Privilege

Privilege is one of those words in the lexicon of the human race that holds much weight and much misconception towards not only it's true definition but also of the ramifications of its existence in the first place. It's a very deceptive word that is generally clouded by the ignorance and perceptions of those who even first think to define some action, some possession or some person with it. The word can be slung as a deep seated insult, used in anger when the individual feels that they are more deserving than what they collar with the declaration. And usually privilege is treated as such, even though it, like most words, is quite neutral and harmless in of itself. Privilege is neither good nor bad, selfish or selfless; only the individuals who use the word can define it in a moral direction.

When most individuals think of the term "privilege" they almost will always picture someone who is higher up on the socioeconomic food chain as themselves. They may think of a public leader, of a politician, of a celebrity or even of royalty. Yes, you do get those who are considered "privileged" identifying themselves as such, but they are only partially correct and are continuing the ingraining of a dangerous stereotype. A person is "privileged" if they have something intrinsically by just being who they are that individuals other than themselves lack. An average person is "privileged" because they are inherently more intelligent than someone born with a mental deformity or deficiency that prevents them from reaching a level of development that an adult should possesses. An average person is "privileged" if they are born with a healthy, fully functioning immune system, giving them better odds at just simply living compared to someone born without a properly functioning body. Things that a healthy, normal person takes for granted every second is a "privilege" when compared to those who lost the genetic lottery.

But it can be deeper than that, farther than something as simple as health. A first world citizen is extremely "privileged" compared to someone from the third world. Such a person has running water at their beck and call or they could simply go to a public facility or even a store to buy water; they will never know what it is to die of thirst save in extreme situations. Food is readily available and is never in short supply, there are even facilities and programs that provide meals for those who can not provide for themselves. Diseases that ravage and kill thousands are forgotten in history texts, never blighting any save the truly unlucky. War is a far off talking point, crime a cautionary tale (depending on the area and person of course), and the physically palpable abuse of authority something that is unheard of. The problems of the first world are truly crocodile tears in the grander scheme of things, but you will rarely hear the average person to define this as "privilege".

Stuff, Stuff and more Stuff

When it comes to defining what type of item is the most populous kind in my life, you can find yourself easily at a deadlock. Food and books are the two things that have the larger presence in my life at the time, but books may end up being the winner if only because their existence is the most static and concrete in my house and food is quite transient. So, yes, books would be what I would safely say is the type of "stuff" that I have the most of for the confines of this blog entry.

How are books created? Well, you could probably find several documentaries on the subject (and I will bet you dollars to donuts that they're dryer than good British humor) that would be quite informative, but I personally don't know everything that goes into it. Common sense and knowledge would dictate that:

- Trees would need to be cut down or paper recycled or other organic matter processed.
- Ink and glue would need to be stewed up and processed.
- Each page would need to be shaped for the proper size and then having the lettering printed upon them.
- The book would need to be bound together and then shipped out to the stores they would be sold in.

Now how I use them is a silly question I must say. Books exist to be read, for their experience to enrich the life of the reader and for their message to be absorbed into the mind and soul of the one who picked it up and opened it. And if the reader finds the book compelling enough (which, if it's own my book shelf, I do think of it that way) they will read it again and again and again. Because a book never loses its luster or its attraction for the true bibliophile no matter how many times you read it. Yes, maybe the initial surprise and mystery is gone, but that never stops you from riding a roller coaster more than once, now does it?

Very rarely do I ever dispose of a book, but the it does occur once every blue moon. The book may have begun falling apart or was otherwise damaged, I may have gotten an anthology or updated edition or maybe I just outgrew what had once attracted me to the book in the first place (so far only books from my formative years and those god awful Harry Potter books fell into that last category). Regardless of why it's leaving my ownership, it doesn't leave my ownership with any flippancy. Damaged books are summarily recycled, as they should be, and books in good condition are given to a organization like the library or Good Will, who will see it taken care of in the way it deserves.

Could I do with less books?

Maybe.

