is where I fit. I may have been created flawlessly but my choices have flawed me. To create something perfect is a might be even more difficult. Again, easier with inert objects. Measurements, drawers, mirrors, and gadgets define a perfect vanity. A vanity might only be perfect for a specific situation though. Creatures, people especially, can change and apply to multiple situations, becoming more perfected than a simple construct because their perfection applies more often. Flawlessness is determined by creator and defined by critics. Perfection is determined and defined by the user.
So how could I become flawless? First, I would have to choose to be flawless, because I'm my own critic. Then I would have to choose whose opinions define my value. Then I would have to be recreated. And I do not think it could stop with a physical recreation. Though I imagine it takes a lot of time to reorganize a mind and redefine a soul.
How could I become perfect? I would have to be used and determine who can use me. Then I would have to fulfill their needs. Wow. That seems like a lot actually. To be applied in the correct and best way for any given situation would be complete perfection. I can think of tiny, short-lived perfections I've enjoyed in my own life and in other's. I have said exactly the right thing at the right time. It felt like my entire life had built up to that moment so I would be the right person in the right place with the right relationship with a single person. Twenty-two years for one perfect sentence. Ridiculous.
So how does God do it? Can I mean flawless and perfect while saying "it?" I do not know the answer to either question. To be honest, I sometimes imagine a God with flaws so I can relate. My finite stature and sight leads in that direction. And for God to have enough experience and understanding to be completely perfect seems outrageous. I fully accept that none other understands me as well as my creator. But life is so complicated. How could one person be the right person every time? Then I ask if Jesus Christ is the right person for everyone. I honestly think that He can be, but most people need to be prepared for that though. I needed preparation before I enjoyed curry. I genuinely think curry is the most delicious food and that everyone can like curry, but your mouth and stomach (and intestines) must be prepared for the experience.
Remember, perfection is defined by the user. The user must feel something is perfect for it to be true.
01 May 2012
Student Elections
I was reading in the local newspaper a couple days ago (unfortunately I didn't keep it so I will speak in fake political parties so I do not get names incorrect. They will be the Bold party and the Balloon party) The article most surprising to me concerned student elections at local universities. Four universities had primarily Bold party members in their student governments, but during recent elections the Balloon party took over the student government of these four universities. Using this as precedence, members of the national legislature were encouraging the prime minister to change one of his advisors, a member of the Bold party, to a member of the Balloon party.
AMAZING!!! Seriously, I have such a hard time accepting the fulness of this. Imagine this. American universities give actual meaning to student governments by having students choose an actual party to represent. While in office those students are able to discuss and suggest policies to their party. While they will not enforce political policy on the university, they will use their party's resources to run. The results of elections will be compiled across the country to inform politicians of the future of American politics. Because students will be the majority of future voters (I realize they do not represent all of America, but they are a very important group for policy makers) current politicians can see what issues will become pivotal and what parties will be favored in a few years. This could change American politics and give a stronger voice to students. If students feel important then they will become more involved. Also, it can end the mass dissatisfaction with student governments if treated respectfully.
I would love this idea. I do not know how to introduce it in such a large nation. But I want to.
AMAZING!!! Seriously, I have such a hard time accepting the fulness of this. Imagine this. American universities give actual meaning to student governments by having students choose an actual party to represent. While in office those students are able to discuss and suggest policies to their party. While they will not enforce political policy on the university, they will use their party's resources to run. The results of elections will be compiled across the country to inform politicians of the future of American politics. Because students will be the majority of future voters (I realize they do not represent all of America, but they are a very important group for policy makers) current politicians can see what issues will become pivotal and what parties will be favored in a few years. This could change American politics and give a stronger voice to students. If students feel important then they will become more involved. Also, it can end the mass dissatisfaction with student governments if treated respectfully.
I would love this idea. I do not know how to introduce it in such a large nation. But I want to.
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