Stereotypes: A Short Story

battles of Sarajevo, Bosnia in the 1990s and Roberto Benigni’s Life is Beautiful focusing on life

I am a typical brown girl on the outside, but a totally different person on the inside just like an egg. Even though I will be as quiet as an egg if put in boiling water, my inside will be screaming. I am not like some people, I have two different cultures now that I am in America now. Two years ago I was in India, being a girl with less opportunities, but here I can do what I set my heart on because I know I will have a way to reach it. I have changed how I see the world now, my beliefs have changed and my goals are in a bigger level now. Your cultural identity can change when you are exposed to new and different things.

The danger of a single story is that they let the powerful downgrade the weaker because they create stereotypes, they can hurt the people, and no one gets represented from the culture.

As I claimed the faded, chipped three blue steps of the bus, when I looked up I saw my fellow class mates, or as I called them Idiots of the World. There was three people in a one set, making them look like rats in a small cage squealing uncontrollably to be released. They kept turning over the papers, now wet and ripped, to their friends. They must have split up to find answers, or they were hopping the other got the answers they didn't bother to even attempt to get.

Lately the news cycle has been dominated by extreme violence, one of the main protagonists in these news is race. Particularly black people being assassinated. This trend even though poignant, is not new to us, as citizens of the twenty-first century. The world is beautiful, but also a dangerous place, we have famines, plagues and wars. The world changes all the time and this can be scary. People deal with these fears in different ways; some chose to adapt, some futilely fight to conserve the illusion of the present. Some chose to extend their hand to help their brothers through times of crisis, some, out of fear, chose to close the door when those who need help knock. Fear evolves into hate, and hate gives birth to the wort side of humanity. We are our worst when we hate, the world has seen the birth of hate groups, such as The KKK, Nazi Party, ISIS, Extreme Black Separatists movements etc. A Kraken, is the beast that represent these hate groups, they are all different tentacles coming from the same head: Hate. And the tentacles, hate groups, the only one thing that separates one tentacle from another is who they bind and kill. The Neo Nazis are one example of fear channeled through hate, Neo Nazis believe that the Arian (white) race is superior to all other races. Moreover they believe that it is their duty to maintain the Arian race pure

We have all questioned an idea or belief at least once in our lifetime. If everyone believed what they were told, we would all think Santa is real, swallowing the seed of a watermelon will make one grow in our stomachs, and the tooth fairy was the one to put money under our pillows, not mom and dad. It is our questioning that truly makes us human. Of course, many beliefs that are questioned are not those childhood topics such as old St. Nick or intestinal gardens. The biggest idea I have ever questioned is where I stand politically. Being born into the household I was, and developing the friend group I have, made me think I was just like the rest of them. As I have gotten older, I have learned we are allowed to question those around us, and develop our own ideas and opinions.

I loathe math. Numbers are extraordinarily dull. They don't have any depth. In high school, math felt irrelevant. When am I going to need logarithms? When am I going to say to myself “I sure am glad that I had to memorize the unit circle, I use that so often”? But as much as I detest numbers, they explain who we are. Numbers can’t lie, so who better to tell us who we are.

The low rumble reverberated through its victims’ ears. Like statues, everyone stayed still; too frightened to deliberate on what may happen if they dared move a muscle. Looks were shared from across the small courtyard, everyone wide eyed and shaken. In between the madness I heard a sparse bellowing sound from close by.

“I won’t publish this. It’s absolutely rubbish; even a toddler might write this! I order you only essential information. No opinions here, Norah! Can’t you understand? You don’t have permission to express your fucking judgment. You can’t write an issue with this impact on our society!”

Once upon a time a beautiful young girl by the name of Anastasia lived in a small village in England with her family. Anastasia was 20 years young and she blossomed with creativity. Anastasia’s physical appearance was very attention getting. She had long, blonde, wavy hair. She had beautiful blue eyes that were as blue as a robins egg. Sometimes when she would walk in town men would stop and stare at her. One time when she was walking to the farmer’s market, a boy on a bicycle was watching her and he ran into a telephone pole! Anastasia did not look for attention but a lot of it was drawn towards her because of her beauty. People would pay close attention to her when she was out and about, but when she was in her hometown people would talk

How does one go about telling their story when they don’t have a story to tell? I’m not a Hollywood character. I’m not making it into any history textbooks. I’m just trying to breathe, which can be really hard. I’m nobody special, and I’ve accepted that. I’m a little, insecure, insignificant nobody. I’m a side character in my own story.

As a child who slept with a map over my head and whose parents joked had more space for books in my bed than me, I found in them and news my childhood heroes and some of the stories out of which I would find my passions: from Edward R. Murrow’s broadcasts from London an interest in war reporting, from Abraham Lincoln’s oratory a desire to understand speechwriting, from John Colville’s The Fringes of Power: 10 Downing Street Diaries a love of public service, and from a BBC news clip of a family under siege in a cemetery a desire to understand the roots of conflict in the Balkans and reconciliation in the time since. While at the University of Tennessee I have taken the stories I encountered growing up and continually worked to find answers this quest has led me to stand on the stairs of St. Martin in the Fields, visit cemeteries in the Balkans, stand beneath the water tower in Vukovar, and work with the handwritten copies of speeches of Tennessee Congressmen. At Oxford I would continue my search for questions and my desire to understand just a little bit better the stories of the individuals around

Stereotyping occurs daily and many may not realize it. Stereotypes are most likely inaccurate. Society plays a major role by influencing the public into making assumptions based on physical appearances. Often times, a person who stereotypes another, does not know the individual’s personality nor their unique characteristics. As a result, stereotypes and misconceptions are based on a group’s lack of judgement-- in which he or she complies to society’s mindset. Stereotyping and misconceptions are due to guilt by socialization, which means an individual is based on who he or she hangs out with. Gender stereotyping is a way of judging the opposite sex’s character. Gender stereotyping targeting females are based on not knowing or understanding special

Technically, you know that it’s a week like any other: seven days, one hundred and sixty-eight hours, 10080 minutes, and a shit ton of seconds. But then again, if it really was like any other week, you wouldn’t be lying in your bed, incredibly awake, at three AM.

As I walked out of my nine-story apartment complex, I saw an interesting array of faces. Mixed genders, some male, some female, all very different deep down inside. I study their faces, wondering what it'd be like to walk a day in their shoes. Some people are like open books, you can look at their facial expression and instantly guess what their emotions are, yet others are like locked diaries. You can't tell what they're thinking and you'll probably never know. I shake the thought out of my head as I rummage through my pathetic excuse of a handbag, pulling out my most recent bank statement. Thirty-two cents to my name. How do I live like this? My train of thought is lost as my mind ponders elsewhere. Do you think people can tell I'm a broke