The Day Obama Happened to Me

To a Better World

The greatest mistake we have made as a species is putting a price tag on knowledge. Someone once told me that the Library of Alexandria, the greatest tomb of knowledge of the Ancient World, had its volumes bound and locked in chains. Learning and science, "the pursuit of knowledge", was limited to men of the high born. More than 2000 years since, we continue to make the same mistake. Education, as we define it today, has become nothing but a sale of papers certifying that its holder is capable of this or that.

I remember learning that the Buddha described a good teacher as one who does not hold what is called a "guru mushti"- the denial of some vital knowledge to ensure that the disciple never becomes better than the guru. This foolish practice common at the time ensured that great things like the knowledge of herbal medicine and feats of ancient civil engineering were forever lost to humans.

We continue to do this, in a modernized form, by controlling access to information and education. Instead of guarding knowledge from slaves, women and other pestilences, today, we educate only those who can afford it. "Pay to continue", educators scream in bold, black fonts. The method may be different, but the result of these shackles we put on ourselves are the same as they were millennia ago- they hinder the advancement of mankind.

This is to the young man with sharp eyes who rolled my burrito because he couldn't afford to go to college anymore, this is to all my friends who had to settle for less because their dreams were too expensive, this is to me for smiling awkwardly and walking away empty-handedly because I did not have money to buy that over-priced education pack.

No, I don't want your charity. What I want is a world where humans' inborn curiosity is fed, where you can ask a question and get an answer without having to pay for it, where every child inherits all that is of value that his or her forefathers have reaped, a world where knowledge is free.

On Curiosity

I ran into my neighbors today. I was walking home, and the residues of a long hot day were smeared across the sky.

"Kite!" the little three-year-old screamed, pointing with his chubby finger. I had to squint my near-sighted eyes to see the little speck of red that he had discovered among the clouds.

"Oh! Big kite, baba! Look!", his mother and grandmother chimed in, trying hard to sound like toddlers themselves.

The child began trying to peddle his mini-bicycle again. It was covered with stickers and had the learning wheels still attached to the sides. He had not yet figured out that riding a bicycle involves pushing the peddles in a whole circle. Instead he pressed down on them with all his might, as his mother gave the jerking bike a gentle push. He is a considerate driver though, ringing the bell to make sure that I don't run into him. I politely crossed over to the other side of the lane. His grandmother tried to stuff a biscuit into his mouth, and when he refused, she began munching on it. She offered me one too, and social norms forced me to accept it. I mumbled a thank you and nibbled at the salty cracker hoping no one will notice my face contort in pain at every bite. (More on that later.)

As the adults exchange pleasantries, he tried to get his bike off the concrete road and onto the grassy dirt track that leads to their house. But it got stuck in between, in a little ditch of sharp pieces of rock aggregate the builders had lazily left behind to cover the imperfections of our little lane.

Suddenly, distracted by the black crystals, he left his bike and began poking the ground with his fingers.

"Cheee.... Poo!", his mother and grandmother began chiding in unison. "Dog poo!" The little one reluctantly threw away the rock he was holding with his dainty fingers.

He tried pushing his bike again. "Ah! Stop! You'll fall!" 

More adult blah-blah.

"If you don't eat, we are going to put you in the garbage dump and lock you!"

Still more adult blah-blah.

"Let him be", I wanted to say. "Just fuck off and let him be."

Of course I didn't say that. I continued nibbling my biscuit, talking bits of weather and politics before proceeding to make a polite exit. I even said I'll try to talk to them again before I leave. I won't.

~~~~~

This exchange, as brief and mundane as it was, made me realize something. I was a lucky kid.

I grew up playing with sand and mud and snow and grass. My mother let us pet any animal we saw.

(She can be a bit extreme sometimes. When I was about seven, she made me almost hug a camel for a photo. It was huge, and we later found out it bites. I almost lost my face that day. That was shortly before we got spat at by a llama. Long story.)

I'm a 90's kid. Yes, I wanted a Game Boy and never got one. I got a Tamagotchi though. We had a huge collection of hand-me-down audio cassettes and Disney movies copied on to VHS tapes. We still have those, covered in mold. We also still have boxes full of Lego. In my free time, I read books to teddies. On TV, I watched Sesame Street, but within a few short years, moved onto The Simpsons. In 1997, I spent my life's savings on a Sailor Moon audio CD.

Every other memory I have of my childhood is scattered about in the great outdoors. By the sea, in the gardens and parks, the streets, and every dirty and dusty corner. My grandmother's cat and dog were some of our first friends.

We climbed trees and fed cows, frolicked in the fields and rolled around in rabbit poop. My mother never stopped us. I was a happy child.

I've also learned many things the hard way:

• Pressing the front brakes of a bike while rushing down a steep hill at extreme speeds creates a psychological time-warp. You reach an ecstatic free-fall that probably lasts a fraction of a second, but feels like forever. And then you hit the ground.
• Wandering into a forest unattended by adults can lead to trouble. Bending twigs to mark the way back is a good idea in movies. In real life, your parents, armed with your friends' parents, start combing the forest, screaming your names. Later they scold you and say they almost called the firefighters.
• Not telling an adult about the thorn you got stuck in your finger is also a bad idea. It gets infested and hurts and hurts until you chop it out with a pin.
• Fire is an ethereal substance that leaps and spreads its flicking tongue much faster than you can ever imagine.

If I ever have children, I'll set them free. I'll nag and whine and chide and scream, but I will also let them see with their own eyes, and touch and feel with their own hearts. If there ever was a gift you could give a child, it is curiosity. My mother gave me that, and that is probably the best thing that ever happened to me.

On Being a Bum

I sometimes use words inappropriately, sometimes I swear, sometimes I make mistakes. But I will not hesitate to make words up, if English ever fails me. Like Lewis Carroll and Beyonce before me. What often happens though is vice versa, I fail English.

A concerned reader asked me what I meant when I referred to myself as a bum. Well, I don't know for sure. But your question reminded me of this poem I read a few years ago. For some reason, this talented poet and  eccentric character struck my young heart. May be what I meant by calling myself a bum was that I wanted to be more like him.

Ladies and Gentleman, I present to you, Charles Bukowski.

Bukowski with a cat.

my father

was a truly amazing man
he pretended to be
rich
even though we lived on beans and mush and weenies
when we sat down to eat, he said,
"not everybody can eat like this."

and because he wanted to be rich or because he actually
thought he was rich
he always voted Republican
and he voted for Hoover against Roosevelt
and he lost
and then he voted for Alf Landon against Roosevelt
and he lost again
saying, "I don't know what this world is coming to,
now we've got that god damned Red in there again
and the Russians will be in our backyard next!"

I think it was my father who made me decide to
become a bum.
I decided that if a man like that wants to be rich
then I want to be poor.

and I became a bum.
I lived on nickles and dimes and in cheap rooms and
on park benches.
I thought maybe the bums knew something.

but I found out that most of the bums wanted to be
rich too.
they had just failed at that.

so caught between my father and the bums
I had no place to go
and I went there fast and slow.
never voted Republican
never voted.

buried him
like an oddity of the earth
like a hundred thousand oddities
like millions of other oddities,
wasted.


Charles Bukowski