Fracturing the asininity of stereotypes

You know those spam emails you often receive that transfer you to a series of websites? I was sent one of those, it didn’t say “You have won x amount of money” so I took that as a sign that this one was legit. Turns out this was a survey and my lack of entertainment on the first morning of the holidays urged me to fill it out.

“Describe yourself in 3 words” hmmm… After a few minutes of contemplation. I reached a conclusion: I couldn’t do it. This cinch request got me thinking… 3 words to sum me up. I’ve never been a fan of summaries especially when they involve sporangia and gametophyte’s, but that’s a topic for an incredibly sleep driving biology lesson.

Instead I turned to those around me in aid of this task. For many their answers were simple ranging for compassionate to pitiless, then I realised what I had asked of them. To stereotype.

The problem with stereotypes? They label people. We see a heavily edited poster of a terrorist and shudder in fear. Yet he may have a family. Isn’t that an indication that he is capable of affection? Surely he isn’t that terrifying if his offspring still exist. Take a saint or ‘good Samaritan’, someone who is supposedly the ideal example of a humanitarian, who probably has a vault full of cash, lives in a mansion and hasn’t gone a day without food. Not to evade their admirable work but I swear that I saw him bypass the lethargic handicapped kid on the street. What I just did was a contradiction of a stereotype, but a stereotype nonetheless and equally as prejudiced as the original judgement. Stereotypes don’t work because no person is the exact depiction of a definition.

I am a South African, I wish I was French, my heritage traces back to India with a lot of Arab influence. I have family in Europe thus plenty of interaction with their cultures and habits. So then can I say I’m South African even if we are the Rainbow Nation, nevertheless stating ‘South African’ on a form is way easier and less time consuming than regurgitating the above. What I’m trying to prove is that we don’t have to be a cardboard cut out of a specific stereotype just because society deems it appropriate.

Perhaps my presence is irrelevant to many people, but confining me to 3 words is an insult to my very persona. I don’t have the charity of Oprah or the ethics of Mandela, the achievements or versatility of Jonny Depp or the plastic surgery of Micheal Jackson, hell my bank account is probably pocket change to the Kardashians but surely I deserve the right to be recognised by more than mere adjectives.

We are wealths of wonder. Our eyes, an ocean of secrets, mystery, enchantment. Our minds, cultivating grounds for inventions which will someday be compared to that of Bell, J.K Rowling, Steve Jobs, Henry Ford, Cleopatra, James Taylor or Maradona. There lies within me a constellation of wonderment phenomena. Why insult me to an illicit label. My worth will not be undermined. I will not be restricted within the concrete walls of a petty description. You wouldn’t allow it either. If that’s the case then why are we the greatest perpetrators of stereotypes?

Why did I put this upon myself. I am an entire being, why should I limit myself and surrender to just 3 words, I don’t think 10 or even 100 words could contain me. I contemplate whether the entire mass of the dictionary is capable of characterizing me. Be absurd. Be free. Be unlimited. Be you. Whoever that is.

After sending a seriously strongly worded email to the creators of the previously mentioned survey, you’d be pleased to know that they have altered that particular question…to “5 words” :|. In this case some people really can be summed up into one word: dimwitted.

Your ineffable ebullient wallflower [ha! 3 words! I did it!]
Quixotic Novelist

My malicious malady

If you’ve taken the time to read this, thank you.

I regret to inform you that I’ve been inflicted with a detrimental disease. It has no physical symptoms so if you’ve seen me recently I appeared my usual persona. Perhaps you may have noticed odd contingencies and maybe my constant complaints have been the greatest indicator. The pathosis I’ve been diagnosed with is something that has plagued thousands before… Writers Block.

It materialized out of nothing! The effects have been more horrendous than I can explain, worse of all is the claustrophobia within the walls of my head, choking my empty, trivial theories. Taunting my caliber. Creating barricades between different sectors of my brain. Not only has it robbed me of mere thought but has embezzled my afflatus.

I say this, stricken with grief , but even to this day, there is no cure. Although I’m told a destination unknown ticket, a leprechaun with a pot of gold and an all you can eat voucher from Willy Wonka’s factory may just be the cure. I’ve reached the point of helplessness that I am more than willing to be the guinea pig for anyone with an avidity for experimenting-with the above method of course.

For now, in addition to your prayers I can only hope that inspiration strikes and I find a massive muse to compensate for wasting irreplaceable moments of your life. Your support means the absolute world to me.

Your thoughts, prayers, flowers, delicacies-excluding anything with dark chocolate, movies, an all expenses paid trip to Paris, would be gladly appreciated.

*coughs deplorably , bats eye lashes*-no, ignore that, it makes me look like I’m a bush baby on steroids.

_Quxiotic Novelist

Mephitic revelations

This past Saturday I attended a farewell-pool party type event for one of my close friends. My first impression of the crowd were quite avid and reckless. Anyway my excellent judgement is not the point. They started catapulting people in the pool, beginning with the guest of honor. In addition to being a light weight, I was betrayed by a finger of “Throw her instead” and thus became a target, now I’m wearing a long WHITE dress, and slippery shoes. In my obliviousness I’m sitting on the steps with my friend whose just had his wisdoms removed- and that was his “excuse” for being utterly and completely incapacitated.[Traitor!]

