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Richards 2007 - Diversity
The dictionary defines diversity as, “1. the state or fact of being diverse; difference; unlikeness. 2. variety; multiformity. 3. a point of difference.” Another important definition is liberty. Liberty is defined by the dictionary as, “1. freedom from arbitrary or despotic government control. 2. freedom from external or foreign rule; independence. 3. freedom from control, interference, obligation, restriction, hampering conditions, etc.; power of doing, thinking, speaking, etc., according to choice.” So it is clear that diversity means being different and liberty is the right to be different.
These words go hand in hand and it appears as though the motto “accept diversity” is common sense and that everyone should live by this ideal. Unfortunately there arises a problem. Do people who claim they want diversity really mean this? Do these groups really like to “celebrate diversity”?
Last year I knew a certain student who opposed homosexual marriage and homosexual couples adopting children. Let’s call this student Bob. Bob does not hate homosexuals or homosexual couples. In fact, he believes that what two consenting adults do in the privacy of their own home is their business. Bob is opposed to homosexual marriage because in his opinion the institution of marriage is defined as between one man and one woman. In addition, he opposes the adoption of children by homosexual couples because he believes that children need a parent and a role model of both sexes. Why then, when Bob expressed his opinions, was he labeled by another student named Jim as intolerant, homophobic, and hateful? His opinions were dismissed as hate speech by Jim, who is a vehement supporter of “diversity”, and Bob’s opinions would likely be considered hate speech by quite a few advocacy groups.
Is Bob entitled to his opinions and views? Is it fair to label Bob’s words as hate speech in order to silence them? The answer is no. Diversity means variety and difference. Bob’s opinions are different and add a variety to the views of the country. Bob and people like him should be free to express their opinions without being labeled as “homophobic” or filled with “hate speech”. This is no fairer than labeling a homosexual advocate as being a “stupid homo” or just a “fairy” whose opinions are not worth hearing. It is an immature and juvenile mind that labels people in order to dismiss their opinions and silence them. In fact, it is a violation of someone’s right to pursue liberty when their right to disagree is taken away. Would there really be diversity if everyone agreed? Will everyone in the world ever reach a unanimous agreement about something?
This is the hard thing about real diversity. It’s hard to sit and listen to someone’s opinion when it assaults your own moral sensibilities. Just remember that diversity does not always mean everyone is going to be happy with each other’s differences. The trick is to be honest about whether you really want 100 percent diversity or you really want 100 percent agreement with your idea. So next time a group or person that is attempting to silence you claims they support and desire diversity, ask them their definition of diversity and how they feel about the pursuit of liberty.
Gabriel is a senior at Eagle River High School. In addition to reading and sometimes writing Gabe is an avid outdoorsman and enjoys playing basketball for the school. This is Gabe’s first published paper.
Slowly it all unfolds,
everything and yet nothing at all.
Still everything is in constant motion,
and yet, all seems still.
Is the life we know, not life at all?
But, rather a true test of endurance?
Will there be a winner?
Or simply a runner-up seeking to be?
In this ever constant struggle
to live life and be heard.
So we speak.
They listen, but do they really hear?
We try to exercise our freedom,
which they openly say we have!
But do we really?
When our very thoughtS are being censored to the
point of not even being thoughts at all.
THIS IS . . . MY CONSTANT THOUGHT!
As the pages fly,
I sit and watch the time go by.
The objects of care I once held dear,
all begin to disappear.
As the night opens for a new day,
and the darkness of the night fades away…
I begin to wonder to myself.
How much strength do I have left?
We lose more lives than we have to,
all for what some believe is true.
We sacrifice our hearts in hate,
only to meet a dark fate.
I ask you:
How much longer are we to endure?
Are we to lose all we hold dear,
or can we open our eyes to see and our ears to hear?
For this life we live,
and all the lives we must give.
A common thought stays in mind.
Are we running out of time?
At 10 I was young and naïve,
only interested in fun and games.
Who I was never bothered me.
At 11 I learned a little more about life,
I got my first real boyfriend then.
Who I was began to change.
At 12 I moved to a new place,
lies became my best friends.
Who I was, was someone else.
At 13 I matured a little.
I became my own person.
Who I was, was someone better.
At 14 my grandmother died,
my heart and my world died with her.
Who I was, was no one.
At 15 I found faith,
a very good friend saved me from myself.
Who I was, was renewed.
At 16 worlds collided,
a boy tore my heart to shreds.
