Woman=Wo Man???

From the dawn of time, woman has been clothed with this derogatory title, characterizing her as a thorn in man’s side and a being only capable of one thing of use, procreation; at which she is not even self sufficient and relies on man to do. I am curious as to why women were the ones chosen to have to endure the rage of all of mankind. Why are all the pronouns masculine if the writer is uncertain of the sex? It is because we live in a patriarchally dominated society, and we always have. Men took over when women resigned themselves to picking berries and bearing children during the days of the cavemen. A time when a woman was mere property to be bought and sold and fought over.

Because women go through childbirth, which is the purifying act which makes them women, they are envied. The act of procreation causes women to hold an unknown amount of power over the rest of the world. No doubt, that worries men, not only worries but also makes them quite envious. Perhaps, in their view, woman was a threat. What I’m getting at is; what if woman became subservient to men, not by biological chance, but by complete cogent choice?

On the outset, I must tell you that I am a conspiracy theorist, it is in my blood, I was raised that way. Maybe I’m crazy too, but sometimes, even crazy people have a point to make. The deep rooted problems with women are from an envious perspective. Women have been endowed with the task of the utmost importance, and that is childbearing. Again, that is not all they are good at, but it is their primary task, and that should not be something that is overlooked, or looked down upon by feminists. Women are not simply the carriers of the future generations, but that should be the most important task of their lives.

Men need to be in control, and they realised, at one point in early history, that woman would take over if they did not do something to stop it. Because, biologically, woman is the superior sex, they are the ones with the most power to control the generations of the world. So, where was man to take his power from? In short, he decided to find his power in the subjugation of women, which has become an accepted practise the world over. The place for the woman, we have been instructed, is in the home, raising the children. But I say NO.

Women have minds they are not simply the playthings of men. Look at Rosalind Franklin, a prime example of the exploitation of women. She did all the grunt work to find the information which Watson and Crick stole to make the real discovery of the double helix structure of DNA. I suppose I am putting forth that the subjugation of women is a tradition that has been passed down from generation to generation, father to son, from the beginning of time. Why else would it have endured?

~kiki

Oncology, It grows on you…

My ambition in life is to become an oncologist. Yes, that is a doctor who deals with cancer, I’m not mistaken and think that it is a job that is always ‘rainbows and butterflies’ as a popular song goes. My mother thinks that oncology is one of the dullest sectors of medicine that I could choose to go into.

“The people are DYING.” She told me exasperated after we spent about twenty minutes going through a list of medical books that interested me (about oncology).

Me: “Exactly.”

Eventually the scientists will have everything figured out. i doubt that it will be during my lifetime, but one day they will realise how the world began, or why when you divide and divide a particle at the centre there is energy. But death, that is something that science will never be able to definitively understand because they cannot systematically observe it and experiment with it.

Death is the great equalizer, I very much agree with this. In death, it doesn’t matter how you lived, or how much money you had, your body is breaking down and you are learning exactly what it means to be human. (Funny commercial about being human here I met this guy at a dance convention and took class from him. He looks better in real life.) When you’re faced with your own demise, it’s strangely refreshing, because you have nothing to lose. You become the person that you always dreamed to be.

I later told my mum that I wanted to help them die. But I said this incorrectly. I’m not a Dr. Kevorkian supporter or anything like that. i’m not looking to help people kill themselves. I just want to be the person there to help them be 1. comfortable, and 2. in a good environment when they do die. I want to be around them while they are dying because then perhaps I will be able to better understand what is eventually going to happen to all of us.

Ok, so I’m obsessed with death. But who, secretly, isn’t? We all want to investigate the things that we don’t understand. As humans we are all instinctively curious. They say “curiousity killed the cat,” but what was it like for the cat as it died? That is what I want to know.

Cancer, itself, we understand quite well. It is an overgrowth of cells in one area. well, that does sound terribly boring when you put it that way. But it isn’t the cancer that makes oncology so intriguing, it’s the ambience and the situations that come up because of the cancer.

So, there you are, my mum isn’t right for once, there is more to oncology than just a certain Robert Sean Leonard.

