{"id":5768,"date":"2013-06-27T00:01:04","date_gmt":"2013-06-27T04:01:04","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.theglobalconversation.com\/blog\/?p=5768"},"modified":"2013-06-21T03:47:09","modified_gmt":"2013-06-21T07:47:09","slug":"so-you-want-a-new-cultural-story","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theglobalconversation.com\/blog\/?p=5768","title":{"rendered":"So You Want a New Cultural Story…"},"content":{"rendered":"

Right here at The Global Conversation and even across the globe, teens and adults are calling for a new world order. We\u2019ve started to apply this in many aspects of our own personal lives, but what we have yet to do is to apply this in our cultural lives. <\/i><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

We want a New Cultural Story, and Muhammad Yunus\u00a0 seems to have the right idea on where to start. In a June 5<\/span>th<\/span><\/sup>, 2013 article of The Christian Science Monitor, the recipient of the 2006 Nobel Peace Prize stated that the world is in need of \u2018social fiction\u2019 \u2013 that is, media that envisions better societies. If we create novels, television, movies, and the myriad amount of other mediums started telling of a better world (sounds like our New Cultural Story), then these \u2018new patterns of thought\u2019 and \u2018new ways of living\u2019 can reach the heart and soul of the people. Through time, as \u2018science fiction\u2019 seems to become more and more of a reality, it is also contested that such \u2018social fiction\u2019 (and so our New Cultural Story) can just as easily become our reality as well. <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

In an interlude of all the political and religious chaos of the past few weeks, I decided to post my shot at this \u2018social fiction\u2019. With some focus, awareness, and massive creative outpouring, what I ended up with was a piece of (hopefully) our New Cultural Story called \u201cSpare Some Change, Mister?\u201d in its unabridged form: \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

The final rays of a forsaken October sun grazed the top of the distributed roofs along the full stretch of Ashland Avenue. In their fading light, the rays smoldered themselves into the small cardboard signs scribbled in untidy sharpie and into the glaring neon machined to an untold perfection a few blocks ahead. For there was lower Ashland Avenue, and there was upper Ashland Avenue, and there was not a middle. <\/span><\/p>\n

But there was a subway. A subway needed by the furious progress in upper Ashland, but not by the fatigued stench of the lower Ashlanders, which, though only the blatant disregard of the city developers to demographics, had owned the stop for the vital hub of transportation. The desire for cars was strong, but the desire of the City and the monopoly of the City on travel restrictions, were even stronger. And so every day the upper Ashlanders came marching through, day after day of strutting, swaggering, and vaunting their haves over their lowly conterparts. In response, the lower Ashlanders could do only one thing; sit there, but stay still, look dumb, but hopeful, have your cup out, but keep your head down, and NEVER ask for more. NEVER ask for more. And so was the interaction of Upper and Lower Ashland, of the Alpha and the Omega, of fortitude and destitute. <\/span><\/p>\n

And then came that forsaken sun, whose warmth could not reach lower Ashland Avenue even as it extended its remaining heat. The streetlights flickered, on and off, on and off, giving a man squatting below just enough light to steal a glance at the luxurious passerbyers strut home once again. Within the flickering light, another Upper Ashlander strutted past, but this man was exceptional. The finest furs, the sharpest suit, the crispest manner in his walk.\u00a0 Perhaps his address was 320, 250, or even in 110, if he was that exceptional. But as that man, more than a man some might say, an empire, walked by the decrypted block of 6670. Without even raising a muscle in his eye, the squatting man began to speak. <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cSpare some change mister?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cBegging for change again? Is that all you miscreants of lower Ashland do? Day after day all I see is your huddled masses, your wretched refuse, bugging us pitying Upper Ashlanders for <\/span>our <\/i>money, so that <\/span>you <\/i>may squander it on streetwalkers and meth. <\/span>It\u2019s pathetic, <\/i>and I simply cannot stand another sight of it. If it were up to me, I would blot Lower Ashland right off the map, and rid ourselves of your miserable destitute. Lower Ashlanders have nothing, do nothing, and are nothing.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

The squatting man looked up. He stared directly into the face of this man, this penguin of a man, clumsily waddling, pecking, and trying to fly. <\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cDon\u2019t mind me sayin\u2019 this, mister, but that\u2019s not who I\u2019s am.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cOh <\/span>Really<\/i>? Then, pray tell, who is that self you speak so highly of? But wait, you don\u2019t even have to answer that one, because it is just so <\/span>painfully <\/i>obvious. You\u2019re just another one of them, lost in the system of bad birth, genes, and location, aren\u2019t you? And so, every day, you use your pity to use people. Isn\u2019t that so, blaming the world for your problems, and yet you know that you\u2019re just stuck in the desperate cycle that every reprehensible Lower Ashlander lives.\u201d <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s deeper than that, mister. Who I\u2019s am is more than what yo\u2019se a seein\u2019. Lookie deeper, mister, and tell me what yer sperit is a sayin\u2019. \u2018Cuz I ain\u2019t seen anyone so lost as you, mister.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cBy God, I see it now. You\u2019re one of those curbside prophets, spewing out verse after verse for the desperate, because they have nothing <\/i>else. \u2018The meek shall inherit the earth\u2019, that\u2019s a nice little lie you give them, a nice little radical idea. It gives them hope, and it gives you a spare dime. I give you credit, sire, capitalizing on righteousness to do the \u2018Good Father\u2019s work\u2019. You probably don\u2019t even <\/span>have<\/i> to beg for change, do you?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

