I’ve found myself writing a lot about individualism in all senses – of sociology, of anthropology, and of history – during my absence from this site; and I’d like to dedicate this specific, albeit brief, article towards the ‘little guys’ in history. As a historian, I feel as if the foundation to my personal life is
I believe I have to start this article with a thank you to my high school English teacher, who had us read the ‘Hills Like White Elephants‘ – an intriguing little tale full of semi-confusing metaphors and symbolism that buries a sad (and unfortunately realistic) story. As I’ve discussed with people over podcasts and casual discussion throughout
Camp Scott was once an innocent retreat for Girl Scouts resting within over four hundred wooded acres in Locust Grove that could accommodate 140 campers and 30 staff members. Now, it remains abandoned. Forgotten and falling apart, Camp Scott remains the perfect example of something good gone horribly wrong.
For the next six months, I was an archeologist. I went out nearly every day in search of treasure in the form of these strange rocks. I hung a medium-sized bucket from my precious bike’s handlebars and filled it up several times each day. Some of these rocks were big, even larger than my hand. Some of them were small, barely fitting within the palm of my hand. But they all interested me more than I could express to anyone.
Wonder, a modern classic in the young adult genre written by R. J. Palacio, is a story about a disfigured middle-schooler from the perspective of six (seven if you have the special edition) different characters. Touching on the concepts of bullying, friendship, and individuality, the book is obviously targeted towards preteens that deal with these topics on a day to day basis.
History is remembered by and for the victor. Those who win decide the path of humanity through societal advancement. Those who look back at battle with a sense of nostalgia — that nationalistic narcissism that brings victory — tend to be the mainstream historians. Those of the losing side don’t oftentimes get the credit they deserve in our modern day history classes.
At birth, there is an introduction. A heavenly beacon of light to start it all. The world opens, and we begin to live. It all seems so wonderful, magical, and sensible. The first few chapters are great, and we all cling onto our chairs as we witness the stages of life develop right before our very eyes. In the middle, we learn. We turn into madmen – cynical to life’s wonders. I call this character development. At death, the story ends. Some end abruptly, others with a bang that allow them to stand out against countless other stories.