Hi My Friend

When I texted my conversation partner, Meshari, last week asking if he wanted to meet up and chat for a bit, he began his response with "hi my friend." I know this wasn't meant to be some grand gesture or anything that should provoke a lot of thought, but I couldn't help but feel really special about this. I guess it is just something that we don't usually hear ourselves addressed as, and it made me smile. Mama, I've got friends!¹ It was also nice to hear that he did not see me as just some ignorant American (in reference to my first post) that he was obligated to entertain every once in a while, but as a buddy. Granted, that was followed by him saying that he couldn't meet that week, for which he obviously had a legitimate reason and was by no chance just avoiding hanging out with me. We're compadres now, it's official.² 

We continued to chat, beginning with the two tests he had the next day (See? I told you he had an honest reason for skipping out on me). He had a grammar and a writing test which he thinks are the two most difficult aspects of English. Being impressively monolingual and all, I have to agree.³ I am well aware that I still struggle with writing and grammar almost to the level of incompetence at times, even after 19 years’ worth of practice. We all constantly see and read grammar and spelling mistakes, along with the all-around butchering of the English language, regardless of the age or education of the person making the flub.⁴ I have so much respect for those that can fluently speak multiple languages. I can’t even imagine being able to learn and implement a completely new language, let alone at the rate that these IEP students do, considering that I can hardly speak this one. Meshari later informed me that he thought he did well on both of his tests, which I was exceptionally excited to hear! I asked him if college students in Saudi Arabia took the same general types of classes that we do, because I find it slightly difficult to imagine them taking, say, a Disasters and Failures class.⁵ I just can’t help but thinking that we generally overanalyze and/or categorize things enough to devote full semesters to some seemingly specific topics. And I am not saying that they don’t do this, I just think maybe not to the level of insignificance that I think we do sometimes. Again, this is among the plethora of things that my small, ignorant American brain tends to have a tough time fathoming. Meshari answered that they take the same things that we do, with the differences in classes being that they are in Arabic, he thinks they are easier, and that we take more classes than they do. At our first meeting he said that he found the classes here more difficult than those back at home, even the ones he was always pretty good at, like math. I would assume that some of this difficulty could be attributed to the cultural differences in the approaches to these subjects, both in teaching and in practice. But then again, this could be my inept mind speaking.

I definitely found it quite interesting to hear his comparisons between schools in America and in Saudi Arabia. Not only is he learning how to live in another country, but also having to learn a new and different way of learning. I find it all so fascinating and hope that over time my horizons can be broadened in at least understanding, if not experience. I am so grateful to have the opportunity to get to know Meshari, who seems to enjoy discussing all this with me, and has been more than accommodating. This poor kid has been such a sport by enthusiastically answering my abundance of questions and curiosities.6 I guess that’s just what friends do, right?(: ⁷

¹No, my mother doesn't frequent my blog. But if she did, hi mom, grades are good, bed is made (......), and no, I'm not having the kind of fun you pretend not to have had in college.

²No take-backs

³With a dip of Spanish speaking skills enough to introduce myself and to say that the lettuce is interesting

⁴Refer to Anguished English by Richard Lederer for further testimony

⁵Actually, I can picture this if it were named something along the lines of Epic Fails by Americans.

⁶With only a minimal amount of “silly American” head shakes and chuckles.

⁷A special thanks to Dave Barry for the inspiration for the footnotes. Much appreciated homie.

Laughter is the Best Medicine

Unlike what our oh-so-chipper friend, Morreal, tirelessly attempted to get across to us, I strongly believe in the benefits and innocence of laughter. Laughter doesn't always have to be spiteful, or make us feel superior; sometimes it is just about the connection to other people that it brings, and can be a much needed relief. Morreal obviously did not have a sense of humor, unless the title of his book was supposed to be ironic, and if so, touché sir, touché. 

The best laughter always manages to come at times it is most needed. This definitely occurred to me a couple of weeks ago. After consciously waiting for a "fit of uncontrollable laughter," I finally had an experience that deserved this title. In fact, this wasn't just a few minutes span, but seemed to be carried through an entire evening. Right smack in the middle of one of the most stressful/sleepless weeks this semester, following a particularly nerve-wracking night of house searching, my roommates and I decided that there was no better way to forget about our current struggles than to indulge in the exquisite Mexican cuisine that is Fuzzy's. We all share the same belief that food can be quite the antidote for any emotional strife. 

It didn't take us very long after sitting down to our savory feast for most of the tension that had built up in each of us over the week to be completely dispelled. I can hardly remember anything that we actually talked about; only the scene of us all splitting with laughter in the middle of Fuzzy's remains vivid in my mind. It mainly consisted of two of us partaking in our usual, ridiculous banter, while the other just humored us, as she always does, along with the telling of one of those "you'll laugh about this later" embarrassing stories from elementary school that was definitely not the most suitable for the dinner table, especially at such a fine establishment. It must have been the delirium from both mental and physical exhaustion we were each experiencing that made everything just so darn funny. The tears streaming from my eyes, I believe, were due to a combination of relief that it was still possible to find anything this funny after all the stress had been compressing any form of happiness, along with quite a bit of "I can't believe this conversation is happening." I'm pretty sure this was exactly what we all needed most at that point in time, just a little bit of insanity to regain our sanity. 

