酷我-北美枫

'We are all of the human race'

With British and American troops bearing down upon Baghdad, many teens are feeling overwhelmed in the sweeping tides of global politics. In the face of a war of international proportions, it is easy to feel small, powerless, and unimportant. We are, after all, young, inexperienced and easily disregarded by the rest of society. As teens, we are expected to be indifferent, too absorbed in our own problems to be responsible global citizens. That does not mean, however, that we cannot make a difference.

In a time when the world seems to have lost its way, it is up to us to point it in the right direction. Without marching in the streets, without choosing a side, without calling one person right and another wrong, we can remind the planet of the true meaning of humanity. The world appears to have forgotten that humanity is not about oil, or weapons, or regimes. Nor is it about justice, or revenge, or punishment. It is about the things we all share: compassion, kindness, and generosity. In arguing over small, unimportant trinkets, we are letting our most valuable treasures slip away. In our preoccupation with differences, we too often overlook how much more we all have in common. To be truly humane, is to recognise that common ground. How different am I, really, from a youth in Iraq, or in Pakistan? We both share the same love for the world, the same hopes for the future, and the same fear for warfare and destruction.

We are the future. Bit by bit, we can change the world.

In some ways, everyone is the same. In other ways, each person is unique. Both are things to cherish and to celebrate. We acknowledge this whenever we smile at a stranger, whenever we forgive a wrong, or whenever we lend a hand to another human being.

Every person really does count. The ones who really move the world never have to appear on television, attend a rally or join an interest group. They are the ones who quietly make a difference. Every little act of kindness, by every person, is a small step forward for all humanity. By living what we believe, by setting a personal example, we can turn our dreams into reality.

Slowly, our leaders may one day realise that we don't really care how much our gas costs, how high our taxes are, or how many cars we have in the garage. We do care, however, that the shoes we wear were not made by sweatshop workers, that the schools we attend are safe and clean, and that the cities we live in are not suffocating our planet.

It does not matter whether you are American, or Iraqi, or ., or straight, or Muslim, or Hindu. We are all of the human race, and that makes us family.

(North York Mirror, April 11, 2003)

Gifted Program a Mixed Blessing

If someone were to see me on the street, they might think "Chinese". In Chinatown, where Chinese are everywhere, I am a "teen". And in my own school, where there is a sizeable population of Chinese teens, people would look at me and think... "Giftie".

Conceptually, the Gifted program is supposed to choose, with an I. Q. test, the most intelligent students and place them in a separate class, enriched by extra funding, special teachers and a modified curriculum. For better or for worse, however, it's much more than that.

Firstly, the students in the Gifted class are not there because they are hard workers, or because they study well, or even because they are good students; they have been chosen for their ability to absorb information quickly. In fact, my class prides itself in its ability to pass exams without doing assignments, without studying, and often without taking notes. This approach worked well in primary school, worked okay in junior high, and, well, flops onto its face in high school. The volume of information we are required to know has exceeded what we can cram into our heads in a single night. I look up at the colleges and universities, and then I look down at my horrid work habits, and I am afraid. I am very afraid.

Unfortunately, regardless of how afraid I am, my peers expect me to read five books a day, write mathematical treatises in my spare time, and regularly donate apples to my teachers. I am not at all ashamed to say that I do none of these. The label, however, seems branded into my forehead. When someone finds that I am a "Giftie", a rift inevitably forms between the two of us... I am expected to be different, arrogant, uninterested in the same things as other teens- an adult in disguise. When I do find friends outside my class, we are inevitably separated within several years when we graduate to different schools, he to a nearby one and I to a "Gifted" one much farther away.

That is not to say, of course, that the program is unnecessary or superfluous; it is simply both good and bad. Through it, I have met many talented individuals, some of which have enormous potential. The extra material and unique environment will certainly help these students to achieve their goals. As for myself, I simply cross my fingers, close my eyes, and hope that the readers of my college transcript will skim over my grades, see the word "Gifted", and place as much weight on that as my peers and teachers have in the past.

(North York Mirror, January 10, 2003)

School Spirit... at what Cost?