Who I was, was not enough.
And now at 17 I find I have more strength,
I no longer let society limit me.
Who I was, is who I am.
The author of these poems is a 17-year-old senior from Eagle River High School. She enjoys reading, writing in her spare time, chatting online with friends, and spending time with friends and family. These poems are very close to her heart.
Hell Is Other People Just Like You
By 2300, interracial marriages had created a single dominant people. The new people developed a creamy caramel complexion and dark brown hair so thoroughly blended that Sony-Crayola had to revise its skin tone box set to include thirty-one “people” and one “albino” crayon. Scientology began to go mainstream in 2023 when new evidence of alien life was found—slowly enveloping other faith-driven religions like Christianity, Islam, and Star Trek. A single language became standard— Portuguese, oddly enough. World Wars III through VII shifted power to two new worldwide empires, and since the complete nuclear disarmament of 2241, peace and good relations have existed with few major differences in politics and people.
In 2319 the first segregated public buildings appeared. Following in the footsteps of the telegraph, telephone and text messaging came the telemoscan. A cross between the internet and an MRI, this new communications fad worked by stepping into a scanning field which wrapped around the head in order to receive and send information at high speeds. The machine was built to accommodate heights between five foot six and six feet tall, making it very difficult and uncomfortable for the very short or the very tall to utilize this technology. The answer was simple; just make the scanner slide to accommodate the user, even a chair could have worked. But that isn’t what happened, instead separate booths for height were made. Why then shouldn’t everything be built for a specific height? Bathrooms, doors, chairs, the list of things that are geared towards the middle ground are endless. What else could have been done?
By 2374, 50% of all businesses and public buildings where segregated by height. By 2393, segregation was mandatory in one of the two world powers as mandated by that country’s tallest politicians; in the other, height riots and short extremist terrorism put the diminutive in power, charging fierce opposition to the opposing regime. In 2394 the short leaders met with tall leaders— formerly the Chicago Bulls— to discuss the fate of people of average height. They were killed for being indecisive.
In 2401 tall and short declared open war. Concentration camps taught oppressed miniatures to balance on each others shoulders to become a more decent height. These “totems” were still given position in society based on their original heights, but with the use of overcoats where they no longer were considered offensive to the eyes of tall supremacists. In the diminutive nation, heightness reduction surgery-that is, the loping off of the shins- became a common occurrence. In the 2410s the Western Empire of Tall and Therefore Better People brought back the bomb.
In 2422, after a long, brutal nuclear war the world’s uranium supply ran dry, as did the moons; and the several surviving people- both tall and short- came together in a desperate attempt to survive the horrible, horrible mutants. And horrible they were; some were white, some black, one was teal; a whole spectrum of peoples. Though apparently freakish, these newfound mutations eventually founded a new society after several hundred years in cave systems to avoid radiation poisoning. In retrospect, it probably would have been easier to have made the telemoscan adjustable.
Evan is a student at Eagle River High School in Eagle River, Alaska. Growing up as a military child he has lived in many different states. He enjoys hiking, camping and other outdoor activities.
Whump!! What was that? Whump!! There it was again, but where was I. I struggled to regain consciousness in the fog of the moment. I found myself standing in shock as I realized that I wasn’t in my house, in fact I wasn’t sure where I was. I slowly turned around taking in my surroundings. The road caught my eye: four lanes, two coming and two going. A few cars passed before I thought to look further. Across the street stood a small one story building complex, just one long building split into sections for a few small businesses. There!! The left corner of the building looked familiar. I moved towards the street still feeling a little disconnected. Cars sped by in such a random order; the colors seemed to confuse me. I couldn’t see any breaks. The stream of cars just wouldn’t stop. Then the world faded, I must have blacked out.