But my life would most certainly be less and cheapened for that decision. Books are simply containers and gateways to a greater existence that humanity is only able to tap into and visit for short periods. Knowledge, both it's pursuit and accumulation, is what separates us as higher life forms and beings from the rest of the natural world around us. A dog could never conceptualize Middle Earth, Narnia or Neverland, but human beings can vicariously explore those worlds of wonder and intrigue by just picking up something a tiger would leave rotting on the trail as it pursues it's dinner.

No, I can bear the cross of my imprint on this world for the privilege to hold in my hands a lump of paper, glue and ink that holds such magic and limitless potential. That is a burden I could gladly own up to and not care for the consequences.

A book is something that can be obtained anywhere in the world and is accessible to individuals almost regardless of their walk of life (assuming that there isn't a force working to keep knowledge out of their hands, which sadly there are) and I will not believe for one second that my ownership of them makes anyone's life less well off or my forsaking of them making lives better (but whether my adding towards the company that made the book is positive or negative is another line of thought and discussion entirely). A book may be a want, not a need, of the living body but I believe with my whole heart that it is a need for the mind and for the soul. Humans could live in a world with out books...but what kind of world would that really be?

Transitions

Before I can even come to grips with the transitions that are required of me to become a full-fledged college student, I must first conceptualize and deal with re-entering the concept of a learning environment after the lapse of time that has occurred since I left High School proper. I graduated from Parkville High back in 2008 and enjoyed a summer vacation completely free of responsibility. I didn't want to have to jump right back into the "stranglehold" of education when I had just been released from it and I wanted to unwind before entering the workforce. Of course, I found myself employed that fall and for almost four years straight I devoted myself to my work. But like all things, this too met it's end and I now found myself interested in bettering myself through continuing my education.

Separation is the first step of the process detailed by Vincent Tinto, and with going into the passage of almost a full month of college, I now find myself truly experiencing that transition. I am realizing that I can no longer follow the same habits and behaviors that I had been prior to this on-going month of learning. Unlike when I was employed, I have deadlines and responsibilities imposed upon my shoulders and though I may stumble some, I must learn to balance them towards an effective, fruitful schedule. Thus, I am now barreling into the Transition period of this transition: learning a new way of life that will allow me to adapt and flourish as a student. It will take conscientious effort on my part to bring these changes about, but anything worth doing is worth going through difficulty to achieve.

Incorporation will be the true end goal of my new path in life and hopefully I will achieve it without falling too far or too hard in the pursuit of this new definition of me not only as a student, but as a person as well. I do not agree with Mr. Tinto that college is more a socialization process, but neither do I believe it is something based on one's intellect. I view it more as an exercise in the self discovery of one's own inner rhythm, paired with a developing of self discipline to capitalize on that rhythm to achieve the highest saturation into one's learning environment in order to gain the most from the educational process.

Short Response 1

What is a name? Is it the one, true defining aspect of the human experience that separates an individual from his brother? Is it just a title, a trapping, a simple stringing together of letters from a society's lexicon to open the door towards a much more complex existence while subtly hinting at its desired course through forgotten subtext? Or could it be some combination of the former and the latter or even something further? That may simply be something up for the philosophers to decide and the common man to only muse about when a deep mood takes hold of his faculties.

My mother bestowed my first name, Cody, upon me because she wanted her son to have some strength to his identity. The defining frame of this strength for her came from the era known in the public collective as the Old West; the nimrod turned proprietor William Frederick Cody as the origin of my most common appellation. My father wrote upon me his surname by right of his position in the structure of my family, but I know little of its meaning or depths aside from its Germanic roots.

To some, a name holds a deep meaning, a personal truth that helps them ground and center themselves as they travel in the maelstrom of the combined gest that we call Life. But to me, a name is simply just words to be written down or spoken allowed to draw my attention or to allow others to aid themselves in rationalizing and processing the concept of my presence. I care no more or no less that I am known as Cody Hiebler than I care about such things like chocolate being varied shades of brown. Such thoughts simply do not cross my mind.