Some time ago, my school's strings group (violins, violas, cellos, and double basses) went to compete in the Kiwanis music festival. We flopped. On the morning announcements in school the next day, however, was a cheerful voice:

"The strings quartet, at Kiwanis, won a hard-fought third place yesterday..." Incredibly, that happy voice forgot to mention that there were (surprise!) three schools competing in the category. All day long, I had to grudgingly endure well-meaning congratulations from my peers.

Ironically, the parents of those peers will spread the word far and wide. Any day now, I'm expecting to hear from some friend of a friend of a friend that Zion Heights has a wonderful, national award-winning music program.

Sure it does. And my uncle is the tsar of Canada, did you know?

Every school seeks pride in its accomplishments and individuality, and rightly so. School spirit is both beneficial and necessary; sports teams need cheering on, athletes need motivation, and clubs need funding. The problem is, a lot of those accomplishments weren't really accomplished.

More recently, it was declared over the P.A. system that I had won fourth place at a cross-country running meet. My teacher beamed. I smiled sheepishly and tried to crawl into my desk. The school team hadn't really run in the race- we went too early and missed it. The result was that we had held our own little event, with another school that also happened to be there. I had been running, for the most part, against my own teammates.

I am, I admit, not unaffected by this intrinsic bias in the school media. The student body is never told lies, of course; but it is fed the truth selectively. After a while, the school's endless list of achievements seems to suggest an inherent superiority over other schools. If a school team loses (and if I am ever allowed hear about it), I tend to blame it on the referee, the weather, or the unusual position of Mars... anything but the skill of the opposing team. Voil? School spirit is born.

Wait a minute. Media censorship, extreme patriotism, a belief in the supremacy of one school above all others; I am starting to sound alarmingly like a fascist.

Let this come as a light-hearted reminder to all schools: fostering pride is important, but holding upright the principles of honesty is far more important. Do not be unintentionally hypocritical; the truth cannot be "sort of" bent, any more than my eyes can be "sort of" wandering up and down my neighbour's exam.

I, N,T, E, G,R, I, T, Y, let's go!

(North York Mirror, December 22, 2002)

'Parlez-vous francais?'

Despite what I'd like to believe, I am no prodigy at French. Therefore, in an attempt to show some initiative, I have signed up for a French-speaking contest.
My entry is due March 3. I have not yet started writing it.

I'm getting a flashback to exams - there is the same sense of impending panic, the familiar thought of looking forward to staying up late because I know I won't be productive until at least 10 p.m.

Except this time, all the dread, anxiety and last-minute frenzy is self-induced and ill-founded: my chances of passing exams were good, but my chances of winning this competition are not.

But what if I win? Do I really want to win?

The worst thing about this contest is not all the effort I'll put into it, nor all the sleep I'll miss, but that, in the roomful of nervous, jittery contestants, there will be only one winner.

If I win, I am preventing someone else from winning, someone who would also have spent hours of their evenings preparing their speech, someone who would also have fostered hopes of bringing fame and glory to their school. Someone, it is likely, who needed to win more than I did.

It is a contest and, by definition, regardless of how hard everyone tries, there can be only one winner.

Especially for a teen, life itself far too often becomes a contest. It seems that, in order to prove ourselves, we must always first disprove someone else. Whether I am seeking a spot on the honour roll, a position in a university, or a part-time job, I cannot avoid competition.

We live in a world of rivalry: rival businesses, rival governments, rival sports teams.

Nor is this problem unique to our age group. Before they even know how to spell their names, preschoolers learn to compete against each other in games of tag and musical chairs.

My student planner tells me to "think win-win". How can I, when every aspect of my life, from passing courses to playing board games, involves beating others? My success, it would seem, can only come from another person's failure.

The best thing I can do then, I suppose, would be to participate in the contest expecting, and trying, to lose. That way I can impress my French teacher with my devotion to the language, while remaining morally secure in the knowledge that I'm not threatening the futures of my fellow contestants.

In fact, I would only be doing a public service by clearly defining the bottom of the barrel.

So, when the word spreads that a 15-year-old humiliated himself by somehow forgetting an entire speech on the podium, comfort yourself in the knowledge that he did it for a greater cause.

Instead of feeling sorry for me, rejoice. Rejoice that because of my selfless act, the world has become a less competitive place.

Parlez-vous francais?