When I came to I was sitting directly in front of the place I had been trying to get to. Standing up slowly -I had no intention of fainting again- I looked around for the reason I had ended up here. Someone must have seen me faint and picked me up. But why would they have dropped me off here and then left. I turned to look at the building I had been placed in front of. I nearly jumped with surprise! The building was the very same library where I had spent hours of my childhood off in imaginary lands. I stepped to the door glancing at the sign, which hung to the side, “OPEN TO ALL”. The bright orange letters stuck in my head as I entered the library. Suddenly I heard it again, Whump!! Strangly I felt like I had been hearing this sound my entire life. Memories of my youth flooded back the library stood as it had when I was young, a quiet refuge from the torments of the world. The soft scent of books both new and old hung in the air. The rows of shelves filled with the knowledge of the world rose high towards the ceiling, which seemed miles away. I could see the sections for children, young adults, and adults. The unique genres of science fiction, fiction, non-fiction, mystery, romance, and fantasy. Books of all colors, sizes, and shapes stacked in random orders. My view became hazy, quickly I sat down and put my head between my knees I don’t know how long I was in that position. I glanced up and gasped the books where gone. In their place on the shelves were people of all colors, sizes, and shapes. I shook my head hoping the delusion would drift away, but it remained. The people were standing as the books had stood in random rows. I, unsure of what to do next, took a step back. Suddenly aware that I was not alone, I looked over my shoulder squinted and gave out a relived sigh at the sight of a familiar face.
“Mrs. Laeri?” I had not seen Mrs. Laeri since I was eight. As a child I had always liked the kind old lady. Like all librarians she wore small spectacles. She had used to spend time helping me find the books I wanted. Sometimes, because I used to read books far above my age level, she would get them for me from the high shelves. Then when I was eight she disappeared and I had not seen her since then. Now she smiled just like she used to and spoke.
“Wandering again child?” Then as if the question didn’t matter she went on “Come and I will explain this sight.”
“Who are they?” I asked slightly worried that I had lost my mind and was seeing ghosts.
“What you are seeing are all the peoples of the world all races, colors, cultures, religions, and sizes. Actually they are the stories of the people. The real people are out there,” She pointed out the windows toward the street. I stepped closer to the shelves looking closer at the strange sight.
“Tell me please, why they are here, on the shelves” I felt slightly shocked at myself for not being more freaked out. Mrs. Laeri paid no attention to my question, and simply continued.
“See how they are not grouped by their color or race. That would cause confusion and a sense of disorder. They are grouped by what they have to contribute instead. That way those who can contribute to the arts or sciences or mathematics, can contribute, no matter what their color, race or culture. They are not all the same, that would mar the uniqueness of the individual. Some say that color or race is of no importance. True, race and color do not determine the material inside, but they do create something unique about a person. These things allow us to appreciate the person as an individual, like a beautifully designed book cover. No one book is better than another, but they are not all the same. Religion, occupations, culture, and political affiliation do affect where a person might be placed. But they do not determine the person.”
“The empty sections on the shelves, what do they mean?” I asked
“Those people have yet to write their stories.” She explained.
I stood in wonder and awe at the implication. Here in this place, all people of the world shared what they had. Whether it was their theories on science, silent works of art, or religious beliefs. They stood every color, shape, and size. One could walk through this room and experience bits of other lives. No body was denied entry. They were each as important as the other. I walked down the aisle glancing at the titles and their authors. I could not help but nod respectfully at those people.
Whump!! there it was again but this time it was closer. It sounded like it came from the next bookshelf. I ran to find what it was but before I could get there things began to fade.
Suddenly I could hear the fire alarm go off, then the whole library faded away, and I found myself sitting up in bed reaching to shut off the alarm. Whump!! Turning I watched as the last book slid off my covers and fell to the floor joining the others already on the floor.
Stunned, I sat silently staring at the wall thinking about the dream still clear in my head. I struggled to understand if it really was a dream. I felt compelled to tell others, but how could I. It seemed so random and confusing. Those people seemed so real standing on the shelves. I completely understood why they were there and the huge implication of their symbolism. How can I take this dream and expect others to understand it? We stand side by side in random rows, varied by color, size, and shape; yet we are each offering a piece of our selves to be read by those who will come. Every night I drift off to sleep wishing for another chance to see those shelves and look for my own story.
Rebekah is a senior at Eagle River High School. She crosscountry runs in the fall, skis in the winter, and runs track in the spring. During the summer she runs and hikes. She would like to become a better rock climber.
Paprika Sanchez’s past had always been mysterious. Much of it she had never revealed to anyone, not even her mentor and friend, Mr. Rosenbaum. She sat in an armchair in his library, wondering how to tell him that she was an illegal alien. Having asked him for help in many a difficult situation, Paprika was sure he would offer sound advice. After all, Mr. Rosenbaum was the one who helped her escape from the clutches of an evil hypnotist, but that is a different story for another time.
“What seems to be troubling you, old girl?” Mr. Rosenbaum asked, smoothing his silk smoking jacket, as he sat down in the bottle-green velvet armchair opposite Paprika.
