What Do You Mean By What Is The Greater Good?

A little child questions the poet, "What is grass?" that sets his mind wondering when he has nor ready answer for the child's question and is unable to answer it. He muses that perhaps

As a young child in the years of first to second grade I quickly developed my love for reading. I was never a big fan of the outside world. I thought the world around me was boring and tearing everything/one apart, and thought the adventure inside a book was much more exciting. In my childhood home there was a large bookshelf full of different stories. Most days when getting home I would sit by the shelves in my small pink bean bag chair with numerous children books scattered around me. By endlessly trying and sometimes failing to read my children books such as, the infinite number of Dr. Seuss rhyming stories and Winnie-the-Pooh books I felt comforted by the happy feeling the characters within the stories gave me. The pictures within

My mom signed me up for the community library when I just turned 6 years old. Even if I did not know how to properly read at the time, I had to go there every afternoon to keep myself busy as an only child. Being opened to books at such an early clearly has had a major impact on my life and personality. From the local tales of my beloved Senegalese society to the deep and sophisticated French literature, I have traveled through cultures and generations. Whether it is Emile Zola’s collection of novels or Albert Camus’s philosophical texts, these books raised me and taught me about life, love, and resilience. As times went by, reading was no more a regular pastime but a detrimental part of my existence. The lessons and morality I gained from each story always pushed me to challenge the status quo, to be curious, to be adventurous but most importantly to be a problem solver.

It may be cliché, but books have always held a spot close to my heart. When I was three I had a book called Bitsy Witch that went wherever I did. When I was seven, my mom read a chapter of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone every night. In middle school, I worked my way through the entire children’s section at my local library. In high school, I took every English class offered, and when I entered college I to compromise with my family that I would also pursue a pre-professional program. My time outside of class was spent on my pre-professional degree until, my senior year in college. I took two classes that focused on children’s and young adult texts. Before those classes, I hadn’t realized that specializing in Children’s literature was

"Tasnim, can you please stay after class? I need to talk to you." I let go of the door handle and whip my head back to face my third grade teacher Mrs. Russell. She said my name correctly for the first time all year, though her voice was stern. I realize that my jaw has dropped by the expression on her face as she peers over her laptop. As I walk slowly towards her, my classmates whisper, "Ooh she's in trouble" as they sprint out the door for recess. I stand near my teacher's desk waiting for all the students to leave and when the room is silent, Mrs. Russell says,

You’ve reached the classroom now, the right one, you’re sure, but there’s already people inside and you’re early, so you lean against a wall and wait. You keep your mind perfectly blank as you watch the students, now your peers, go by. You notice the rock in your shoe again, and you contemplate it’s and then your very own existence for a while, very heavy but not unpleasant before class thoughts.

Our class walked to the library and I pictured my favorite corner. We arrived and began to branch off. Some went to the magazines, others to the Judy Blume or Junie B. Jones books that made our childhood, but me, I kept walking. As I got closer, my heart raced, and my body went faster, without meaning to, out of pure exhilaration for the knowledge that I could possibly absorb. Sitting down, I nuzzled my back against the adjacent shelves and picked up my favorite, Atlas of Human Anatomy. It didn’t matter that I was in fourth grade. I went page by page, studying everything I could within the small amount of time given in the library. The sound of the teacher yelling, “Five minutes everybody,” just made me want to go faster, assuming that I would forever retain everything I saw. If only that was how it worked.

Shame is what we don’t talk about. We don’t talk about shame every time a professor raises an eyebrow at us in doubt about the breadth of our knowledge; in turn we doubt ourselves.

“School is dreadful” I respond, “People are quite cruel.” Lilly tries to look disappointed for

With shaking hands, I allowed the pair of grey scissors I had sharpened multiple times to slip through my hands, and away from my wrists, letting it lay widespread on my bed like a soaring bird. With just around a week of school left, a list with all the students who had straight “A’s” for all three years had been posted -- and I was not included. When my parents found out, they looked so disappointed, like they were ashamed that I was their child and the fact that I was even living under their roof. Burying my head into my hands and curling into a ball, I cried myself to sleep feeling ashamed and worthless, while wondering when I would be able to escape from the pain and unwillingness to live that I had felt since I was 12 years old. I had never revealed my struggles to others and was afraid that if I did, I would be abandoned for my differences, and left alone

“No,” he immediately replies, turning away again. “You don’t deserve to have anything answered; not until you start behaving yourself.”

While dressing unfashionably, looking both uneasy and clueless, in a class with no more than twenty students, millions of questions suddenly appear in my chaotic head. Questions such as “what will happen to me?,” and “how can I understand this?” built up the doubt in me. However, who would have guessed that six years later, I would become a girl who has adopted a different vibe with more confidence and enthusiasm, which I thought would never be possible, six years ago.

My distraught and shame told me that there I was never going to be able to “fix” it. Then my ballet teacher, Professor Comendador asked me to come into her office and have a chat. Admittedly, I was terrified - I imagined I was going to be chastised for my performance in my classes. However, our conversation changed not only the way I saw school, but how I saw myself. We discussed how I let my worries restrict my growth.

Socialism is immoral because at its core, once you strip away the camouflage of false compassion, it requires an acceptance that the government owns you, that when the rubber hits the road you are simply a number, and that if you are more productive than most other people you will be regarded as a cash cow to be milked for what some group of statists considers The Common Good. You can dress that up in the “party dress” of alleged compassion but it remains un-American and immoral.

Lacy was on the verge of tears. She did not have imagination and her grammar and reading skills were horrible. Lacy just knew she was going to fail. She asked herself why she was even trying. Failure was inevitable. She read question number four and wondered why she hadn’t dropped out yet. There was no hope. She then began daydreaming about how she wished she had a cup of coffee. Her mind then drifted to becoming a teacher one day. She wondered if she would be better, or just as evil as her teacher. Lacy started drawing a picture of her teacher on her test. She didn't care if her teacher saw the picture. Lacy’s teacher always yelled at her for daydreaming and doodling in class. Lacy was always easily distracted and lacked motivation. Her teacher