When the world was younger and I was much younger now, eyes all over the world was enthralled by Man going to the moon in 1969. It was a big thing then. A new concept and a monumental moment in history.
Where we lived and worked, my family sat around a small black and white television set glued to the screen. I recall a man in a grey bulging suit walking around somewhat carefully. Neil Armstrong may have been on the moon, but to my childish mind, it was not that much fun.
I just needed that candy. Despite the fact that we lived in a grocery story that was filled with sweets of all kinds, nothing was that interesting. I must have tried them all and wanted a change.
I looked at the TV set and drew a blank. I asked my parents if I could go to Wong's store, just half a block from our store. Despite the fact that they were our mortal enemy and competition, I didn't much care. Even despite the fact that a little Chinese girl in my life despised me and never said one word to me, starting from Grade one on, didn't deter me one bit. I had to get to Wong's.
It was hot that day and I walked to the store by myself with no coat. In a little while, I entered the little shop and admired its many prizes. We didn't have all these small, cute looking candies in a plastic counter, or even the sweet powdery sugar substance that could be sucked lovingly from a straw. It was incredible and I armed myself with some goodies to take home.
When I came back, Walter Cronkite, a news commentator, gave a play-by-play of the Man on the Moon news story, and my family took it all in.
Except me. I was vaguely aware of its significance. But mostly on the mind was the troubling question of why we never had the same kinds of candies that Wong's carried.
It also occurred to me that the little girl Katie who had an ongoing hatred for us Chan's, may have thought me to be a spy. Katie and I were both the same age in the same school and in my class. But for some odd reason, we never got it on.
It may have started in Grade 1 when Katie and her friend, Parminder looked at me with distaste, Parminder looked at my shiny shoes and proceeded to step on them. As we moved through the grades, my sisters and I never spoke to the Wong children, nor did I take to talking to Parminder who was the lone East Indian girl in the school it seems. She wore her hair long and shiny and as she passed, her hair smelled of some kind of cosmetic ethnic ingredient.
When I went to Wong's that day in 1969, I knew that Katie lived upstairs in the shop, too. But I never asked to talk to her. Her mother took my money and I guess Katie was upstairs watching the story about the Man on the Moon, too.
Tuesday, March 20, 2012
Letter to Mr. Slim : Good Riddance to You and All Your Lessons
I never was much of a student in High School. Prone to day dreaming of my future as a writer, I suppose, I couldn't stand my History class, especially when it was taught by Mr. Slim.
Back when I went to school in the seventies, teachers followed a curriculum designed to boor students to tears, and make history confined to the corridors of dates, names and incidences. Mr Slim was no exception, and he conducted his class like a robot, and carefully pulled out a pile of notes from his briefcase and started to recite.
He pulled out dates and World War II incidences as though it happened centuries ago, rather than mere decades ago and I could care less whether some leader of the Allies forced his way through the German barriers, or even what was the significance of Vimy Ridge. There was no History Channel back then, and it must have been too novel at the time to bring retired members of the Canadian Army to class to conduct lectures outlining the realities of war.
Nothing stuck on me and it showed, especially in the results of my exam where my marks failed to both excite me and my History teacher. Nor did Mr. Slim appear that he cared.
He came to class each day, well dressed, and carefully opened his well cared for notes, which he proceed to recite from as though it was as significant as Mozart's music. Of course, now I realize the price that men and women paid for in the great Wars, and take away so much information from shows such as the History Channel, etc on television.
Although I must have been close to seventeen, and still undecided about my job ambitions, at one point, I did ponder to be a teacher. But after observing Mr. Slim, who must have been in his late fifties conduct his lectures in such a boring, distant manner, I clearly decided in my mind's eye not to be a teacher. He clearly seemed to be doing his job for the money, than for the real pleasure of encouraging young minds.
I like movies and whenever an opportunity came to see one, especially in school, my eyes immediately perked up. On this one afternoon, Mr. Slim put on a World War II film that showed a celebration of soldiers and women. It may have been a victory moment, and as the film neared its end, the black and white reel displaced young and happy men frolicking with young and willing women, who were of Japanese descent.
Mr. Slim suddenly interjected a remark to the effect that this display of white men and yellow women frolicking together was deemed to be disgusting, forbidden and downright madness. He spoke his mind that white men and yellow women should never get together for romantic reasons and each ethnic group deserves to socialize romantically among themselves. Although the exact wording of Mr. Slim may be off somewhat due to time, the general gist of what he had to say is exact.