(North York Mirror Feb. 28, 2003 )

Powerless prince treks home to North York

More than 50 years from now, when I’m teaching my grandchildren about Canadian history, I imagine it would go something like this:
"Once upon a sunny Thursday afternoon, in the magical city of Toronto, a certain kind, handsome, chivalrous, charming prince took a stroll down Bay Street with his friend, on the way to the other kind, handsome prince’s enchanted highrise condominium. Looking for something to do, they walked into a video store and rented a movie to take with them. However, at this time a wicked witch happened to be zooming around the skies on her new Nimbus 2000. Being the wicked witch she was, she dropped her wand down the chimney of a power plant. Within seconds, the power grid of the Eastern seaboard had collapsed. Oh well, no movie tonight.

Now, all highrise condominiums in Toronto have gadgets called elevators, which were built to save princes the trouble of climbing stairs. With the electricity out, our two heroic princes took the staircase and obtained more exercise that night than they had gotten in the last two years.

Huffing and puffing, they arrived at the seventh floor, where they checked the water (it was still working) and then the lights (they were not).

Armed with orange juice and a chess set, they huffed and puffed back outside to spend the rest of the afternoon first chasing knights from the board, then chasing each other from the washrooms.

As the sky went dark following a sunset spectacularly invisible behind the ambient buildings, we - I mean, the two princes - whipped out a camera and bicycles for a downtown tour.

On the way, they glimpsed a side of their pretty little town they had never seen before: frustrated motorists crawling around frozen streetcars, citizens directing traffic with incredible expertise, all while everyone’s gas meters, like thousands of Doomsday clocks, inched ever closer toward midnight and traffic Armageddon.

Weaving around honking, frozen cars, our two heroes headed back to the enchanted highrise where they still managed to sleep two hours earlier than usual.

That night, I - er, I mean the prince - stared out the window at a glaring anachronism - stars in the downtown sky.

For the noble prince, the next morning was a nerve-wracking, danger-laden trek toward his homeland realm of North York. He was rewarded, however, by a hearty lunch of instant noodles (which his stomach promptly rejected).

Later, seeing his parents lying on the sofa with nothing to do was as strange as seeing the unchecked laundry sortie from its basket to make an assault upon the floors.

For one night and one day, 50 million people suddenly found time to spend quietly with their families. The good kingdom of Eastern Seaboardland rediscovered the joys of reading, of board games, of falling asleep when the sun went down.

Seeing all the good she had done, the wicked witch was so touched that she decided to take back her spell, quit her job and start a new career as Cinderella’s fairy godmother.

Then the lights came back on, and everyone lived hectically ever after.

THE END

"Aww, gramps, that didn’t REALLY happen, did it?"

(North York Mirror Aug. 22, 2003 )

Studying for exams can be one historic journey

Sir George A. Washington was the first Prime Minister of Canada. No, silly, wasn't it Sir Laurier Banting? Impossible. I'm sure that was a minister of labour. Perhaps it was Sir Alfred Borden. No, I remember. It must have been Sir Ronald MacDonald!
Usually, I have no problem with frenetic cramming. When I start to hear voices arguing in my head, however, it's a fairly good indication I'm near the breaking point.

In high schools everywhere, this is the time of year when tensions run high, tempers run short and every second person walks around half-asleep with little black circles under their eyes: exam week.

HAWK-EYED

This is the time when students are forced in two or three hours to demonstrate everything they have learned in the past five months while equally stressed, but nonetheless hawk-eyed teachers breathe down their necks.

To make things even better, exam week usually comes when students are already bending beneath the weight of summative evaluations, which are usually worth about as much as the exams themselves.

It's survival of the fittest. Those with the best scores can expect to graduate to a university, others may go to college and still others, determined not to write any more exams, will enter the workforce.

Here, the world in January is an unforgiving place.

It's in anticipation of this that I sit down resolutely and make truly heroic attempts to navigate the ocean of notes spread out upon my desk.

In high spirits, I open my history textbook and plunge into Chapter One. When I begin studying, of course, I quickly realize that I know less than half of what I should know. This inevitably gives rise to feelings of both guilt and panic, a strange emotional mixture that makes me physically jittery, but mentally dim.