She did not know where to begin. He lit his pipe and sat back, ready to hear her tale.
“A long time ago, I made some choices, good ones, I like to think. I was born in Colombia, but migrated across the Americas with my mother until I was thirteen. Traveling with her had never agreed with me, selling her herbal medicines and charms was taxing, especially after I lost my leg and had to make a wooden one. But anyway, when I was fifteen, I found myself alone in Mexico City. It is not a time in my life I am proud of, but I ended up going to the border and sneaking across with a peyote shaman. We parted ways in the following weeks, I ended up riding the rails for a few months, not knowing a word of English and having almost constant attacks of narcolepsy. Anyway, I never got a green card or a visa and now the government wants to deport me.”
“This is quite the jam, but I have a friend in D.C. who owes me a favor. Pack your carpet bag, Paprika, we’re going to Washington!” Mr. Rosenbaum announced righteously.
Standing in line to check in at the airport, Paprika put on yet another coat of lip-liner. The trinkets in her hair looked perkier than usual as well; a green monopoly house, an Asian coin, and a seashell competed for attention. She felt confident and ready to meet any challenge that came her way.
“I like that poncho, is it new?” Mr. Rosenbaum enquired, looking dapper as always.
“Oh, this old thing? I just had it lying around,” her heavily rouged cheeks seemed to blush a shade deeper at the compliment.
They moved toward the counter and Mr. Rosenbaum retrieved their tickets. While they proceeded towards the first security checkpoint, he brought up her legal situation, “After discussing your predicament with my friend in Washington, he said the simplest way out of the situation would be marriage. If our petition does not pan out, what do you say?”
“You mean get married? Us? Well, I don’t know if I like the idea of being tied down. I’m a free-spirit, a lone wolf, a rebel…”
“In all seriousness, Paprika, this is not the time for one of your ramblings. Logically, it would be the easiest way to keep you in the country. That is all I am trying to say. I don’t actually want to be your husband. My Lord, no!” he said with a chuckle, wiping a tear from his eye.
She did not know whether to be relieved or offended.
At the security X-ray machine, Paprika emptied her pockets. She lovingly placed the slingshot, marbles, nail clippers, and butterscotches on the moving belt. Most of her possessions were not returned to her after she successfully passed through the metal detector on her second try. Just as she had finished reorganizing her flotsam, she noticed a Middle-Eastern man being pulled aside by security. Her blue eye and her brown eye burned with fiery fury at witnessing this injustice. Mr. Rosenbaum had to restrain her by the fringe of her poncho.
“How dare they! This is not right, Mr. Rosenbaum! If you’re not willing to help me, I guess I’ll just have to do something by myself!”
“But it would be undignified,” Mr. Rosenbaum protested as he adjusted his ascot, still restraining her with one arm.
One of her gold teeth broke the skin on his hand as she bit him. With an uneven gait she hobbled toward the man detained by security. In her injustice-fueled fury she knocked into a well-dressed businessman who smelled strongly of peppermint. A large, well-sealed package of white powder fell from his briefcase as it hit the ground.
“Hey! Watch it!” he said testily, before he realized the contents
of his briefcase were exposed. Paprika stood still, her gaze oscillating between
the man and his illegal parcel.
She picked up the package and sniffed it with her expert nose, “Cocaine,
Bolivian, and it’s good, real good. Mr. Rosenbaum, I think you need to
see this.”
Fortunately, Mr. Rosenbaum was way ahead of her. Few people knew he was a Krav Maga expert but those who did never forgot it. Just as the peppermint-scented man got up to run, Mr. Rosenbaum knocked him to the ground, unconscious. “The situation has been neutralized,” he said calmly, adjusting his glasses.
By the time security arrived, arrested the peppermint-scented man, and questioned Paprika and Mr. Rosenbaum, they had missed their flight. When the authorities discovered Paprika’s identity and her status as an illegal alien, the papers were filed to have her deported. It was too late to go to Washington, to get married, to stop the process. The wheels were in motion and the house always wins.
Paprika Sanchez was deported. But she’ll be back, like a mangy stray cat, she always comes back. Plus, Mr. Rosenbaum has a few tricks up his well-tailored sleeve.
Cecily is currently a senior at Eagle River High School. Her interests include painting, biology, cross-country skiing, and falconry. She enjoys Wes Anderson movies, The Velvet Underground, and tall skinny Kaladi lattes. She is an avid entropy enthusiast.