~kiki

Prancing Nazis forcing me…

Passions are things that I suppose we all have, or wish we had. When there is something that you love to do, it doesn’t really matter if you’re good at it, you love to do it and it brings you pleasure, so you do it. There are so many thoughts swirling around in my head, I love it when I am able to grab one and hold onto it and write, and write, and have the writing be coherent. Writing is my passion, then why has it become such a bother? Why does a passion suddenly become something that you are forced to do, or only do out of habit?

I never really fancied myself a good writer. Writing was in my blood. My grandfather owned a newspaper, and my father worked there until he was well into his thirties. My life can be documented in his editorials which usually consisted of funny anecdotes of baby Kikki doing something crazy or cute. I couldn’t draw as a child, so I turned to writing, turning out serious papers which won writing contests in the fourth grade.

I remember my first writing contest that I won in the fourth grade. It was during Red Ribbon Week and we were told to write a paper about why cigarettes were bad, or something to that effect. I turned out a paper about how it gave my grandfather and two uncles lung cancer, leading to the death of my two uncles. I have to admit, some of it was ad libbed. I took some liberty and pretended as though I remembered being told that my father’s brother had lung cancer. This never really happened, the true cause of his death was a huge family secret for a long time, I was only inducted into the ‘know’ about six months ago. But, nonetheless, I was young kid, and they exploited my situation and gave me a trophy and a few days out of school. I was a happy camper.

But, I suppose the moral of this story is that I enjoyed writing it. They actually did not inform us that we were writing this for a contest until after we had turned it in. Then my teacher approached me and told me that they had chosen my paper to represent the school and go to the district contest (which i won).

Lately, however, writing has become a bore. I’m finding it harder to harness the complex ideas that i want to put across to the reader. I know that everytime i write something it can’t be totally deep and philosophical. But the problem is that I feel as though it isn’t worth my time if it’s not. I need everything to possess that mystical idealism that I live with everyday. (I know you’re laughing at my ‘mystical idealism’, Mer.)

I need writing exercises. I need something to help me put all of my thoughts in order and keep them cogent. Because they all blend together in a dizzying array of speech in my head and it’s a beautiful amalgamation there, but somehow it loses it’s magnificence when I begin typing. I have these moments throughout the day when I think, “I need to blog this.” But then I get home and I can’t remember how i was going to make this mean anything more than just something funny that I wanted to share with the blogosphere.

I mean, is that all a blog is? Is it simply a place for the blogger to share the ironic and funny experience he or she has? Is it a soapbox that we never have to get off of? Or is it a place for us to share the deepest thoughts of our souls? A place where we can be as blunt as we need and get to the plain facts and tear off the scabs that people have grown to reveal the raw and real truths of life?

That’s what i want. I want to be the person with the ductape to tear off your scabs which you’ve grown to protect yourself. You want to know why? Because I wear them, and I want more than anything for someone to come along with the proverbial ductape and to rip off the layers and to reveal who I really am. so that maybe I can really finally know for sure. I need to be that person so that one day, perhaps, i can turn the analysis around and I can analyse myself.

~kiki
(I don’t know where any of this came from, it does not leave the blogosphere. Dad(Cheryl): I don’t want to discuss it any further than this. )

Philosophy quoting Dr. Greg House and Jewel…^-^

So I got into it a few days ago with my grandmother. I don’t know what spurred it, more than likely it was some assinine comment I heard on television which painted a terrible bleak, emo version of the atheist world. But I said.

“You know, I’ve seen more beauty in the world since I’ve become an atheist than I ever did before, when i believed there was a god.”

My grandmother, who is not naive, but after a long life of sorrow honestly seeks the simplest answer to all of life’s questions, wanted to know why. Well, it’s because when you believe that there is a god who controls everything, then you are also believing that everything that happens is predestined by him. You are resigning yourself to the fact that there are no coincidences and there are no random acts of kindness. Man becomes a pawn who is helpless and unable to do anything, well, human.

For me, when I see good in the world, it is because man has finally decided to do something good, in spite of all the terrible occurences which we live with everyday. Life, at that moment, takes on this cliche effervescence, but I’m so caught up in it that the cliche is beyond me and my jadedness, if even for a moment, goes away and I can see life through those rose coloured glasses which Tori Amos referred to in Almost Rosey

Then there’s the entire concept of an afterlife, or heaven, or eternity, or whatever you want to call it. Not to criticise Christians, but they are the most proximate religion to myself, so I will use them as an example. They try to make it seem like life would be so morbid if you did not think there is ’something more’ afterward. However, after my soul-searching and hearing other’s opinions I have come to my own opinion.

