The Worth of a Human Life

Side Note 1: I may have an addiction to reading comments on Instagram Reels.

Side Note 2: I have a macabre sense of humor. And there has been more than one instance when I am sure I am just one brain switch away from being a complete sociopath.

Side Note 3: I do not fear death, or what comes after it. It is only the act of dying itself that I am leery of.

Now, on to the… what are these? External validations of internal trains of thoughts? Brain Farts?

Anyways.

I was reading a comment from an Instagram reel that was a reading of a reddit post… these are dangerous because they will suck you in. The story was basically this guy helped someone not commit suicide by not selling him… something. Details escape me because they are not important to me. Most of the comments were positive. But one was like “why do we try so hard to prevent people from killing themselves?” Or something along those lines.

Now, as someone who had a plan to commit suicide, this riled me up a bit. Part of that is because it triggered something inside of me that has been building for a long time.

We, humans, each and everyone of us, has a right to life. We are important. Not from a political, industrial, new-worker, point of view. But, each of us, from conception to death, have a right to live. I think we, as a whole, have forgotten this.

I am anti-abortion when it is used as a form of birth control. People forget that many choices have gone into the conception of a child.  Pregnancy is a consequence. Consequences are a natural result from choices made. It is all about choice and accepting the consequences.

When the very beginning of life is relegated to an afterthought and to be discarded on a whim, then ALL of life loses its worth.

This is from a different stand point. Why did we try so hard to save old people when Covid 19 was mainly affecting those who are old? I live in Korea where there is, what has been described as a “mushroom” population: not enough births to support the rapidly aging population. Covid 19 would have taken care of this. Isn’t it just nature’s way of balancing things out? (Now you know why there was a sociopath warning at the beginning).

There is value on all human life. It isn’t just for the rich, the righteous, the better off. If you take the bureaucracy, the consumerism, and politics out of it, this planet has more than enough to feed all in plenty. Not just enough, but plenty. We should be celebrating differences, learning about them. Not fighting over who is right and who is wrong.

Now, this may seem political. But when did the right to live become something to argue about instead of an inalienable right? And the right to life doesn’t stop at birth. It follows each and every one of us till we die.

So, at the long journey on this particular train, my answer to that fellow is this: we should be fighting to help others live. And not just by carrying a sign or making comments on a random Instagram reel.

So, I hope that whomever is reading this knows that you deserve to live.

And thanks for reading. I can only hope that I have helped someone, somewhere.

Biological Warfare and Pint-Sized Agents of Chaos

 

Children are agents of chaos. Part of that is just the fact that they don’t “know the rules” yet and are still figuring out how to do things. Like how NOT to spread plague and disease to everyone in the near vicinity. Then there are Minions of Chaos who have chosen that life. Whole heartedly on purpose. 

Like Evan. Not his Korean name, but definitely his English name. There is no innocence to protect here. I will name names. 

Now, Evan is an adorable eight-year-old (Korean age) child. He is a chunker with round cheeks and an adorable smile. He is also a talker and definitely has tried to get his classmates (well, one in particular, who may or may not have stabbed him with a pencil on purpose) in trouble. He is smart. However, he has definitely decided to use that power for evil.

I had Evan in kindergarten last year for all of 2 months and was so glad when he graduated, I left that school, and I would never have to deal with him again.

God, and Korean Immigration, had other plans for me.

So, for 8 days, I have been back at my old school where Evan comes 3 days a week after school for English lessons. Evan is the type of kid who will hold his arm/fist a foot away from his face when he coughs. Which seems to be ALL THE TIME.

I have just finally started sleeping through the night without coughing a couple of weeks ago. But then the Minion of Chaos, being fully loaded with a biological weapon, decided to, on purpose, cough without covering his mouth. When reminded of what was told him DAILY just a month ago, he laughed like the diabolical terrorist he is, and said he won’t be doing that any more.

EXCUSE ME? I didn’t realize that germs stopped being spread when a child graduates from kindergarten.

Now, I am once again sick and trying to desperately breath through my nose, though that is a hit or miss battle. I KNOW it was from him. Despite half of my other students being sick. No. It was the tiny terrorist and his diabolical plan to get everyone within a ten meter radius sick.  

Little jerk.

Riding the Subway. But Not In Seoul.

Yesterday I travelled to Daejeon, an hour or two by train (depending on how much money you shell out. I am cheap, so I take the slow train). I get on the subway with my glasses on, so that I can read the signs of where I need to go. I am reading said signs and see that their one line is actually named Line 1.

Huh?

You only have one.