It was then that I realized who he really was. Mr Slim: a racist.
At that time, this obedient, poor student wanted to walk out when my teacher waxed into his ugly discourse, but I said nothing. I remarked about Mr. Slim's outburst to my siblings, who also agreed that he was a racist, but nothing came of it. Until now.
So Mr. Slim, after all these years, you are finally outed.
And yes, Mr. Slim, you should have been replaced years ago by someone like Mr. Sidney Poitier.
It's too bad that for too long, years of young minds have been twisted by Mr. Slim's racist ideas.
And when I stepped out into the sunshine of the streets after finishing his class, it was no surprise that I encountered name-calling from young groups of racists, who probably had Mr. Slim as a History teacher.
Back when I went to school in the seventies, teachers followed a curriculum designed to boor students to tears, and make history confined to the corridors of dates, names and incidences. Mr Slim was no exception, and he conducted his class like a robot, and carefully pulled out a pile of notes from his briefcase and started to recite.
He pulled out dates and World War II incidences as though it happened centuries ago, rather than mere decades ago and I could care less whether some leader of the Allies forced his way through the German barriers, or even what was the significance of Vimy Ridge. There was no History Channel back then, and it must have been too novel at the time to bring retired members of the Canadian Army to class to conduct lectures outlining the realities of war.
Nothing stuck on me and it showed, especially in the results of my exam where my marks failed to both excite me and my History teacher. Nor did Mr. Slim appear that he cared.
He came to class each day, well dressed, and carefully opened his well cared for notes, which he proceed to recite from as though it was as significant as Mozart's music. Of course, now I realize the price that men and women paid for in the great Wars, and take away so much information from shows such as the History Channel, etc on television.
Although I must have been close to seventeen, and still undecided about my job ambitions, at one point, I did ponder to be a teacher. But after observing Mr. Slim, who must have been in his late fifties conduct his lectures in such a boring, distant manner, I clearly decided in my mind's eye not to be a teacher. He clearly seemed to be doing his job for the money, than for the real pleasure of encouraging young minds.
I like movies and whenever an opportunity came to see one, especially in school, my eyes immediately perked up. On this one afternoon, Mr. Slim put on a World War II film that showed a celebration of soldiers and women. It may have been a victory moment, and as the film neared its end, the black and white reel displaced young and happy men frolicking with young and willing women, who were of Japanese descent.
Mr. Slim suddenly interjected a remark to the effect that this display of white men and yellow women frolicking together was deemed to be disgusting, forbidden and downright madness. He spoke his mind that white men and yellow women should never get together for romantic reasons and each ethnic group deserves to socialize romantically among themselves. Although the exact wording of Mr. Slim may be off somewhat due to time, the general gist of what he had to say is exact.
It was then that I realized who he really was. Mr Slim: a racist.
At that time, this obedient, poor student wanted to walk out when my teacher waxed into his ugly discourse, but I said nothing. I remarked about Mr. Slim's outburst to my siblings, who also agreed that he was a racist, but nothing came of it. Until now.
So Mr. Slim, after all these years, you are finally outed.
And yes, Mr. Slim, you should have been replaced years ago by someone like Mr. Sidney Poitier.
It's too bad that for too long, years of young minds have been twisted by Mr. Slim's racist ideas.
And when I stepped out into the sunshine of the streets after finishing his class, it was no surprise that I encountered name-calling from young groups of racists, who probably had Mr. Slim as a History teacher.
Sunday, March 18, 2012
When Clint Eastwood was King and Punks were Just Punks
My mother took us to movies whenever she had a chance. While my Dad tended the customers for a few hours, we caught a movie in downtown New Westminster, which in the seventies, featured a few theatres showing the latest movies. Nearby, we ate at Woolworths, a now defunct store, which featured a variety of discount items as well as a counter restaurant which offered light meals.
Clint Eastwood, then, was featured in a new movie called Magnum Force and despite the violence, we enjoyed Eastwood's charisma, and especially how he dealt with criminals, occasionally calling them "punk."
Clint was "The Man" back then, and often we would laugh at his witty dealings with the bad guys, squinting at them and joking about whether they just got out of San Quentin prison.
As I was young then, perhaps, ten or twelve, me and my other sister were accompanied by my mother who often used her hands to shield us from a naked scene or some violent moment.