Thinking that there is somewhere better that we are going after this, makes life so trivial (as if it needed to seem more trivial than it already does in our pop culture driven society). If this is all prelude to something bigger in the cosmos, than what is the point? Why would a divine creator, who supposedly loves man over all other things, put him here to live and then make life, seemingly, meaningless in the grand scheme of things? To sum it up nicely, I will pull from one of my favourite television series, House MD.

When asked if he finds it comforting to think that this is it, House comes back with:

“I find it comforting to believe that this isn’t just a test.”

Isn’t it true? I also find it comforting to believe that this counts for something. Think about in the theatre, when you have a dress rehersal, yes, granted it is important, but that is simply in relation to the ‘real’ performance later. If things go wrong it’s not a big deal, you fix them, but you do not linger over them, because, of course, you will fix them before the ‘real thing’. But during the real performance, there is no room for error, you do the best that you can, because this is it, there is no other time to fix the glitches. It’s sink or swim.

Not to mention, this religious obsession with the afterlife causes people to live only for that. Talk about morbid, they literally live to die. Everything they do, they are doing while thinking of what it will do to help or jeopardize their place in their heaven. They can’t do what they really want to do because they are too worried about their otherwordly self. In the words of the modernday philosopher Jewel:

“you’re so worried about saving your soul afraid that god will take his toll that you forget to begin”

So, what can we do for ourselves, if god has predestined it? How can we live our lives if all we think about is dying? These are big questions. Questions that will never have a definitive answer that fits everyone, because opinions differ. I don’t claim to be correct for you, but I do claim to be correct for me. This is what I believe, as an atheist, a happy atheist. I will die a happy person because I will know that everything I have done while on this earth was from my goodness and not from the goodness of a divine ‘it’ that i simply tapped into. I live for people, not for some invisible god who sits up in heaven, waiting until the inevitable moment that I die, so that my ‘real’ life can begin.

~kiki

American Doll Posse…

So, I have become a Tori Amos fanatic. I was just telling my friend Mer that she hadn’t been in my life for very long, but I couldn’t imagine life without her. Her edge and her rawness really speaks to me.

Her newest album is entitled “American Doll Posse”. And in the insert, she is dressed as different people. There is Pip the dark one, Santa the passionate beauty, Clyde the jaded dreamer, Isabel the documenting artist, and Tori the philosopher.

It is an amazing portrayl of the different people that we are everyday, in different situations. People say that if you have more than one personality that it is schizophrenia, but I disagree. We are all simply millions of personalities packaged into one deal. Each day we feel a plethora of emotions and we we encounter multifarious situations and we react according to the appropriate personality.

We all have our days when we feel dark. Those days when you wake up to see a bright sunny day and think, “Damn, another bright and shiny morning,” as we throw the covers back over our heads. How can this personality be the same as the one from the week before who only wanted to go out and run 2.5 miles in the sunny May day?

Then there are the days when we are simply radiant. We glow with beauty and passion. I’ve seen it happen with friends who get boyfriends. I remember them from before, jaded and bitter about the male sex just as I am, and they suddenly change to become this strange new being who can only fantasize about their significant other. They find this new vigour for life and a passion unlike any I have ever seen before. And they exude the beauty that they have found inside themselves all along.

I’m jaded. I know this, and have no problem accepting it. I’m jaded about the system, and most of all about males. It’s about control, and me not having any. I go to the extremes to get control over every situation. It comforts me. The system sucks because it takes all my control, and men suck because I can’t control them, and I can’t predict what they will do next.

We all have those experiences that we know are deep and profound, but hurt like hell. And we all have at one time wished that we were on the outside looking in. Well, sometimes it is easier to look at a situation through a lens. It’s no crime, it’s simply us trying desperately to keep ourself from pain.

I’ve had moments in my life when something hits me. Something deep and profound, and I have to write it down. Later, I’ll look at it and think, “what was I smoking?” But in all seriousness, there are times when the grey rain curtain of life is pulled back to reveal the core, the soul, and the bare raw facts, which are carved with intricate detail into the cracks of time. And you are able to comprehend it, even if just for a moment. It may not even make sense to anyone else, but that does not matter. It is only your enlightenment that you should worry about. That is philosophy. That is realising what the meaning of life, or the lack thereof, is.