I feel like I'm ready to run to Vancouver, ski across the Yukon and then swim the Pacific Ocean; I'm just not ready to write an exam.

I am not overwhelmed by the information, which admittedly is not that much. I just can't absorb it at all. Three hours, five breaks and a couple of phone calls later, I end the day's studying with one important piece of knowledge: Canada sold 892 tractors in 1932. Now, if only that could prove even remotely useful.

Why do I even bother? What has my exam score done to deserve so much of my attention? I do all this for a cold hard number, a figure insensitive to the countless grey hairs sacrificed to its cause, and, more likely than not, to the countless more grey hairs it will produce when it reaches its recipient. It's all quite cruel, really. And on that note, I close my books for the night.

(North York Mirror Jan. 31, 2003 )

Fighting to destroy teenage stereotypes

Surely, I did not deserve that. The nice-looking old lady, bending beneath the weight of her shopping bags, glares at me, muttering as she walks past, struggling along the sidewalk on her way home.
If she had said something, it might well have been along the lines of "Go away, leave me alone." Shifting her burdens, she places one hand defensively upon her purse.

Ouch. For a moment, I was completely taken aback. I was not insulted, but did feel a bit humiliated. After all, my offence was well intentioned, if admittedly a bit pathetic. I had offered to help carry her groceries.

RESPONSIBLE CITIZEN
I am told that, as I grow older, I am learning to be a responsible citizen. That means, I suppose, that I was born irresponsible.

I can study the political system, examine the Charter of Rights and Freedoms and rattle off Canada's steps to autonomy, but can I be made to memorize altruism? Being teenaged does not make me antisocial. If I were to not participate in my community now, I would be no more likely to do so 30 years later.

And, despite what the media seems to claim, 15-year-olds can steal just as well when they are 51.

My civics textbook tells me that I am protected, by the Charter of Rights and Freedoms, against "discrimination on the grounds of race, national or ethnic origin, colour, religion, gender, mental disability"... and age.

Am I really?

At least one person had instantly branded me as a "teen" - therefore an immoral delinquent. Nor is it the woman's fault. Perhaps she saw underage smokers loitering in an alley, or troupes of students skipping school to go to the mall. Maybe she watched one too many news reports depicting young offenders, I don't know.

The fact remains, however, that I am a member of a group in our society that endures, between classes and homework, eight- to 10-hour "workdays", rarely earns above the minimum wage, cannot vote, and is frowned upon by police officers and politicians alike. How's that for prejudice?

I am not, of course, calling for shorter school hours, a lowering of the voting age, or a revision of the Young Offenders Act. Nor do I think that teens would really benefit from an increase in the minimum wage.

JUVENILE GANGSTER
I do, however, wish to be rid of the stereotype that seems to turn every graffiti artist, panhandler and juvenile gangster into my personal representative.

That makes about as much sense as making Napoleon Bonaparte the personal representative of everyone born on Aug. 15.

So, high-minded teens everywhere, reach out today and help someone. Show that we are the citizens of the future; shovel a driveway, volunteer at a library, or just smile more often. We have, after all, a stereotype to destroy and a reputation to build. Our work is cut out for us.

("North York Mirror" Feb. 21, 2003 )

Newcomers test old thinking

Of all the schools I've been to in Canada, perhaps half of my classmates have had their parents born elsewhere. I often need to be reminded of this wonderful fact.
Last year, for instance, Zion Heights Junior High School received a pleasant surprise - it had managed to win the Canadian Pascal Mathematics Contest, after falling to fourth place the year before. While the teachers beamed proudly, I stampeded upstairs to the math department, where individual results were posted. I scanned the list eagerly.

On the very top was Min Jie, with a perfect score. A murmur ran through those around me. What? Who was Min Jie? I kept reading. Next on the list, tied for second and third, were Lincoln and Jenny. Well, at least I knew Lincoln. Jenny, on the other hand, was a fairly common name in the school. I was not fourth on the list either, or even fifth. In desperation, I gave up and returned to class. Someone beside me put it more bluntly: "Are they sure these results are for the right school?" They were sure.

The next day, I managed to convince myself the scores were a fluke - perhaps Min Jie and Jenny were simply extraordinarily good at guessing. Unfortunately for me, this was not the case.

That year, there were two new additions to the gifted class.

