Random Lessons Learned

Hey Everyone! This is my first little .. blog.. whatever that is, lol. So I've decided that for my first entry, im going to share with you a paper that i've just written for my english class, I know, it's random, but.. hey.. I'm damn proud of it. So here it is, have fun with that, and i'll try to update daily, just cause im bored, and i have no life.. hope you guys like this! Love: Shle “Money can’t buy happiness” By: Ashley Schalin I was told that it would be hot, but as I flew towards the tiny island of Jamaica, I couldn’t imagine just how hot it would be. I arrived late at night, and was picked up by Diago, my best friends stepfather. It was a hot and uncomfortable night, and with the dawn came even more heat. I rose with the sun, wiping away the sweat dripping down the side of my face. I had only met three of the locals due to my late arrival in the country the previous night. I met Diago, his seven-year old daughter, Kay, and his nephew, Rayon. That morning, Rayon came into the living room where I slept, and offered to show me around Logwood. As I walked down the nameless dirt road with Rayon beside me, I looked at each little house, some of them no bigger than my basement, and made up of rotting, yet vibrantly colored wood. There were chickens and goats all over the streets, and dogs, too, yet none of these animals seemed approachable. ”We call them mongrels,” said Rayon, gesturing to the dogs. As we reached the end of the dirt road, we came upon a group of children playing with a ball around a large pile of woodchips. Immediately, I felt a wave of pity wash over me, pity for these poor children playing in the dirt. I closed my eyes, and I could see my younger cousins surrounded by all their toys. So lucky; But then the scene in my mind shifted. Once again, all their toys surrounded them, but this time, they both fought over a single one. ”Ashley,” a voice interrupted my thoughts. I opened my eyes and shook the scene from my mind. Once again, I saw the children toss the ball cheerfully to one another. We continued walking around Logwood District that day, stopping constantly to meet people and talk to them. If I noticed one thing about them all, it was that they were all smiling; but why? Their houses were dumps, in comparison to even some of the worst houses in the west end of Vancouver. Their possessions were meager, and they didn’t even know if they would be eating from day to day. Didn’t they know that they were missing out? That night, as I lay down on the couch to sleep, I bid everyone in the house goodnight, then I lay awake for hours, replaying the events of the day in my mind over and over again. Finally, I drifted off to sleep, dreaming of having to live in such a way, and how my family and friends would cope in such a situation. I awoke just before dawn the next day, and sat on the front steps made of concrete. I watched the ants scurry about the ground near my feet. The sun began to rise above the trees, bringing with it the awakening of Logwood. Women began to hang their laundry on the lines that were strung tightly between the trees, children ran about the yards, playing carelessly with one another, and the men began their work around the yards. They cut the grass with rusty machetes, they gathered wood, and they caught the next meals for their families. That afternoon, I went walking with two little girls whom I had met earlier. I took them to the store with me; I desperately needed another cold drink. Kay and Shanda raced towards the candy, as I made my way leisurely towards the drink cooler. After picking up three bottles of “Ting”, (Jamaican Grapefruit Juice), I followed the excited chatter of the two girls, finding them at the front counter, looking at all the penny candy. I suggested that they pick some candy for the walk back. Their eyes lit up, the smiles on their faces becoming broader, if possible. The two rushed forwards, hugging me as tightly as two seven year old girls could, and then turned back to the candy, picking only one piece each. ”Here,” I said, grabbing a handful, and moving to pay. Kay and Shanda couldn’t believe it. If only you could imagine what their faces looked like. They were so happy that someone wanted to buy them so much candy. Such a simple thing brought so much happiness to two little girls. The rest of my trip passed in a rush, it was almost as though time had doubled it usual frenzied pace. Each day, I rose with the dawn, each day, I met another happy face, and each day, I spent time with my new friends, learning their ways and adapting to their lifestyle. Three weeks later, with many sad goodbyes, I made my way to the airport in Montego Bay. On the plane home, I put my headphones over my ears, trying to drown out the sound of goodbye with the first reggae CD I ever bought. It was Luciano, and he sang about Jah, his savior, his God. I closed my eyes as we took off, and for the whole flight home, I did nothing but think. I thought about how happy everyone was, and I wondered why we, in Canada, in wealth beyond Jamaica’s imagination, weren’t. It took me another two weeks back at home to get used to all of my possessions again. I spent a lot of time in silence, pondering about how lucky I was. I would sit in my room for hours at a time, looking at all of my things: my closet and dresser, bursting to the seams with clothes, most of which I didn’t wear anymore, my books and movies, my childhood dolls. Every time I saw those dolls, sitting up there on the shelf, doing nothing but collecting dust, I could see what Kay and Shandas faces would look like if only they could have this many dolls. As I write about my experiences, some six months later, I can still see the faces of those children whom I once pitied. I can see their smiles as they play with one another; and as I see them, I think of what a wretched culture I live in, what a wretched culture of which I am a part of. It’s a culture where people are so unsatisfied with what they have, one where people simply want more and more, yet it is never enough. Since my trip to Jamaica, I have thought over and over again, “if only I could help them, send them some money or something!” But then I realized one day that they don’t need it. The people that I encountered in Jamaica are truly and honestly happier than most people in Canada ever will be, they are happier without what we have. To this day, and for a long time, I think, I still will look at my things and all I will be able to see is one word. Selfish. I’ve realized that is what we are. I’m only seventeen years old, I can’t say I’ve experienced it all, but I’ve seen something not many other North American teens have, or ever will, perhaps. If I never live to see happiness again, I will live to know that I saw it in the faces of those whom I thought least likely to even know the meaning of the word. If only we could learn a little more to live with a little less, then perhaps wee too, would be able to experience the amazing feeling of true and total happiness.