We all have a bit of Tori Amos in us. Why not name them? She’s given them human names, she’s made them her friends. But most importantly, she has embraced them, and not tried to shoo them away with psychotropics. So for Pip, Clyde, Santa, Isabel, and Tori.
I’m Kikki.

~kikki

Does the Church play Tennis?

Why, you ask, would I pose such a ridiculous question? Well, it’s quite simple, because all I see when I look at the Church, is a racket.

Today, your own Pastor Kiki will prove, with Biblical support, that all the church is after is your money, and they want to use scare tactics to get it.

Please open your Bibles to Acts 4:32, we will be finishing chapter 4 and then going to 5:11. (I’ll pull specific quotes, here’s a link to the passage if you want to make sure that I’m legit. )

To sum it up for you, this passage is after the death and “resurrection” of Jesus. The church is functioning well, they are “gellin’ ” if you get my drift. A man is described who sells his land and gives all his money to the apostles, everybody loves him. Then another man and his wife are described who sell their land and only give part of the money to the apostles. One thing leads to another, and at the end of the passage, both the man and his wife are dead.

What, you ask? I’ll explain.

32All the believers were one in heart and mind. No one claimed that any of his possessions was his own, but they shared everything they had…34There were no needy persons among them. For from time to time those who owned lands or houses sold them, brought the money from the sales 35and put it at the apostles’ feet, and it was distributed to anyone as he had need.

Ok, well first of all, may I point out how pseudo-communistic this sounds? Anyway, off topic. This point is that, at the get go, they want to establish that the money is being given back to the people. They want to redeem themselves, because the story they go on to recount is just plain scary.

36Joseph, a Levite from Cyprus, whom the apostles called Barnabas (which means Son of Encouragement), 37sold a field he owned and brought the money and put it at the apostles’ feet.

My question is: How do the people live after they sell this land? Was Joseph independently wealthy? What about Ananias (we’ll get to him in a minute.)? He may not have had the means that Joseph had, yet he is reprimanded.

1Now a man named Ananias, together with his wife Sapphira, also sold a piece of property. 2With his wife’s full knowledge he kept back part of the money for himself, but brought the rest and put it at the apostles’ feet. 3Then Peter said, “Ananias, how is it that Satan has so filled your heart that you have lied to the Holy Spirit and have kept for yourself some of the money you received for the land? 4Didn’t it belong to you before it was sold? And after it was sold, wasn’t the money at your disposal? What made you think of doing such a thing? You have not lied to men but to God.”

Does this not scream RACKET??? I mean, fuck, Ananias is being punished for giving some of his own money to the apostles. Talk about the apostles being selfish, it’s not enough that Ananias gives some money, they want it ALL, even though they don’t deserve any of it. We could question his motives, but the common idea is that he gave the money so that he could benefit his own reputation. That falls apart, because, if he really was worried about his reputation, he would have given all the money, but he didn’t. Everybody is too caught up with the fact that Ananias has a brain and realises that he cannot live without money, to see Joseph, over there, who gave everything he owned.

5When Ananias heard this, he fell down and died. And great fear seized all who heard what had happened.

WTF?? Ok, I won’t go into ways he could have died, though tempting. But now, the apostles have everyone exactly where they want them. Everyone is scared to death because of this, which is going to put major money in the Apostles pockets.

7About three hours later his wife came in, not knowing what had happened. 8Peter asked her, “Tell me, is this the price you and Ananias got for the land?”
“Yes,” she said, “that is the price.”
9Peter said to her, “How could you agree to test the Spirit of the Lord?…10At that moment she fell down at his feet and died.

So, what is the moral of this story of Ananias and Sapphira? It is simple: It is never enough. The church always wants more, even more than you have to give. They don’t want you to live comfortably, or have money enough to educate yourself in the way of the world, because then you would have knowledge enough to look at their doctrine and their dogma and say, “Oh my God (no pun intended) this is complete $%#^”

Education is the biggest fear of the church, or at least secular education. Why do you think there are so many Christian schools? Why do you think that small children are sent to Sunday School from the time they are old enough to be away from their parents? Because the Church believes that if they can get to these children at a young age, they can brainwash them into believing whatever they put in front of them. Unfortunately, this is true.