The squatting man sighed. A long, deep sigh. A sigh so full of exasperation that it resonated against the shards of the few remaining windows that dotted the lower avenue. <\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI ain\u2019t a preacher, mister. But they\u2019s are my people. They\u2019s a good people, if they\u2019s a given a fightin\u2019 chance. They\u2019s a just needin\u2019 some help, more help than just what I\u2019s can give \u2018em. If they\u2019s were given some help, somethin\u2019 good, then they\u2019s would be proud and strong, just like you, mister.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWhy, you leftist freak<\/i>. I see the red in you now! That help you\u2019re muttering about is a distribution, of my stuff to your stuff. That\u2019s what you want, isn\u2019t it? Because life should be <\/span>fair. <\/i>And <\/span>just. <\/i>And <\/span>equal<\/i>. But it\u2019s not. There are the haves, there are the have nots, and that\u2019s all there is to it.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

The squatting man closed his eyes from the artificial blaze of the haughty leer above him. He inhaled, and took in every ounce of light, love, and life from the streets knew so well. He opened his eyes. <\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cMister, I ain\u2019t talkin\u2019 \u2018bout stuff here. I\u2019s a talkin\u2019 \u2018bout people. People who love, die, and love again. People who dream, create, and wish to be a lil\u2019 happy in this world. Tell me, mister, are you happy? Not with ya\u2019 stuff, not with ya\u2019 titles, but with who you really are?<\/span><\/p>\n

The squatting man watched him deflate, watched the helium of years upon years of galas and corporate excellence escape the man\u2019s fragile frame and lose itself into the wind. A long pause followed. <\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cNo. No. I have done everything, everything<\/i>, for this position, to have the means to be happy. I bout the penthouse, the exclusiveness, the luxury, but I don\u2019t <\/span>feel <\/i>anything. All I feel is lonely, and so the only time I do to feel <\/span>something <\/i>is when I devastate Lower Ashlanders, because it is just so plain <\/span>mean.<\/i> So\u2026No. I\u2019m not happy. I thought I was happy, but I\u2019m not. I want to feel that love, that dream, that piece of myself lost so long ago, but I\u2019m out here all alone. Separated from those feelings, I feel nothing.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cThis is what I\u2019s see, mister. Ya\u2019 think that you\u2019re all alone in this here world, and ya\u2019 try pretty hard to keep it that way. But we\u2019s all apart of a community, a big ol\u2019 family that\u2019s all reachin\u2019 to share some of those feelin\u2019s. I ain\u2019t so different than you, \u2018cept them rags ya\u2019 wear and them stones ya\u2019 got weighin\u2019 ya\u2019 down. Ya try and deny this by callin\u2019 me a beggar, a preacher, a commie, \u2018cuz you\u2019re afraid our differences ain\u2019t so different afterall. When ya\u2019 get down to it, we\u2019s a both just people,<\/i> just lookin\u2019 for some love, some life, somethin\u2019 that\u2019s far more than just ourselves. So see me in ya eyes, feel my love in ya love. If we be\u2019s it and do\u2019s it together, we\u2019s a lot less lonely.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

The streetlights finally had enough power to stay fully lit. From its light, the squatting man saw a face that had been stripped of its mask of arrogance; one that had finally remembered what it was like underneath the endless day of pompous isolation. <\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI.\u2026I don\u2019t know what to say. That sounds so\u2026.good<\/i>. And it feels so\u2026.<\/span>good. <\/i>Can I give you something? Here. 10,000 City bank notes. It should be enough for you, and four our community of Ashland Avenue, our children of Ashland Avenue.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cThanks mister, but you already given me ya\u2019 change. I think our conversation was just what ya\u2019 needed. If ya\u2019 feelin\u2019 the sperit move you, ya\u2019 be somethin\u2019 and ya\u2019 do somethin\u2019 about. Farewell, mister.”<\/span><\/p>\n

The squatting man rose from the ashes and walked away. The man of industry, bewildered by every little moment and every little word, stood there for a while. Slowly, he turned around, and started to stumble forward to a new Ashland Avenue. <\/span><\/p>\n

As these two characters, seemingly different in every way possible, were able to have some (albeit extended) open communication and conversation<\/i>, they realize that they can understand and relate to each other on a level that far transcends their differences. Though this is just a mere piece of social fiction, its theme is one that is right in tune with the direction of The New Cultural Story we all wish to create. Because once it is spread, reality is not stranger, but better, than fiction. <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

(Lauren is a Feature Editor of The Global Conversation. She lives in Wood Dale, IL, and can be reached at <\/i>Lauren@TheGlobalConversation.com<\/span><\/i><\/span><\/a>) <\/i><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Right here at The Global Conversation and even across the globe, teens and adults are calling for a new world order. We\u2019ve started to apply this in many aspects of our own personal lives, but what we have yet to do is to apply this in our cultural lives. We want a New Cultural Story, […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":7,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[160],"tags":[251,49,1254,245],"class_list":["post-5768","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-the-younger-generation-take-on-things","tag-lauren-rourk","tag-new-cultural-story","tag-social-fiction","tag-teen-spirituality"],"acf":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.theglobalconversation.com\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/5768","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.theglobalconversation.com\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.theglobalconversation.com\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.theglobalconversation.com\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/7"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.theglobalconversation.com\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=5768"}],"version-history":[{"count":3,"href":"https:\/\/www.theglobalconversation.com\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/5768\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":5770,"href":"https:\/\/www.theglobalconversation.com\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/5768\/revisions\/5770"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.theglobalconversation.com\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=5768"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.theglobalconversation.com\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=5768"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.theglobalconversation.com\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=5768"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}