They were, behold, Jenny and Min Jie. Both were new arrivals in Canada: Jenny had come from Shanghai and Min Jie from Singapore. Invaders from the eastern world! I braced myself for the worst.

Immediately, both of them shot straight to the top in science and math and, without any semblance of effort, began to threaten my position as resident nerd in English and geography.

Now, one year (and a new school) later, I am glad they are still here. The contribution Jenny and Min Jie have made to their new environment is indisputable. Hardworking, highly competitive learners, their presence has increased the general level of achievement in classrooms and also served as a role model for other students.

Canada is a nation built by many people, working together to create something that none of them could have produced alone.

I was born in China and I am proud to be Canadian.

(Origianlly published in "North York Mirror" on Jan. 19, 2003 )

Okay, first things first: if you enjoy Valentine's Day, stop reading now. Just stop. Turn the page or, if you like, sink into deep reflection about your significant other. Leave the rest of us to mope alone.
Really, we'll be fine. Stop reading this because, as pleasurable as it would be to me, I don't really want to burst your bubble. Not without warning you first, anyway.

You're still here? Then rest assured you have made the right choice.

Valentine's Day, you see, is a threat to the free world. Joining Monday and Thursday, Valentine's Day has become the latest member of the infamous "Days of Evil". Harbouring hidden capacities for mass destruction, it is deceiving us with a cloak of love and kindness. Do not be fooled!

It is our moral obligation to protect the naive innocents who are blind to this danger. As a preventative measure, therefore, and with the best interests of humanity firmly at heart, I hereby declare my War on Valentine's Day.

Go, now, run down the street and shout my message to the world. You may gain the reputation of a hooligan in the process, but that, you'll be glad to know, is a sacrifice I am willing to make.

What, still not convinced? Then take a good look at the case I've built after ages of meticulous research and intelligence gathering:

Valentine's Day has a long history of association with deception and violence. According to legend, for instance, the first Valentine was a love note written by St. Valentine himself, while in prison, to his jailer's daughter shortly before being stoned to death. The celebration itself originated in the ancient Roman festival of Lupercalis, when young men ran around striking women with goat hide dipped in blood. And the oldest Valentine message still in existence was written by Charles, Duke of Orleans, to be sneaked out of the Tower of London where he was being imprisoned for participating in the Battle of Agincourt.

The giving of Valentine gifts is not only harmful to the environment, but a human rights offence that threatens our mental stability. Each year countless trees are cut down against their will, relentlessly butchered and ground into pulp to make cards and wrapping paper. This mass slaughter leads to the depletion of valuable forest resources. As well, the act of giving a gift is a source of stress for both the donor, who chose the gift, and the recipient, who often is left with the guilt of being unable to refund something so expensive. If owning a box of $80 chocolates isn't cruel and unusual punishment, what is?

Valentine's Day is a corporate ploy. Do you think it's a coincidence that it's the only day all year when being thrifty is frowned upon?

About a billion Valentine's cards will be sent this year, and accompanying them will be millions of flowers, chocolates, and all matter of other insanely overpriced things that would be virtually impossible to sell on any other day. We must stop this blatant and inhumane exploitation of our spending habits!

There you have it. Clearly, justice is long past due. The time to take action is now. Make a statement today, and make it well. Show that you can stand for your beliefs. You don't even have to part with tradition. Give yourself a present. Take yourself to the movies. Ask yourself, "Will I be my Valentine?" Step outside and breathe the free air. Savour your newfound independence.

We entered this world held safe in your arms,
Unknown to suffering and shielded from harms;

You led us through life with your gentle hand,
You watched as we crawled and taught us to stand;

Through thick and through thin you’ve helped us succeed,
Given us voices and taught us to read;

We walked in the dark, but you gave us light,
Weeding the wrong and planting the right;

Devoted your life so that we could have ours,
Plucked us the moon and served us the stars;

And when we were careless, and turned you our backs,
You set our paths straight with a few hearty whacks.

Now that we’re older, and oft walk alone,
You’re there for us still, the comfort we’ve known;

Heartfelt devotion, selfless pain,
Ceaseless toil for love’s humble gain;

What else is there, but for us to say,
'We wish you a happy Mother's Day!'