Although I enjoyed the latest Disney movies, somehow watching an Eastwood movie was both exhilarating and fun at the same time. It was a few hours where we could escape from a world that was not always so nice.
My mother recalls that she was just gassing up her car with my sister when some lone male yelled out a racial slur. She proceeded to berate the man, occasionally using "punk" and asking to his bewilderment, what he has done for his country. "Has he ever fought in the war? There are so many young men who have died, and you're standing there being an ignorant bum." Of course, her words were much more liberal and colorful than mine, but due to brevity, I can only write down the general gist of her diatribes.
There were dozens of incidents like that during the space of my years growing up, from the late sixties to seventies where I recall my Mom telling off the "punks" with all her vocal might.
Still, despite her efforts and mine, too, me and my sisters encountered our share of young people hurling out racial names as though it was something that was part of their extracurricular activity.
We did our best to stake our case, sometimes throwing out a bit of their own medicine, using "honky" and some other negative name that befit their Caucasian background.
I never used the word "punk" myself to defend myself, but looking back, it seems being hurled the word "punk" hit its mark: like throwing a rotten egg on their window.
Clearly, my Mom acted like the female equivalent of Clint Eastwood. Although she carried no magnum gun in her purse, her words shook the air and thundered, and punks froze in their shoes, never expecting that that this slight woman, wearing a conservative mid-length skirt could rise up like a phoenix and bite back with such force.
My mother also said to hit it in the bud, meaning that punks deserved to be treated with their own medicine now, rather than the next life.
Clint Eastwood, then, was featured in a new movie called Magnum Force and despite the violence, we enjoyed Eastwood's charisma, and especially how he dealt with criminals, occasionally calling them "punk."
Clint was "The Man" back then, and often we would laugh at his witty dealings with the bad guys, squinting at them and joking about whether they just got out of San Quentin prison.
As I was young then, perhaps, ten or twelve, me and my other sister were accompanied by my mother who often used her hands to shield us from a naked scene or some violent moment.
Although I enjoyed the latest Disney movies, somehow watching an Eastwood movie was both exhilarating and fun at the same time. It was a few hours where we could escape from a world that was not always so nice.
My mother recalls that she was just gassing up her car with my sister when some lone male yelled out a racial slur. She proceeded to berate the man, occasionally using "punk" and asking to his bewilderment, what he has done for his country. "Has he ever fought in the war? There are so many young men who have died, and you're standing there being an ignorant bum." Of course, her words were much more liberal and colorful than mine, but due to brevity, I can only write down the general gist of her diatribes.
There were dozens of incidents like that during the space of my years growing up, from the late sixties to seventies where I recall my Mom telling off the "punks" with all her vocal might.
Still, despite her efforts and mine, too, me and my sisters encountered our share of young people hurling out racial names as though it was something that was part of their extracurricular activity.
We did our best to stake our case, sometimes throwing out a bit of their own medicine, using "honky" and some other negative name that befit their Caucasian background.
I never used the word "punk" myself to defend myself, but looking back, it seems being hurled the word "punk" hit its mark: like throwing a rotten egg on their window.
Clearly, my Mom acted like the female equivalent of Clint Eastwood. Although she carried no magnum gun in her purse, her words shook the air and thundered, and punks froze in their shoes, never expecting that that this slight woman, wearing a conservative mid-length skirt could rise up like a phoenix and bite back with such force.
My mother also said to hit it in the bud, meaning that punks deserved to be treated with their own medicine now, rather than the next life.
Saturday, March 17, 2012
On Being a Chinese Grocer
Back when I was a child, all of my family worked. We all lived and worked in the same building since my Mom and Dad owned a grocery store. Week days were spend holed up in the public school system during the day time, and afternoons, me and my sisters trudged home-ward bound to relieve my parents, especially when we got older.
When I was young, I handled the cash and tried to help bag groceries, even though I could not reach the counter top. I loved helping out, even though in one case I was barely was able to lift the bag from the ground, spilling all its contents. Every day, our parents worked, never skipping a Sunday, and our store got its share of memorable customers.
Sometimes a young man brought his monkey to the store, bringing about lots of good conversation and curiosity. During Halloween, young men came in the store to buy food coloring for their hair due to fact that Halloween costumes were home-made rather than manufactured. The bulk of our customers were primariy white and all was not always well.