11Great fear seized the whole church and all who heard about these events.

Everyone was scared, and what do you think they did in their fear? They gave money to the apostles, to the Church. It’s irrelevant whether these events with Ananias and Sapphira really happened or not. The point is that the people believed it, and they acted in fear of them. The Church does not care why people give, as long as they do.

I’m not saying that the Church does not need money. Everyone in this world does. It’s a common denominator. What I have a problem with is how they motivate people to give, and what they claim they do with the money. If they honestly came out and said, we need the money to pay our staff, our pastors and all that jazz, then I would be like, fine. But they cloak it in the ideas that it all goes back to the community, when it really doesn’t.

They take advantage of people’s ignorance, and innocence, and it’s sickening.

So I say, “Love-Love” to this game of Tennis.

The Prodigal Blogger [short story by yours truly]

The monochromatic glow of the computer screen woke me from unsettling dreams in my plushy, black leather computer chair. My blog had racked four hits. To accentuate my geekiness I smiled and began typing a rant in Java script in the notebook window I had open. As my vision blurred I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand. I stretched back in my chair and pushed away from the computer table with my legs. There is something strangely freeing, alluring even, about sleeping in front of your computer screen in the nude.

I’ve always wanted to be famous. I suppose it wasn’t normal that Bill Gates was my idol, not because he had a shitload of money, either. Yeah, I was jeered at as a child, but I took it all in stride, because I knew I was better than them. The gargantuan boys who passed for high schoolers in fifth grade made fun of my glasses, but I always got the last laugh, moving up a grade and leaving them in my dust, or grabbing the attention of the new girl from Germany in middle school because she found me crying in the janitor’s closet.

Ahh, Anneliese, we dated all through high school. Went through all the high school mating rituals, I banged her in the back seat of my bad-ass Toyota Tercel. We were the real deal. I like telling that story when co-workers pull the “you’ve never been laid” shit. I conveniently forget the part where she meets Merrick, a dick-head Wiccan from Wales, and falls madly in love with him, and elopes to the South Island of New Zealand to set the souls of the Kiwis free. No. They wouldn’t believe me anyway.

I contemplated writing another blog. Perhaps a suicide scare, that would rack up hits. But I lost my nerve as an e-mail notice popped up on my start menu. Whatever I had been listening to had been good. I had the volume on my computer turned up so high that when the e-mail notifier sounded its catchy little jingle I had to cover my ears. “Shit!” I exclaimed to my empty apartment. Well, not empty, I had the company of millions of McDonalds bags, and empty take-out Chinese containers, as well as their complementary fortune cookie fortunes, all strewn about in this room, the only room I’ve ever really used.

With almost a sexual degree of accuracy I moved my mouse lightening speed to open the e-mail I had just received. I only had one new e-mail of note. Other than the millions of spam mail I receive a day from Microsoft, Apple, or porno sites, I don’t get much e-mail. I didn’t recognise the sender of this email. Hello, fckipodisapple… was the title. I closed my email taking the email as a desperate attempt to bug my computer by one of the guys at work. They all think that I’m up to something huge at home. What they don’t realise; my biggest accomplishment, is getting four hits on my blog.

I reopened the window with my blog and began typing gibberish into the text box. Maybe I’d even post it. Another e-mail notification popped up. “Fuck.” I yelled, as again the catchy tune assaulted my auditory system. This had better be some damn good porn… I thought as I opened my email, only to find another email from the mystery address. The subject of this one read, Save the Kiwis! Act Now!. I furrowed my brow quizzically, in a way that I knew said Celebrity contemplates the effects of global warming. I knew I hadn’t told any of the guys at work about the Anneliese and the Kiwis.

I hesitantly opened the e-mail. It consisted of one letter:

I

I knew someone had gotten me big time. I slammed my hand down so hard on my computer table that the slap reverberated throughout my apartment. Tim or Barry was probably at that very moment sifting through all my files with a virus they created. Geeks. I deleted the email and went back to my Java rant.