“Night” I say as I conclude a conversation with my mom about today’s events at school. We had talked about today, the first day of ski practice, held in early November when snow has yet to fall. I head on upstairs to my room as I prepare to go to sleep for a big day of school tomorrow. I slide my jersey off over my head. Then goes my white T-shirt. I am strong. I am in shape. I am fresh out of cross-country running and my well-defined muscles are shown resonating under my skin—my black skin. I cringe. I know. A shock. Odd that I, an African American, am a skier. I don’t fit in anywhere, not even here in my own room.
The conversation with my mom, my only role model since 2004, includes the fact that for the fourth year in a row I am the only black skier on the team. I’m not a great skier, nor a great runner—hey I’m black, right, I’m a “sprinter”. I hate sprinting! Society tells me that’s my place, running fast, running away. They say I’ve finally “got it together” when I run track—I run the two-mile. It’s as far as I can get from that sprinting, and I like it! Why can’t I be myself? I’d rather be in the woods than in the hood like some brothers do. Can’t anyone accept that? I’m not trying to get attention, I’m trying to see more than what my culture provides. I’m not ashamed of my culture, but I will not let it limit me. You know, I am myself. I do what I like, no longer held to the “standards of my color.” I’m held to my own standards, my own views. I follow my heart. Believe me I have morals. I seek to respect. I seek to respect that which my inborn color has overlooked. I don’t want to follow the crowd. I want to find the truth, and what make me truly me.
I say “night” because yes, it is night. I feel that the darkness of society’s generalizations turn us from our true selves. Our individual aspects are often overshadowed by what’s on the outside. The aspects that make us different, special, or even undesired are lost when we are fit to a mold of race, language or culture. As a result, many are turned from their true interests, their hopes, their dreams and are simply assigned a pattern to live by. We are no longer individuals, free to be who we were meant to be, but have become just a pattern of what is accepted. Many have their minds turned against their heart. They do what they hate to fit in, and as a result they don’t know what they truly love.
I don’t know everything that life holds, I simply speak my mind. I relate my past where I overcame the darkness of the night we live in and saw the light of my own character, my true personality. I want others to find themselves, to stop running around in the darkness, but find the person they are seeking to be. Don’t constrict yourself when what you are interested in is unpopular. Don’t just follow a group to be accepted. Follow your heart. Seek out yourself no matter what others say your race, talents, status dictates.
Colin is a high school senior at Eagle River High School. He has lived all his life in Alaska and enjoys doing a variety of outdoor activities. Aside from that he is active in various arts. He enjoys crossing all barriers of race and culture with his wide-spread hobbies to reach people of all backgrounds.
Being an Air Force brat is not as exciting as it might sound. In fact, whenever I first hear my father tell my family the news that we are moving somewhere different, it is not exciting at all. We have to start all over again; packing, driving, unpacking, waiting for the movers to deliver the rest of the boxes of our junk, and sleeping in sleeping bags on the floor for a week while unpacking all the boxes. I wonder why I should even bother to unpack, to get to know the new place, when it could not possibly be as good as the one I have just left behind. And of course the people here couldn’t possibly be as good of friends as the ones I just left back home. I usually stubbornly remain in the house for a week or two in an unceasing state of self-pity; seething at this new place and my father for moving us here.
But of course I can’t stay in my new house forever and boredom takes over, tempting me to take those first steps out into my new surroundings. I wander down a few streets to see what I can find. And look---a nice little café. I walk through the door and am enveloped in the warm smell of fresh coffee just like my favorite café in my last home. I order a coffee and ask the young lady behind the counter, who looks to be about my age, what there is to do in this city. She asks if I am new, to which I answer, yet again, yes. She smiles and tells me about this wonderful section of the city where everyone goes to shop and suddenly we are engaged in an exciting conversation about what stores I should definitely visit. She doesn’t look or sound anything like my old friends. Her clothes and style are way different. I learn that she gets off work in fifteen minutes and she would be happy to show me around. Later, we wander around the city together, spotting interesting bookstores and restaurants and looking through shop windows at products so different from the ones sold in my last home. We talk and laugh and then in that moment, for all I know she could be any of my friends from back home.
Suddenly the idea sets in that I am in a new place that I have never been to before, with new places to explore and great new people to meet. And, though I still miss my old home and friends, I am not so sad anymore. In my life I have been to three middle schools, and three high schools. Every time I move to some new city or town, I go through this same pattern where at first I feel unused to everything; like an outsider. But over the years I have learned that I have to open my mind to my new surrounding and the different people who live there in order to be happy. I have always found aspects in each new place and in the friends that I have made that I love, and that will always stay with me.