In the late sixties, my mom and I drove around in a chevy and sometimes encountered a racial slur from a young white male. It didn't matter that I was a young child or that I was with my mother, racism raised its ugly head. My mother also shot back a response, not matter who it was. "Shut up, you igorant bum," she should sneer.
Kids too would yell at us, "Go back home, Chinamen," they would yell.
My sister thought she was smart and shouted, "Shut up, you war,!" Actually, she meant, "whore." but who knew the word.
Myself, I was more shy, and listened to my siblings and mother tell off the racists. Sometimes, I would yell out and sometimes, on a bad day, I wished I was white.
I didn't know about the civil rights movement too much or about Dr. Martin Luther King. In high school, we learned about ABC's and never about learning to live together.
As a young girl, I played with dolls that were Caucasion and watched TV in black and white.
Things really were black and white back then.
With the arrival of color TV, I started to notice a more, relaxed mood. Then Bruce Lee came to the big screen around the seventies, and I started to appreciate my skin color.
Even though I experienced the occasional racial incident, inside and outside the store, I raised my head a little higher each day, knowing that no matter what some people said, they couldn't take the fight out of us.
And besides, since most of the stores were closed on Sundays, (Back then, the majority of stores were closed on Sundays), ours was a business that accepted all customers, regardless of their ignorance.
When I was young, I handled the cash and tried to help bag groceries, even though I could not reach the counter top. I loved helping out, even though in one case I was barely was able to lift the bag from the ground, spilling all its contents. Every day, our parents worked, never skipping a Sunday, and our store got its share of memorable customers.
Sometimes a young man brought his monkey to the store, bringing about lots of good conversation and curiosity. During Halloween, young men came in the store to buy food coloring for their hair due to fact that Halloween costumes were home-made rather than manufactured. The bulk of our customers were primariy white and all was not always well.
In the late sixties, my mom and I drove around in a chevy and sometimes encountered a racial slur from a young white male. It didn't matter that I was a young child or that I was with my mother, racism raised its ugly head. My mother also shot back a response, not matter who it was. "Shut up, you igorant bum," she should sneer.
Kids too would yell at us, "Go back home, Chinamen," they would yell.
My sister thought she was smart and shouted, "Shut up, you war,!" Actually, she meant, "whore." but who knew the word.
Myself, I was more shy, and listened to my siblings and mother tell off the racists. Sometimes, I would yell out and sometimes, on a bad day, I wished I was white.
I didn't know about the civil rights movement too much or about Dr. Martin Luther King. In high school, we learned about ABC's and never about learning to live together.
As a young girl, I played with dolls that were Caucasion and watched TV in black and white.
Things really were black and white back then.
With the arrival of color TV, I started to notice a more, relaxed mood. Then Bruce Lee came to the big screen around the seventies, and I started to appreciate my skin color.
Even though I experienced the occasional racial incident, inside and outside the store, I raised my head a little higher each day, knowing that no matter what some people said, they couldn't take the fight out of us.
And besides, since most of the stores were closed on Sundays, (Back then, the majority of stores were closed on Sundays), ours was a business that accepted all customers, regardless of their ignorance.
How to Deal with Bullies in the Workforce -Part 2
For the most part, my way of dealing with workplace bullies was to do basically nothing. Silence, indeed, was my most worst enemy but I was not exactly sleeping, too. Secretly, I was writing down things on small pieces of paper, things that my then supervisor and manager was doing to make my life miserable.
For the most part, these damaging things were observable: other employees were getting better desks and treatment and my requests to deal with workplace issues were laughed at and ignored.
My dog days took the form of going to work with a huge cloud over my shoulder. Even despite clearly unprofessional treatment at the hands of Hitler's relatives (I imagined), I took it all in, never wanted to throw in the towel over what I deemed were a normal part of one's working world.
In fact, for years I went through one bad boss after another, mostly women managers who saw fit to treat my life as though I were a paid slave, only there to make their lives better. All these wierd, unstable bosses were, for the most part, large, younger and clearly competent employees. But even if there were more unattractive than I was, why did they seem to take it out on myself, I wondered? Why did they continue to ask me my age during social occasions, when it didn't really matter, dither, if I was more older, more attractive than she?
All these age-related questions are, in fact, a form of abuse that younger women often use to make themselves feel better than others. Who really cares if they are just celebrating their 21th birthday in Las Vegas? Are they going to be twenty-one for the rest of their lives?
