by Veeana SinghOne of the teachers in his high school once said, "When you tell Dakota he can't do something, he's going to do it.” Sergeant Dakota Meyer, a US Marine, made several choices on September 8th, 2009. On this day, Meyer was supporting a patrol in a village within the Ganjgal Valley during Afghanistan War. All of a sudden, the lights in the village went out and the familiar sound of gunshots were heard. Turns out, approximately 50 Taliban insurgents had started shooting and throwing grenades in a sneak attack. Meyer, taking immediate notice, called in asking his superiors if he had permission to head into the attack zone and help -- they said he was to stay put. It would be a suicide mission to set foot into the zone that was taking heavy fire. Not willing to leave his fellow men to die, Meyer asked three more times if he could help. Each time his request was denied but that did not stop Meyer and Staff Sgt. Juan Rodriguez-Chavez, whom Meyer was with, from taking action. What happened next could have been predicted by his high school teacher, who had summed Myer’s character up so well: Myer and Chavez ended up jumping into a humvee and driving straight into the attack zone -- against orders. Sgt. Chavez was at the wheel and Meyer, who then held the rank of Corporal, provided covering fire and rescue. They went in and Corporal Meyer immediately began loading fallen soldiers and Afghan troops onto the humvee. During this first attempt, Corporal Meyer was able to rescue around five fellow Marines and Afghan Troops. He didn’t stop there. The second time he was able to load about four other marines onto the humvee, while dodging fire from the 50 taliban insurgents, and bring them to the safety zone. Meyer was also firing back at the insurgents and went through gun after gun, one would empty and he would go right back for another. The Taliban men would run guns blazing right up to the humvee and Meyer would do his best to kill them, not backing down for a second. The gun truck they used the first two times was far too damaged from the gunfire and grenades to make a third trip. This did not stop the two from wanting to go back in for a third time. Sgt. Chavez and Corporal Meyer had to switch into another gun truck. Sometime during this attempt, Corporal Meyer suffered a shrapnel injury on his arm. Knowing their fellow Marines and men were trapped, they made a fourth and fifth trip. They were surrounded but went house to house, and alley to alley searching for those alive and physically picking up the bodies of the fallen. The gunfire was still ongoing and grenades still exploding yet Corporal Meyer made every effort to leave no man behind. In honor of his bravery, President Barack Obama awarded Dakota Meyer the highest military honor, the Medal of Honor. Meyer was the first living Marine to receive the award since 1973. In his speech President Obama said “[Dakota Meyer] 'placed himself in the thick of the fight... again, again, and again.” Meyer has always been insistent that he is not a hero just a Marine and that he did what any other Marine would do. Dakota Meyer can teach us all a valuable lesson on how we should treat people. When he was picking up wounded Marines and Afghan troops up off the ground to bring them safety he was also not doing a lot of things. He was not looking at the race of who he was helping. He did not care about their gender. And he was not concerned with who they were or what he had heard about them. He didn’t turn them over to look at the name or rank pinned to their chests to decide who to help. He just helped, plain and simple. Dakota knew he had to help and in total he saved 36 lives. Dakota’s story takes place over a timeline of just about eight hours. To think that in these hours Dakota did something that most don’t do in their entire lives. He went back 5 times. 5 times he put his life on the line to save his fellow soldiers. Most of us don’t help people in minor ways in our everyday lives. We don’t hold the door open, we judge people and we walk by the homeless. To think if everyone on Earth, in the span of their lives, would put someone else first just 5 times, we would have a much better world. Just 5 times, if we could all put someone else before ourselves, no matter how small the deed, we can begin to have a better world. The issue is that we get caught up in our ‘stuff.’ We all have this massive amount of stuff to do. We are always doing something and forgetting to take a moment and do something for someone else, for someone less fortunate or for someone in need. The purpose of sharing Dakota’s story is to show that if there is someone willing to do something that brave, 5 times, there is no excuse for the rest of us to sit back and just go along for the ride.
