The other day I had a strange thought. I wished, for a moment, that we were back in the days where we had arranged marriages. It seemed to me, at that moment of uncharacteristically conservative thought, that there was something beautiful about the idea of learning to love somebody that your parents had picked out for you -- believing that they, as your parents, knew you well and would know who could be a good match for you. In other words, giving Love a chance to grow and build; and not, not ever, giving up on it simply because one didn’t have the choice of giving up. Love seemed, in these thoughts, all the stronger. Of course, this is a fleeting thought that carries many different repercussions – I don’t think I’d be very happy if my parents imposed a groom upon me, in all truth. It’s just, it seems like people, having the choice of divorce, and of so many people in the world to play with and choose from – it just seems that people mess up by giving up too easily and relying to readily on the glamour of over-rated choice.
As I was having all of these thoughts, I recalled something I saw at a supermarket about two years ago. There was a man, looking like he had just come from Cuba yesterday (or the day before, or the day before that) and he was staring at row of canned foods. He seemed completely overwhelmed by the variety of companies and brands offering the same food. And so, bogged down by choice, he just stood there – unable to choose; motionless. “In Cuba, we’ve got corn. Corn is corn. Peas are peas. Jamon es Jamon.” I could see him thinking this in his head. And the expression on his face told me he wasn’t so sure whether all this choice was as great as he thought it was going to be. I know Cubans (as a Cuban-American it is part of my daily existence to know many generations of Cubans from different migration waves) that come to the States and want nothing more than to go back home. Just as I know Cubans that come to the States and think: this has to be some kind of capitalist heaven. And in these latter cases, choice becomes the end all be all…a way of life. How many things can I acquire? Why not buy one of each? Why not? If I can…If I’m free to do so…If the market allows me…well then, why not? Why in god’s (or is it Dios, or Chango, or Allah ….you get the idea) name not?
Choice is a funny thing. Like today, for instance…
Today, I decided to go for a run, despite the fact that I knew a storm was approaching. Perhaps there was a slight feeling of invincibility about me this morning. So I went out, and I ran for fifty minutes before the dark clouds that were looming above me opened up their wide mouths and gushed spear-like rain in my direction, hurling its arrows in the face of my seeming invincibility. And in that moment, I thought about how little choice I actually do have. How little autonomy in the world I truly practice. I cannot control the clouds and the way they spin in and out of my life; the ocean and its currents; the sun and the way it scorches or soothes. Of course, I do have a choice to go out in the rain, or stay home. But who is to say that at home a tree would not fall through my window, trashing every bit of machinery, literature, and whatever else I have so gathered and possibly horded? And who is to say it might not even give me a bit of a thrashing.
I tried to run home, fast as I could, making my long-distance running legs sore -- Soon, however, the rain lifted, but not before taking with it whatever certain thought I may have had about the nature of choice.
As I was having all of these thoughts, I recalled something I saw at a supermarket about two years ago. There was a man, looking like he had just come from Cuba yesterday (or the day before, or the day before that) and he was staring at row of canned foods. He seemed completely overwhelmed by the variety of companies and brands offering the same food. And so, bogged down by choice, he just stood there – unable to choose; motionless. “In Cuba, we’ve got corn. Corn is corn. Peas are peas. Jamon es Jamon.” I could see him thinking this in his head. And the expression on his face told me he wasn’t so sure whether all this choice was as great as he thought it was going to be. I know Cubans (as a Cuban-American it is part of my daily existence to know many generations of Cubans from different migration waves) that come to the States and want nothing more than to go back home. Just as I know Cubans that come to the States and think: this has to be some kind of capitalist heaven. And in these latter cases, choice becomes the end all be all…a way of life. How many things can I acquire? Why not buy one of each? Why not? If I can…If I’m free to do so…If the market allows me…well then, why not? Why in god’s (or is it Dios, or Chango, or Allah ….you get the idea) name not?
Choice is a funny thing. Like today, for instance…
Today, I decided to go for a run, despite the fact that I knew a storm was approaching. Perhaps there was a slight feeling of invincibility about me this morning. So I went out, and I ran for fifty minutes before the dark clouds that were looming above me opened up their wide mouths and gushed spear-like rain in my direction, hurling its arrows in the face of my seeming invincibility. And in that moment, I thought about how little choice I actually do have. How little autonomy in the world I truly practice. I cannot control the clouds and the way they spin in and out of my life; the ocean and its currents; the sun and the way it scorches or soothes. Of course, I do have a choice to go out in the rain, or stay home. But who is to say that at home a tree would not fall through my window, trashing every bit of machinery, literature, and whatever else I have so gathered and possibly horded? And who is to say it might not even give me a bit of a thrashing.
I tried to run home, fast as I could, making my long-distance running legs sore -- Soon, however, the rain lifted, but not before taking with it whatever certain thought I may have had about the nature of choice.
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