Interestingly enough, I recall that my days of workplace abuse was mostly spent in underpaid, high stressful jobs dominated by young, immature, barely educated young women. Add that, nonunion jobs.
When that day came when the abuser decided to fire me, it came as somewhat of a surprise. Other fired employees walked out silently, but this I could take no more. I howled out at my abusers, cursed them with the word, "lawsuit," and slammed the door quite loudly as I exited the cold and sterile-looking call-centre floor.
A few months later, I did just that. I retained a pro-bono lawyer and settled with myself receiving both extra money and a reference letter. I was saved by the law.
For the most part, these damaging things were observable: other employees were getting better desks and treatment and my requests to deal with workplace issues were laughed at and ignored.
My dog days took the form of going to work with a huge cloud over my shoulder. Even despite clearly unprofessional treatment at the hands of Hitler's relatives (I imagined), I took it all in, never wanted to throw in the towel over what I deemed were a normal part of one's working world.
In fact, for years I went through one bad boss after another, mostly women managers who saw fit to treat my life as though I were a paid slave, only there to make their lives better. All these wierd, unstable bosses were, for the most part, large, younger and clearly competent employees. But even if there were more unattractive than I was, why did they seem to take it out on myself, I wondered? Why did they continue to ask me my age during social occasions, when it didn't really matter, dither, if I was more older, more attractive than she?
All these age-related questions are, in fact, a form of abuse that younger women often use to make themselves feel better than others. Who really cares if they are just celebrating their 21th birthday in Las Vegas? Are they going to be twenty-one for the rest of their lives?
Interestingly enough, I recall that my days of workplace abuse was mostly spent in underpaid, high stressful jobs dominated by young, immature, barely educated young women. Add that, nonunion jobs.
When that day came when the abuser decided to fire me, it came as somewhat of a surprise. Other fired employees walked out silently, but this I could take no more. I howled out at my abusers, cursed them with the word, "lawsuit," and slammed the door quite loudly as I exited the cold and sterile-looking call-centre floor.
A few months later, I did just that. I retained a pro-bono lawyer and settled with myself receiving both extra money and a reference letter. I was saved by the law.
Friday, March 16, 2012
When Witches Invade the Work Place
Being in the world of work is tough. If you think about it, it is often like being in a school yard where employees and employers are either your friend, a bully or just a pain in the butt.
I've worked among some of the worst bully employers ever. One rather large woman had the audacity to scream at me at one point in one of my bad job years. When this happened, I took to walking out rather abruptly and explaining my behaviour to the bosses the next day. In that same, mundane job, a younger woman with eyes that were both hawkish and full of stress, proceeded to harass me over one thing or another. I rolled my eyes during one of her tirades and tried to block her out.
In these years of low esteem which hovered over me like a bad movie, I listened to their constant harping, while silently hoping for some thing to happen that would take these women witches to justice.
Thankfully, the job which involved tracking packages, gave me an opportunity to meet some truly wonderful people in the United States. I would deal with my American coworkers on a business and personal way and in some cases did end up meeting some of them in person. It was the best and worst of times, in the words of Dickens.
But at the same time, the workplace was becoming intolerable. I've seem other women also getting the bad treatment. Yes, they were being bullied, too. I tried to band together with another bullied woman but that only made me feel more and more alone. It was just a case of us against them. But despite all the psychological shoving, I took it in stoically, silently thinking to myself that the witches -the women who made my life horrible -may be powerful, but they were ugly both physically and morally. True, I seemed to have more friends of either gender, but that didn't make my life any easier.
One day to my pleasant surprise, the bullied woman who was in her forties, just lost it. She slammed the door on the big, ugly woman-boss and stormed out of the office, officially quitting.
Wow! I took the abuse for a few more months before I decided to quit one day in style by sending them a fax expressing my official intention to leave.
The big great news came to me one day when I heard that the woman who was both the boss and an unofficial Witch of the West was ousted from the job herself -suspected of being a fraudster.
Ah! I love karma.
I've worked among some of the worst bully employers ever. One rather large woman had the audacity to scream at me at one point in one of my bad job years. When this happened, I took to walking out rather abruptly and explaining my behaviour to the bosses the next day. In that same, mundane job, a younger woman with eyes that were both hawkish and full of stress, proceeded to harass me over one thing or another. I rolled my eyes during one of her tirades and tried to block her out.
In these years of low esteem which hovered over me like a bad movie, I listened to their constant harping, while silently hoping for some thing to happen that would take these women witches to justice.