Each place I have moved to has been so different in location, lifestyle, and culture. As I have gotten older and can start to appreciate the beauty found in the different people, places, and experiences, this kind of diversity takes on a very personal meaning. My life has been made very entertaining by these changes of scenery and I am richer for it in friends that I will always have and experiences that I will always cherish. I continue to visit many of these places when I can manage and keep in touch with my old friends. In fact, I have friends from these places who I have not seen in five years, but who still call me up on the phone and talk to me like we just saw each other yesterday. Because I have moved around so much, I have mastered the art of making the most of where I live, and making good friends- true friends- who are not going to be shaken off just because I move across the country. And whether I continue to move frequently when I am on my own or whether I stay in one place, I will appreciate these gifts. It is nice to know that my home is always with me.
Jennifer is a senior at Eagle River High School. She lives in a military family and has moved several times, the latest move from Florida to Alaska. This lifestyle was the inspiration for her personal narrative Learning to Find Home. Jennifer lives for reading books. She loves to write and loves to edit others’ stories even more.
In 1610, the Greeks decided to create a Panhellenic festival held every fourth year consisting of contests of sports, music, and literature and the victor was awarded with a crown of wild olive. Today, the tradition has made Olympics a perennial, world event. More important than the amazing athletes and the exciting sports competitions are the participating countries that arrive every four years with their flags and unique representations. We are not only celebrating Olympics, we are also celebrating the diversity that is presented every time.
From all over the world, athletes, coaches, families, and fans arrive at the stadium with high hopes and expectations. This is no ordinary entrance; the grand entrance of every country’s team is praised by the audience. The vibrating colors, the revitalizing music, the striking outfits, the multifarious styles, the distinctive accessories, the reverential flags---they all uniquely represent each country’s tradition, background, and culture. The people of different heights, size, hair color and style, skin color, facial expressions---yet, under all these differences, they are similar with one another in their ambitions and tensions.
Diversity is a controversial topic. Why do humans think diversity is favorable and support it, but once diversity is represented why do they criticize others’ differences and look with cynical eyes? Because of fear, jealousy, curiosity? Behind every athlete’s coach’s, family’s, and fan’s eyes, minds are constantly noticing and processing differences in physical appearances, behaviors, and languages of the competing teams. In comparison, diversity lives next to prejudice in a duplex; a thin wall separates them, but they are so close to tapping at one another that it is difficult not to mention diversity alone without mentioning prejudice and
vice-versa. Diversity is the difference among people, but if differences are not viewed as equal, superiority and inferiority of the people result.
As the Olympics’ opening night is intensified with dancing and singing, people are watching the small elements of the show forming into a whole piece. If diversity is a pie, then all human beings would be the ingredients, but since people differ in how they cut the pieces, (just like the lines that separates “they are like us” or “they are not like us” or “they are above, equal, or less than us”) each slice might differ in appearance but all taste the same. Therefore, if the people are diverse, then they must be equally diverse because what is a superior diversity or inferior diversity?
At the superficial level, people are glad that thirty or more countries are represented at the Olympics, but at another deeper level, each team is looking for a way to be better. To win or lose? To place first, second, or third? To achieve gold, silver, or bronze medal? To beat others or meet one’s goal? While all athletes greet each other and wish good luck, they are looking for ways to defeat others’ perfections or finding opportunities to triumph over another opponent. While the spirit behind the Olympics promotes unity, the competitions themselves create hostility, tending to forge more rivals than friends.
What if the world was a uniform place without competition? If communism is unfavorable to democracy, what is the solution to the problems surrounding diversity?
Today, people often try to force diversity into their daily lives. However, in Olympic events such as swimming or cross country skiing, one group dominates the other groups in participating numbers. It is the same with basketball and track, one group tends to perform better than the rest. Does the talent lie in the person or does the skill come out of practice? In schools, the Title IX program was created to provide equal opportunities for male and female students. However, males are more likely to be involved in sports than females, and by reducing the number of male sports and increasing the number of female sports, it creates an unfair outcome. This program even affects college athletics; sometimes, people are forcing diversity in sports by trying to present equal opportunities for every person, but eventually at the professional level, the superior players will advance while the inferior players quit.