If the episode at dinner wasn't enough, we found ourselves in these fits again a few hours later back in the room. We were attempting to have a semi-serious meeting about future living situations, when we lost our wits once again. The same two of us went completely awol again, while the other sat there questioning her decision of agreeing to live with us not only one year, but two. There was ridiculous hollering, many thrown items (with even more missing their intended targets, if that were even possible), and quite a bit of creative name-calling that we were actually pretty proud of. This was surprisingly not a rare occurrence in Room 314, but this time did seem more entertaining than most. There was a pause in the outrageous warfare to examine a pained wrist of the one-third that was not partaking in the ruckus. After thorough examination, we established that the ailing region might have been slightly out of place. With my extensive knowledge in the field of health care, being a second year neuroscience major and all, I suggested that she (currently on the verge of throwing up due to her squeamishness) should bang it on something to knock it back into its usual position. And so began a very careful and delicate series of yanks, slams, and squeezes. Why she permitted us to conduct these obviously accredited medical procedures, I couldn't tell ya. As we were performing these complex and strenuous operations in attempts to salvage the critically wounded wrist, there was a knock at the door, and a group of our guy friends stumbled in. After initial confusion about the chaotic scene they walked into, they each caught sight of the source of all the shenanigans, and were all just as disturbed at the appearance of the wrist as the one it belonged to. So we have one girl who is basically green in the face from the apparently nauseating sight of her wrist; four, usually known for being crass, boys, also about to pass out; and the two other girls who are having just a field day battering this poor, aching joint. It was quite the sight for sore eyes, to say the least. This was then followed by some more horseplay between the two overly-hyper residents, of which (between the immature jeers thrown and overall rowdiness) resembled roughhousing of two 7 year-old boys more so than that of two female college sophomores. The cowering guys, who were used to engaging in this type of behavior themselves, were dumbfounded by this spectacle, which made this situation even more amusing. Might I add that this was the boys' first visit to our oh-so-humble abode...

Overall, it was definitely quite the night of nuttiness. Between the relief of us being able to go insane on our own terms, and the incongruity of our actions versus the boys' reactions, I'd say we experienced innocent comic relief at its finest, regardless of what Morreall would drone on about it. This night of tomfoolery was just what we needed in order to avoid self-destructing, as laughter was indeed the best medicine to cure all (minus the wounded wrist) of our troubles. 





This novel of a blog post was brought to you by Monster Absolutely Zero energy drink and Blue Bell Pecan Pralines n' Cream ice cream.

Insightful Abnormal Psychology Reads

In my Abnormal Psychology class, we were assigned to read and analyze a memoir (chosen from a list) by someone with a mental disorder. I chose The Eden Express by Mark Vonnegut, because yes, he is the son of renowned author, Mark Vonnegut (who wrote Cat's Cradle that we will read later this semester in Lit and Civ), and because the description of the book said that Mark took a humorous approach to his narrative while describing his not-so-humorous experiences with Schizophrenia (later found out he was misdiagnosed, and that he really had Bipolar Disorder with psychosis, but still). I knew that reading someone's account of their battle with their own mind could be very intense and possibly difficult to read, which I knew I could handle, but given the option to read one with at least a slight uplifting tone, I chose to avoid the more depressing ones. 

After learning about schizophrenia in class, I was well aware of how debilitating the disease is, and of all the difficulty it causes in not only the life of the afflicted one, but in those of their families and loved ones as well. It is characterized by delusions and/or hallucinations, which essentially shatters their reality, disabling them from differentiating between what is real to everyone else, and what appears to be real only to them, which is extremely difficult for me to wrap my head around. 

I personally really enjoyed the book and found it extremely fascinating and entertaining. I have often wondered what it is like to think like someone with a mental illness as controlling as schizophrenia or bipolar, and Mark Vonnegut’s narrative was the perfect opportunity to do just that. Just reading his thoughts almost made me lose my own sense of reality in a way. It was so difficult at times to determine what was really going on, and what was just happening in his head, so I can’t even begin to fathom how he actually felt at the time. 

Observing his reality in comparison to what was really most likely happening (along with what definitely was not happening) can really make someone question what exactly “reality” is. Even before the illness struck, he was very thoughtful and curious about many things in life, wanting to find meaning and aspired to do something great. Then once an episode hit, those thoughts were completely blown up, out of proportion. He found the most profound meaning in every little thing, felt the strongest connection to everyone and everything, and believed he knew all there is to know about anything at all. Aren’t those things many of us in some way or another dream of doing and having? If I ever reached that point of absolute satisfaction and happiness, I wouldn’t want to leave it either. And the frustration that he felt when nobody understood, or was as enthusiastic about all the things he was, I believe is completely relatable. But overall I was in awe of how someone’s mind could operate like that. How what he believed, he saw. 

My favorite quote in the book was, “I was back to being polite, the well-tempered paranoid.” I really felt a strong connection to that line, because it perfectly depicted what I oftentimes experience. His constant concern for others, not wanting to step on toes, and trying not to be a burden to anyone else was a very evident underlying message in his delusions and hallucinations. His subconscious, usually suppressed, thoughts were the voices actually controlling him, and I sometimes feel like that could happen to any of us. 

By reading this book, I was definitely able to gain a better understanding of what someone with a mental illness goes through, and how debilitating it can be, and I actually found myself able to relate to many aspects of Mark’s experience. I feel like many people, myself included, can be pretty ignorant in our views and opinions in regards to mental illnesses sometimes. Whether it is the belief that they are all dangerous, or that they are just helpless and have no chance of improving their life and circumstances, or even that they are just "faking it" for various reasons,  it seems like we don't give them the benefit of the doubt. Just because there is no physical indications that something is wrong, such as a broken bone or a tumor, does not mean that they do not deserve the same respect and opportunities as those without a mental disorder. I know that I am guilty of these thoughts just as much as the next person, but reading this book definitely gave me great insight into how the mind of someone with a mental disorder operates, helping me avoid believing the general stigmas around these people. If anyone is looking for a fascinating book to add to their reading list, I highly recommend The Eden Express!