Tuesday, November 18, 2014

Thanks to those forgotten


The time of year is rolling back around when we're supposed to give thanks. Well, at least in the United States of America. That's the only place that matters though, right?

Don't get me wrong, I have a lot to be thankful for. Like the fact that I'm a cisgendered, straight, white, wealthy, male human. I have to deal with very little structural oppressions in my day-to-day life, and pretty much the only box on the privilege test I don't tick off is faith. And despite the comfy seat my birth and biological makeup gives me, I think that a time of thanks is also a time to acknowledge the reason I have the things I do. Which is considerably less peachy than stuffed turkey and cranberry sauce. America, believe it or not, wasn't always home to Uncle Sam. Indians, as we still like to call them (Despite the fact that we knew they weren't from India about 5 minutes after good ol' Columbus hit the shoreline) were here first.

Native Americans, being the original people here, were a bit of an issue for the colonizing dreams of the European sailors. So, they scummed it out. Intentionally or not, they distributed blankets and other such goods carrying deadly diseases and germs to the Native American populace. It's estimated that about 90% of the total population was killed by infection (Cook, Noble David Born to Die, p. 13) , which left a skeletal force to resist the European invasion when it came full-force. 10% of a people isn't enough to even come close to winning a war against battle-ready Europeans armed to the teeth, leading to the birth of the US of A.

Now, some might say that "Hey, well look at all of the cool new things Europeans brought the Native Americans", such as new technology, advanced metalworking, and medicine. This, however, is greatly overshadowed by the genocidal effect of their arrival. Who cares about how much medicine is given AFTER 90% of the population is dead? That's essentially chopping a mans arm off and slapping a sesame street band-aid on the stump with a pat and a smile.


So, in this time of thanks, I'd like to give thanks not just to the people who are directly present in my life (My friends, family, and kickass teachers), but also those who aren't noticed everyday merely on the account of them being dead. I choose to look down at the ziggurat of Native American corpses our nation is built upon and acknowledge their plight and the atrocities committed against them as the cornerstone of the USA.

Wednesday, November 12, 2014

These souls are 2 dark: part 2


Constant death wears on you, after a while. Many a time, the game has caused me to toss my controller down and take a break from it out of frustration. This, in a dark fashion, mirrors life.  We stumble through life, sometimes even striking gold (Or in Dark souls II's case, a large soul), but without concrete knowledge that that really IS success. Why do we continue our journeys when we know the end is only, and always going to be our own death, usually to great anger on our parts? Though this point of view might appear to be vehemently nihilistic, there's actually a kernel of hope buried in there. The message that I read from the seemingly endless black pit is one of self-determination. Not in the sense of an iron will, but like a compass. There may be no objective reason we keep on throwing ourselves down the path, but we still do it. This is due to our own drive for it, something that we've fashioned for ourselves. There really doesn't need to be a "truth" in order to justify continuing soldiering on, all we need is a declaration from ourselves that "this is what I'm going to do". Regardless of reason (or lack there-of) we can do things. We have the agency to do this. Despite knowing that death is the only thing that welcomes us with open arms at the end of it all, we can create our own meaning for it. It's not all just a black screen with a morbid declaration upon it. Fearing death must mean there's a reason for us to be alive, even if that reason is entirely self-conjured.


Wednesday, November 5, 2014

These Souls are 2 Dark: Part 1


Dark souls II is a great game. It came out in March of this year and brought a lot to the table, with it being a shoe-in for at least a nomination for GOTY (Game of the Year) of 2014. It was a direct sequel to the critically acclaimed Dark Souls, which won the GOTY back in 2011, carrying that legacy and weight from the day it was announced. The game doesn't disappoint, continuing the series famed difficulty and challenge. I'm a huge fan of the series, so I highly anticipated it (and may have missed a day of school when it came out), so I was ecstatic when I heard new downloadable content might be being released for it. Which, of course, led to me playing through the game again. During my newest playthrough, I thought about the storyline and setting a lot more than I had previously, and I realized something:Your character has no concrete motives for struggling through the mess they're put in. They're cursed with a seemingly incurable affliction, which turns them undead. Unlike common zombie stereotypes, your character is very much in control and present when undead. It just makes them unable to die for good. Your character, though never voicing their own opinion, can be vaguely assumed to want to break free from this curse and attain a final rest. Only a few guiding forces are present in the game, and all of them echo the same thing as the others: Seek souls.  No reason is given for this order, just a few chuckles from the old crones in the beginning and a promise from the emerald herald that I'll find what I want if I get the souls. In accordance with the game's difficulty, you die. A lot. Every time you die, the game restarts you at the latest bonfire you'd visited. No breaks, just instant reincarnation with your healthbar slightly smaller each time. The only inevitability I know booting it up is that I'm going to see the famed "You died" screen.