Every year, certain high schools participate in Wild And Crazy Kids’ Olympics (WACKO). It is mainly a competition among the four high school classes and faculty. On day one, students get to distinguish themselves with their class colors: red for freshmen, green for sophomores, silver for juniors, navy blue for seniors, and black for faculty. Students in a way are creating a new diversity by concealing other diversity factors (such as race, nationality, ethnic groups, religious groups, cultural groups, etc); this creates more powerful,unified, but still separate groups. However, in the school and in the community, people are socially conscious about diversity, to respect others’ differences and to promote unity. Yet, by creating more ways to distinguish students differently, people are violating their commitment by undermining other groups, like upper classmen harassing the lower classmen. In a school, where students of many differences come together to be simply “students,” people are unconsciously creating problems while promoting diversity. In the end of the WACKO tournament, the winner and the losers are announced, and like the Olympics, the winner is glorified while the losers are criticized.
In today’s world, deciding if diversity is more favorable than uniformity is a difficult question. In some ways, diversity can allow people to appreciate and respect the differences, but because of the differences, unfavorable outcomes, such as prejudice and discrimination, can occur. Diversity can expand in many ways, but how do we define the limit of good diversity and mark the start of prejudices? Hye Rim is currently a senior at Eagle River High School, Alaska. She was born in South Korea and has been living in the United States for seven years. She enjoys reading, writing, and public speaking, especially on the controversial issues of today. Does diversity complete the picture or distort it? Is diversity necessary? If so, why are we really celebrating it?
Hye Rim is currently a senior at Eagle River High School, Alaska. She was born in South Korea and has been living in the United States for seven years. She enjoys reading, writing, and public speaking, especially on the controversial issues of today.
Diversity reveals itself in large cities within every aspect: from the railway station to libraries to street corners. The railway station fusses and pulsates as much as a library rustles and whispers. A city street corner overflows with diversity. Unique attributes trickle from every crack in the pavement and discarded stale bagel in the gutter.
People portray the most uniqueness on the streets. All types surface: from the harried mother working three jobs to the awe-struck small-town teenager tentatively buying a street vendor’s produce. The anxious mother can be seen hurrying; always rushing, bustling and hastening. Life distracts her to the point of wearing two pairs of sunglasses and a sweater, backwards. During the actions of drinking coffee, waking her kids up with a quick phone call, and crossing the street she realizes she confused the coffee and cell phone. Now the brown coffee stains her white uniform: permanently changing, but not quite ruining the fabric, it is salvageable. She passes a beggar, glances at him, but doesn’t truly see him. The problems of her own life envelope her mind.
Diversity is much like this stain spreading across her blouse, and the stain of troubles spreading across her mind—different colors mingling, and fading into each other at the edges. This blending of various people prevents the community from remaining the same and stagnating. Society needs to change and reincarnate to a healthier environment. Change may not always start out as improvement, but transformations bring new ideas: fresh thoughts to benefit the population. This adjustment draws out the uniqueness of a people.
The backcountry teenager wanders the streets, having no purpose but to soak up the immense, overpowering displays of manmade accomplishments. Who knew that the human race would build structures hundreds of feet high? He doesn’t know the social boundaries that diversity draws, and mistakenly turns a corner to the meager side of town. Instead of snubbing those of lower class, he takes the freshly bought food from the street vendor and places it in the hands of an outstretched beggar. The beggar contemplates this manna from an unnamed angel. Words of thanks and gratitude slip his mind as the angel continues his wandering. How many people has the beggar seen every day buy food at the same street vendor and pocket the change? The teenager—though he did not have much change to pocket—gave the ENTIRE purchase to the homeless.
Who dictated the fact that one corner could separate the privileged from the poor? A distance of ten feet should not divide the social classes communities are forced into. These partitions are segregating society, but the action of the backcountry teenager shows the ability even the simplest of souls has to conquer such prejudice. Diversity is always praised as being a beneficial concept—it should be embraced.
According to Ralph Waldo Emerson: “for nonconformity, the world whips you with its displeasure.” The trivial lashes the world delivers do not hold a candle to the light diversity releases. One stroke of compassion portrays the benefits of variety: one small instant of sympathy reincarnates society. It promotes the revolution needed to achieve the symmetry of diversity.
Sarah, a senior at Eagle River High School, enjoys being a nerd and athlete. She avidly cross-country skis and teaches her fellow skiers how to knit. She passionately hikes, backpacks, and saves the environment.