Again, I got a note that an email had arrived. I knew that it was from my virus protection software alerting me that my security had been breached. I was curious as to what level of virus they were able to pull past me, so I pulled up the window with my e-mail. An email from the same sender, microsoftblows, was sitting in my e-mail.

Do You Like Sequels?

I clicked on the email. One word emails really pissed me off.

read

I clicked reply, I wanted to end this shit once and for all. But an alert window popped up which read:
“No Reply Allowed To Sender”
It puzzled me. This person was sending me emails, but obviously he didn’t want to communicate. I pulled closer to my computer, I punched a few keys to try to locate his IP address which he was sending them from, when another email landed in my inbox.

Through the Looking Glass…

He knew that I was looking for his IP address. “Clever.” I whispered, a bit in awe that he knew, or perhaps just insanely lucky to send this subject while I was searching for his location. I hastily clicked the email.

your

I shook my head. I read your… What does it mean? A pop-up opened while I was going over possible scenarios in my head. I closed the pop-up which was trying to allure me into clicking to get a free I-pod. Ha ha, I got a free I-pod when I went to Apple to de-bug their system after their firewall was picked apart by some teen hacker. I also got a lot of ass and a fat bonus, but I won’t gloat.

Another email came. At this point, I was hooked, he had me hook, line, and sinker.

I’m Waiting…

Said the subject. “For what?” I asked my empty apartment. I opened the email.

blog.

He was waiting for my blog? No. Then I remembered the other emails. I read your blog. What they hell did that mean? Was it possible to get a stalker after just four hits on a weblog? I didn’t think so. I tried replying again and got the same result. Then, I decided to use the blog. I posted a hasty blog.

What do you want to tell me?

Literally a second after I posted this blog, I got an email. The subject was:

POST IT

But the email was empty when I opened it. I again tried fruitlessly to track the IP address. But I could not find one. It was as if he were not even sending the emails, I could not trace them.

Most people would be alarmed, but I was intriguied. It was a mystery and I was the main character. I didn’t know what he wanted me to post. I posted nothing. He was silent for a moment, I thought it was finished, and then:

I want the project…

I had no idea what that meant. It seemed so random. I wasn’t working on any projects at home or at work, my only project was my failed weblog. I scratched my ear and looked at the time. It was 6.45 AM.

Work soon, eh?

Said the subject of the next email. “What the fuck?” I said with disgust, awe, and anger mixed together to create a strange new tone. I was about to get up when another email plopped
into my inbox.

POST IT

Was the subject. I stood up and my computer screen went black as my entire system shut down on its own.
—-
I started and my head hit my monitor as I jerked awake. I had been dreaming. The sound of my email alert woke me. It was indeed 6.45. I decided to check my email just to be sure, before leaving for work. The only new email was a promotion from my favourite porn sight about Girls Gone Wild. I stood and weaved my way through scattered fast food remnants on my floor.

I didn’t post anything.
————————————————————
(That Same Day)

New York Times

:
35 year-old Joseph Murphy, computer programmer was killed today in a one car accident, when his Saab ran off the road and plowed into a bridge support on his way to work. The autopsy results show that he was not under the influence of any substance. His only possessions in his car when he died was one briefcase with one piece of paper in it. On the piece of paper was two words: “POST IT”.
Murphy is survived by no one. His only Eulogy will be given by himself, in a haunting weblog he posted the night before.

*.*Invisible Children*.*

So, I know I haven’t blogged in what seems like forever, ok, it really was forever, but I’ve watched the DVD “Invisible Children” twice now, and I feel like I am ready to document to the world (I know that I’m being very optimistic) what lies there within, and how much it appalls me.

Even as we speak there is a war waging on. As we drive our fancy cars and complain that we don’t have the most up to date cell phone, children are being abducted and desensitized by violence to become killing machines. This war is not in the Middle East, this war does not even directly effect America, but America has everything to do with it.

This civil war is in Uganda, and it has been going on for twenty years without cease, and has affected the lives of millions of Ugandans as well as Southern Sudanese. This war is a revolution. Revolutionary vs. Government, with the people of Uganda caught in the deadly crossfire, literally.

The war began in 1986 with the overthrowing of the Ugandan President by the National Resistance Army. This period marked a time of increasing turmoil in Uganda, with counterinsurgency groups performing violent acts left and right. By the end of that year popular insurgency had developed in the Northern regions which were occupied by the government.

