I was on the treadmill today watching an episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation (for some reason, I am on a mission to watch them all, in order) and Captain Picard referred to his "superiors." I had a thought at that moment that liberated me from the chains of equality.
Of course, Americans have the idea ingrained in them that "all men are created equal." This fuels a kind of independent spirit (no pun intended) and a sense that we are just as good as anyone around us. Those who think they are "better" than us can sod off. On an existence level, this is true... No one is simply born with more worth than anyone else.
As a teenager and as a young adult, I was fiercely against regarding anyone as a "superior." I have always been a bit snippy about that idea. I would never have joined the military, because I have a problem with playing the role of a subordinate. After all, I, as a private, I am every bit as good as the drill instructor, am I not? Am I not as good a person as him? Am I not as valid of a human being? Why should I call him sir?
At the same time, I have always been respectful of those who have achieved higher levels than I have. This would seem incongruous, no? I use, and have always used, the word "sir" when addressing elder gents. (I use "ma'am" more reservedly, if only because I have known women who think this is an accusation of oldness...)
Showing posts with label equality. Show all posts
Showing posts with label equality. Show all posts
Wednesday, December 31, 2014
Friday, July 19, 2013
Old Glory
Posted by
Chris Matarazzo
at
6:30 AM
This morning, it was 95% by 8:30. As I was driving into work down one of the ugliest roads in New Jersey (and that's saying something) I passed a young woman who looked impossibly old.
She was lumbering along slowly and she wore a heavy jacket, probably layered underneath with every bit of clothing she owned. Homeless. She carried plastic bags that bulged with belongings and the sweat crawled down her ebony face. Her mouth hung open and she stopped to catch breath, looking up at the sun, offended.
In her hand that faced the roadside, she clutched a small American flag, tightly. Despite the many things she carried, she gave the flag her whole hand.
She was lumbering along slowly and she wore a heavy jacket, probably layered underneath with every bit of clothing she owned. Homeless. She carried plastic bags that bulged with belongings and the sweat crawled down her ebony face. Her mouth hung open and she stopped to catch breath, looking up at the sun, offended.
In her hand that faced the roadside, she clutched a small American flag, tightly. Despite the many things she carried, she gave the flag her whole hand.
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