It goes from North West to South East. One line. In terms of Miriam Sound effects (which my jerk six-year-old students make fun of): shoom shoom.

No transfers. No getting off a train. Walking five minutes. Up stairs. Down stairs. Walk another three minutes. Around a corner. Click your heels three times. Jump across a river. Hope you don’t get lost, but will inevitably do (I’m looking at you, Seoul Station). Miss the train by five seconds, but you only have to wait six minutes for the next train. Find a bench that isn’t too occupied by the elderly. Sit down to wait. Because you are old. But not that old. So you should probably stand. But your knees hurt…

Wait. What was I talking about?

Daejeon. One line. Called Line 1.

Now, I get ready to get onto the Line 1 train. I was trained on the Seoul metro. Survival of the fittest. I was worried when I saw so many people waiting to get on. There were only 4 seats. Only four seats for 10 people getting on? Oh boy. I wasn’t expecting it to be so busy on a Saturday afternoon. But I’ve got this. I’m fast. Well, as fast as my bad knees (which are doing better!) will allow me. I rush on and… nothing. No problem. I didn't even need to use my cut throat skills to get a seat. No one else wanted it.  

Wait… NO ONE wants to sit down? Huh?

I enjoyed my seat. On the only line: Line 1. In the smaller than Seoul carriages. I haven’t googled it, but the train seems… smaller than the ones I used to. Shorter. Less roomy. Darker. 

The darkness one is real. That doesn’t require research on the size difference between Seoul and Daejeon metro subway cars. They definitely use different, yellower, light bulbs.

Now my ADHD is kicking in and I need to go do some research.

I wish you all well. Whoever is reading this. If anyone is reading this.

Thanks for reading this, if you are in fact, reading this.

Cheerio and good morning. Or good night. I will not presume to know what time you are reading, or not reading, this.

I must go do my hair. Which is the reason I was even in Daejeon. But that is for another time.

How to Mourn a Dream that May Never Happen

 I am no longer a spring chicken. I am what a fan of Jane Austen, Bridgerton, and the Bronte Sisters, would call a "spinster". Well past my prime. An Auntie, if you would. Or… dare I say, a yet-to-be cat lady? Will I die alone with my fifteen cats who will eventually eat me because they have no other source of food??? In forty two years… since I have decided I don’t want to live past eight-four…

I’ve got time to worry about hungry cats.

My laundry is singing the song of its people. I must type faster.

I have had a dream since I was young. When asked what I wanted to be in elementary school I would answer a mom. Or an astronaut. It was the 80s, astronauts were cool. However, a hatred of math, a fear of falling, and a general sense of dread when I contemplate the vastness of space put a stop to that dream.

But what about the other one? The dream I had of finding a prince charming, a knight in shiny armor, a rugged firefighter-esque type to come sweep me off my feet and buy me a house and give me my five children, who all have names and personalities in my mind? What about THAT dream. Which should have been a completely reasonable goal to achieve.

But alas! No R2D2 to my C3PO, no Batman to my Robin, no Robin Hood to my Maid Marian (which is NOT how you spell my name, I am going for historic accuracy). Or would I be Little John? And which version do I want to be?

But I digress. I will save that rabbit hole of a thought process for some fateful night when I can’t get to sleep and I actually remember this internal dialogue.

Back to my dream.

I read an article somewhere (since I do that frequently, and rarely remember the WHERE of the reading) about someone talking about how do you mourn the death of the dream of having children. People mourn the death of a child. People mourn still born child who they never really got to meet. People mourn miscarriages. But how do you mourn a child who only existed in your heart and mind?

It hurts. Because I can’t really talk about it. Not that I think society allows people to properly mourn a stillborn or a miscarriage (I send hugs to all of the moms who have angel babies). But to not even have something tangible to hold onto in the first place?

So, I hold onto faith. I hold onto the promise that God loves me. Coming close to God does help. I always scoffed at people who said that. I am cynical and am SLOWLY changing my heart.

It still hurts sometimes. I teach kindergarten age children in Korea. I know God was like “Here you go, a reason NOT to have children. Oh, and reassurance, that once it does happen, you will be a good mom”.

Will I have children? I don’t know. I have faith and hope. Are there days when it hurts? Yeah. Are there days I am sure I will be world’s worst mother and screw up my children? Way more than there should be.

But then there are days when I get hugs from my kids, who are not my kids. And there are days when I remember that life isn’t over yet. My cats haven’t eaten me yet.

Here is to tomorrow and the dream that I refuse to let die. Here is to Joshua and Rebecca (they named themselves, probably to prevent me from naming them something weird. I’m a writer. The temptation is there). I look forward to meeting you. One day.