Thankfully, the job which involved tracking packages, gave me an opportunity to meet some truly wonderful people in the United States. I would deal with my American coworkers on a business and personal way and in some cases did end up meeting some of them in person. It was the best and worst of times, in the words of Dickens.
But at the same time, the workplace was becoming intolerable. I've seem other women also getting the bad treatment. Yes, they were being bullied, too. I tried to band together with another bullied woman but that only made me feel more and more alone. It was just a case of us against them. But despite all the psychological shoving, I took it in stoically, silently thinking to myself that the witches -the women who made my life horrible -may be powerful, but they were ugly both physically and morally. True, I seemed to have more friends of either gender, but that didn't make my life any easier.
One day to my pleasant surprise, the bullied woman who was in her forties, just lost it. She slammed the door on the big, ugly woman-boss and stormed out of the office, officially quitting.
Wow! I took the abuse for a few more months before I decided to quit one day in style by sending them a fax expressing my official intention to leave.
The big great news came to me one day when I heard that the woman who was both the boss and an unofficial Witch of the West was ousted from the job herself -suspected of being a fraudster.
Ah! I love karma.
Thursday, March 15, 2012
Why Being a Good Citizen Makes all the Difference in the World
Sometimes the news is so awful that one needs only to shut off the television to turn off the problems of the world.
I often wonder how kids can do things to each other -cause bullying, fighting and just being mean towards each other. It also turns worst when the kids grow up. Some turn to drugs, crime and all kinds of other things which make headline news every day.
And yet, I believe that a lot of crime can be prevented with early life upbringing. Had parents instilled in them some kind of pride, of right and wrong, of following nobler paths, it is quite probable that some of the problem kids could be model citizens.
And yet, strangely enough, a lot of parents leave education up to the school system or even up to thin air. Kids definitely need role models and a firm background where they are encouraged to be model citizens.
True, a lot of kids are fine and don't end of getting in trouble. But it is the few kids that bully and grown up to be killers, animal abusers and drug addicts who need to be held up to further scrutiny.
Indeed, if we could find a way to prevent such problem people, our society would be so much more safer, kinder and nobler.
I remember in university being lectured on the good life by my wonderful Philosophy professor. My mind soared to a wonderful space when I heard of such a better world spoken of by Greek philosophers such as Aristotle, Plato and Socrates. Ideas of citizenship involved people being politically active, as well specifically involved in the well-being of the state.
How often we take citizenship for granted. By virtue of birth, we are granted automatic citizenship. But citizenship should involve something more: being kind, being good to each other is worth more than all the money in the World Bank.
The sad reality is that a lot of places in the world, such as Syria's top leadership, is virtually morally illiterate. Thousands of people demanding a better way of life are being killed by the government's troops and all they really wanted was a better life.
Our world needs more philosophers, better citizens and more nobler leaders.
I often wonder how kids can do things to each other -cause bullying, fighting and just being mean towards each other. It also turns worst when the kids grow up. Some turn to drugs, crime and all kinds of other things which make headline news every day.
And yet, I believe that a lot of crime can be prevented with early life upbringing. Had parents instilled in them some kind of pride, of right and wrong, of following nobler paths, it is quite probable that some of the problem kids could be model citizens.
And yet, strangely enough, a lot of parents leave education up to the school system or even up to thin air. Kids definitely need role models and a firm background where they are encouraged to be model citizens.
True, a lot of kids are fine and don't end of getting in trouble. But it is the few kids that bully and grown up to be killers, animal abusers and drug addicts who need to be held up to further scrutiny.
Indeed, if we could find a way to prevent such problem people, our society would be so much more safer, kinder and nobler.
I remember in university being lectured on the good life by my wonderful Philosophy professor. My mind soared to a wonderful space when I heard of such a better world spoken of by Greek philosophers such as Aristotle, Plato and Socrates. Ideas of citizenship involved people being politically active, as well specifically involved in the well-being of the state.
How often we take citizenship for granted. By virtue of birth, we are granted automatic citizenship. But citizenship should involve something more: being kind, being good to each other is worth more than all the money in the World Bank.
The sad reality is that a lot of places in the world, such as Syria's top leadership, is virtually morally illiterate. Thousands of people demanding a better way of life are being killed by the government's troops and all they really wanted was a better life.
Our world needs more philosophers, better citizens and more nobler leaders.
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