So this dude with mountainous biceps and arms that have long surpassed any feeling, whom also regards a punch as the annoyance of a fly on a summers day (By now, friends, we have established that a fly makes my punching skill-or lack thereof- look like dirt) grabs my legs, now I may not look like a threat but I’ve got one hell of a boom box voice, I start screaming, I had almost driven him to deafness but he has some serious tolerance. I have 3 phones in my hand so I’m semi-safe… Another one grabs one of the phones so I’m partially starting to freak out just a wee bit. When a third guy takes the last two phones, but there’s a pole next to me so I grab onto that, doing some crazy matrix move, unfortunately I lack the training of Keeanu Reeves and they eventually pry my steel grip off of it and carry my defenseless form toward the pool, but I’m struggling and so I fall, face first on the ground, I managed to tilt myself so my face (thank goodness!) was saved but my side and wrist not so much…

My two left feet, attraction to the floor and mission to defy gravity are proof of my not to stable luck. A concussion was well on it way, my friends managed to get me up and into the bathroom where my blurry vision and swelling wrist become clearer.

But when I went out , there stood three dopey eyed idiots apologising profusely, so I did the normal thing and lunged straight for one of their faces. And that loyal readers is how the sad reality of my disability to throw a punch became evident. Adding to my downfall, my sad excuse of fist action echoed heinously as my wealth of chunky bangles clanged as if to emphasize my mortification… Thank you benevolent universe, I pray that you find a new victim.

Wallflowers

After it was suggested by a friend, I read ‘The Perks of being a Wallflower’ by Stephan Chbosky. It faltered totally from my expectation. When you hear ‘teenage literature’ you automatically think Mean Girls, High School Musical etc. To an extent this book was no different, however it was viewed through a different perspective. Through the observance of an innocent- a wallflower.

Charlie, the protagonist, has just began his high school career, he writes letters to a ‘friend’ describing the dilemmas that we have all faced. The thing I think most of us can identify with him when he says “So this is my life and I want you to know that I am both happy and sad and I’m still trying to figure out how that could be.”

The story vexed at my mind, exposing me to the realities of adolescence I try so hard to avoid: drugs, smoking, peer-pressure, intimate involvement. I highly recommend this novel to every teenager because at some point we’ve all felt on the brink of insanity and this welcomes one and all to “the island of misfit toys”. We’ve all “felt infinite in that moment” and know that “not everyone has a sob story and even if they do it’s no excuse.” We’ve too young to talk about forever but someday “we accept the. Love we think we deserve.”

I was both bewildered and refreshed by Chbosky’s writing and this is because of the depth of Charlie. He is naive and immature but compared to majority of the guys I know who aren’t capable of constructing a vehement sentence without several spelling and grammar errors, Charlie is wise for his age.

As I turned the final page I was paralyzed by a single robust reflection. I too am a wallflower. “I see things. I keep quiet about them. And I understand.” You too are a wallflower… We all are, but what we need to do is abandon our stance against the wall. “We can’t just sit there and put everybody’s lives ahead of ours. We can’t count this as love. We can’t. We have to do things.

Locked out of logic

Exactly a year ago, on this date I finally reaped a door for my bedroom. What I’m going to relate is not the urgent importance of a teenagers privacy but rather the tale of how my much anticipated door became my prison..

The door arrived in a blanket of bubble wrap on a Friday morning. When I got home from school I was giddy with excitement and stared at this new wonder that would now hold the task of blocking out the chaos that’s constant in my home.

The next morning I provoked an argument with my sister just to have the satisfaction of slamming MY DOOR in her face. Which I did. A mere 10 minutes later I grew bored of the sanctity of my dwellings and tugged the handle of the door to exit. Except that it wouldn’t open.

I tugged and I pulled and pulled and I tugged but it wouldn’t budge.

It should have occurred to me earlier that this was a plot of pay back from my sister, she’s big on revenge-never misses an episode of it- so I hissed threats at her in a ploy to unlock my door. After her laughter died out and promise of her innocence was clear it became evident that I really was stuck in this freak situation. After a frantic hyperventilated phone conversation with my parents my only option was to wait until someone came to my rescue. “Uhh Prince Charming, whom I know is out there, now would be a good time to make your presence reality.”

Did I mention I’m claustrophobic? Oxygen reached a scarcity, my fingers threatened to rip my hair from its roots. The confinement became unbearable so I stuck my head out of the window, with my cascading hair dangling like a rope and contemplated jumping however suicide is on my list of ‘Not to do’s’. Contagious snickering drew my attention to my neighbours kids when one says, “Rupunzel , Rupunzel let down your hair!”
I appreciate the universe’s sense of humor, but really?! A six year old boy with a chocolate mustache, I doubt his pocket money could sustain even a spoonful of my frozen yogurt addiction!

When my parents returned we realised that the only thing holding me back was my temerarious ignorance. That and my inability to push the door a wee bit harder -It was never stuck in the first place…

Ha
Ha
Needless to say the cursed door stays firmly against the wall, its hinges never moving.
Quixotic Novelist

**In case you’re wondering why it took an eternity for me to get a door, the reason being that my door frame is of an abnormal measurement, thus the door had to be custom made to precisely fit the arch. what with my luck the first two tries failed, with the excuse of being too small and then the wrong type of wood.