Joseph Kony enters the picture in January 1987 and claims to be a spirit medium. Kony, after creating an army with this followers called the Lord’s Resistance Army,  is encouraged by a former commander of the People’s Democratic Army to employ guerrilla tactics, specifically attacks on civilians, to underline the government’s inability to protect its people.

The Acholi , a tribe in Northern Uganda, supported Kony at the beginning, looking upon him as the answer to their plea for peace in Uganda. However, when the Ugandan government employed “heavy hand” tactics, in order to try to extinguish Kony. He and the LRA lashed out by mutilating numerous Acholi whom they believed to be government supporters. It was this brutal violence towards their people that turned the Acholi away from the insurgency.

By 1994, Kony had moved to Sudan seeking support for his revolutionary movement. He became convinced that the Acholi were lending aid to the new government and that was when the LRA began targeting civilians. It was in 1994 that the first mass abduction of children took place. The most famous being the Aboke abductions of 139 female students in October of 1996.

But millions of others have been abducted; Millions of others that you will never hear about. That is what Invisible Children is about, about putting a face on these children.

Once abducted, the children are turned into soldiers for the LRA. It is crucial, in order to comprehend the conflict in Uganda, to understand that the children who are abducted are the ones causing the initial conflict. The children are the victims and the perpetrators of these vicious acts of violence.

The children, in order to escape being abducted, walk, in fear, sometimes miles, to towns in order to sleep together and escape abduction. They are called the “Night Commuters”. These children sleep together in bus depots, in hospitals, literally anywhere, where they can be safe from the rebels whom they have seen take friends and family.

It seems impossible that this war in Uganda could really be happening. How can America sit by and watch as Ugandan children are being taken from their homes and brainwashed to the point that they will kill anyone, even family or friends. The film makers of Invisible Children say, “We are the youth of America, when we do something, people listen.” And it is true.

We need to act up, and tell people that what we want to do is help these people in Northern Uganda take back their lives. And most of all help these children become children again. We need to do all we can to give these children a chance to be able to honestly be a child. Kony himself said when speaking to a reporter at the United Nations, “I do not have any children, I have only combatants.” He has demoralized these children to such an extent that they are no longer children!

It’s time to say that enough is enough!

DISPLACE ME!

~kikki

Hello world! way too perky…

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So what is this shit that they start me out with? It makes me look like the sunshine cheerleader on uppers…..which I’m not. I suppose it’s always assumed that they weblogger is a happy-go lucky person, well, I suppose it is always assumed that any person that one has not met is just happy and all that jazz, not true.

Unless of course, you wear a lot of black, have piercings, or any other insignia that might make you appear to be different. I’ve done it, I’m not innocent, I remember one time in particular, I was approached by a girl with bubble gum pink hair that had been in my french class the previous year. We were in the girl’s bathroom, and it ennerved me a bit. All she said was,

“You were in my french class last year, right?”

A bit taken aback, I replied quietly, “Yes.” A bit embaressed of my preconcieved notions. But, come to think of it, I don’t think any of the “nice” girls, which usual consist of the “popular” crowd (the real bitches) they will say ‘hi’ to you when there is no one else to talk to, but when their ‘real’ friends are there, they will completely ignore you.

You don’t judge people, I know it sounds very hypocritical, considering the subject of this post, but it’s not. I’m making observations, it’s happened to me. I wouldn’t make this up. These are some of the worst experiences of my life, I would never want these things to happen to me, nor would I invent them, because they were so traumatic. (ok, that was melodramatic, but you get the idea)

I don’t hang out with the popular people. I don’t hang out with the geeks. I suppose I’m a floater, I have a few really good friends, and then I just sort of do the ‘floaty dance’ around the groups, staying away from the popular crowd, who would reject me anyway, and yes, they did.

I’m not perky, I’m not a happy-go lucky person. I’m dark most of the time. I’ve realised as of late, that my coping mechanism is crawling into my darkest place and lingering there for a while, and then realising that I like it better in my bit of light. I’m a dancer, and I dance with my heart on my sleeve. We did a combination to a song that started. “I want to paint my face, and pretend that I am someone else.” And it was me. Sometimes I do pretend that I’m someone else, because I don’t like being me. I feel stuck.

~kikki