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by Linda Cheriyan “How would you describe yourself?” is a common question asked in elementary school and middle school. Back then I would have described myself as “cute, bubbly, funny, and talkative.” Now I would be able to confidently describe myself as a feminist; in fact a proud feminist. Growing up in an Indian household was not easy, especially with an older brother everyone bowed down to. I desperately wanted to be like him; smart, athletic, and outgoing. The one thing stopping me was my sex. A female born into the Indian culture can risk her family to be impoverished by the dowry system and the damage caused to the family name. Although my family was not much like the stereotypical Indians, they were proud to have a girl, as I was the only girl in the entire family so they were happy. Living in a traditional Indian household my life consisted of gender roles and gender norms that I had to follow; “Get up when an elder man walks in through the door,” “Stop sitting with your legs up, it’s not lady like,” they’d say over and over again (or more like a broken record at that point). I mean, I was four years old, what did I know about being a lady or if I even wanted to be a lady at all? In India when my brother’s friends came over, I was not allowed to play with them because I was a girl. So I would watch them from a distance and feel jealousy and resentment within myself for not being born a male. I loved playing with my brother’s race cars, I loved playing in the dirt and walking around without a shirt. But all of these activities, to my surprise, were thought of as not lady like. I felt my childhood being taken away because of the gender roles that were imposed upon me every time I seemed to step over some “no longer a girl” line. When I was nine I remember asking my mom if I could join the school’s soccer team and without hesitation, she shut me down and said: “Sports are for men.” As young as I was, I felt angry, and wondered, "how could joining a team be considered manly? I questioned, “What’s the difference between a male and a female, what makes a man better?” I remember getting slapped for not obeying the rules and proposing these questions time and time again. When I was in the fifth grade, I witnessed one of the first physical fights between my parents. My father was furious because my mother was raising her voice against his, a taboo in my culture as a man is supposedly to be respected and treated as an almost “godly” figure. My dad did not feel masculine with his wife yelling at him so I guess he had to “put her in her place.” Anger constantly rushed through me as I realized how women were in no way equal to men. Sometimes, I felt sorry for myself and the other millions of females who are too afraid to speak up. Years later in the ninth grade, I asked my parents if I could go out with a few friends as I witnessed my brother going out the night before. They responded “a woman should not be roaming around, their place is at home, nowhere else.” I began giving voice to the questions that roamed around in my head instead, letting them out into in order to take up the silence. Fights broke out in my home, and my father was determined to put me in my place. But, I refused to stay silent any longer; I had kept myself shut for so long that this new power of having an actual voice felt so good. As I got older, my relationship with my father deteriorated because I always took a stand and insisted that I have a voice. The older I got, the more my father would bring up marriage. I thought to myself, my parent’s marriage was a bust, I will never submit to a man, and my rights will never be taken away. I began preaching feminism into everyone’s ear, not in hopes that they would become feminists, but somehow that they would eventually believe in the idea of gender equality and abandon the stereotyped ideas of gender roles. I wanted them to know how harmful gender shaming was, to do something to stop rape culture, and to turn around the idea that rape was a woman's fault. I spoke and spoke out in the hopes that maybe one more female would be unaffected by rigid cultural norms, a female who would no longer be too afraid to speak up. I did everything I was told not to do: I spoke against men even though I was told I was lower or less significant than them. But I made my voice higher because I believe I am equal to men and I deserved to have my voice be heard. I played sports precisely because it was not “lady like,” and it turned out that I was better than a lot of my peers even though I was a woman. I started picking at everything that’s wrong with our society, the imbalance between genders, the hatred woman face for not wanting be a housewife and especially the way in which people give more value to men and boys than they do to women and girls. I’ve heard many complain about having to grow up as a girl. And although I felt hatred and anger towards me just because I grew up a girl, I am proud to call myself a woman and even prouder to describe myself as a feminist. I beg to live in a world
Where there exists no murders, where there is justice being served Where there are no more paternal tears of having to bury their child. The world where... My color, Gender, Sexual preferences Won't matter. Where I can walk down the street Without getting cat called. Where I won't be blamed for the rape That was committed by a man filled with testosterones, But instead I am blamed for my choice of clothes, Drinking habits, And my outgoing personality that provoked a man. I want to live in a world where... Black Lives do matter Instead I'm stuck In a world filled with white supremacy, where the rich melanin of my skin does matter. In a world Where I don't have to beg for my human rights. I wish to one day see the world in colors Instead of black and white by Samantha SheetsCan you imagine being enclosed in one location—a single room--for months on end? Or only leaving that room for an hour a day? Or simply being accused of a crime you may or may not have committed? Imagine you are rotting in a cell as hope begins to fade away like it did when the jury first declared you were “guilty”. Will anyone be able to reach you or help you? One Thursday evening, instead of getting off the R train at the Whitehall station in downtown Manhattan, I got off at Queens Plaza. I was heading toward the Q100 bus, embarking on a journey to the last stop. The last stop is Rikers Island, the penitentiary for criminals with short sentences. I was to wait at the bus station for my coworkers who would also be receiving this once-in-a-lifetime tour. I am a “College Aide” for the Department of Probation, and since Rikers Island is affiliated with the Department of Corrections, we were able to visit, and to bear witness to the lives of those incarcerated. The bus ride to the correctional van that would take us through the security gates was filled with discussions. The things we discussed were the do’s and don’ts of what is acceptable behind the eldritch wired fence. We were to leave our electronics in the locked van, and carry an identification card at all times. We entered the facility and quickly learned it was on lockdown for reasons they chose not to specify. One week prior to this, we were given instructions on how to dress. All skin was to be covered, including our feet. While this struck me as abnormal at the time, once we passed security and a rigorous metal detector, I realized why these limitations were put in place. We were led down a series of lengthy hallways, into an area with a set of five holding cells. The five cells were divided by borough and held a variety of inmates with a range of ages and races--all men. These inmates had their arms stretched out through the bars and were making obscene statements and gestures from the moment my group entered; the entire scene was extremely intimidating. This was not how prison was portrayed on Orange is the New Black. We were given a brief presentation of what to expect from this tour, but with these noisy grown men looming around us it was difficult to remain attentive. We learned about the establishment of Rikers Island prison in 1932, and the creation of a new section within the facility which was opening later that day. The new facility exclusively includes men ages 18-21. The unit is supposed to create new initiatives in hopes of getting these men back on their feet, and on the right side of justice. We never heard what these initiatives were to be. The room itself reeked of bleach, and although it had been recently painted, the walls were already chipping. The cells themselves remained bare, with heavily stained bedding. Not far from the cells was an “education center”, which included six metal tables and chairs, spaced several feet apart. Long chains were attached to the chairs to ensure prisoners would not attempt to move their seating. The restraints made me think back to a giant corkboard chart shown to us at the beginning of the tour. The chart showcased the number of ”incidents” that have occurred within the facility in the past month. Color-coded pins were used to indicated where the event occurred and the type of incident. Whether it is a simple fight, or the more extreme a murder, they used the board to keep track of potential gang activity within the facility. An assortment of pins scattered the entire board. A majority were blue, indicating a fight had occurred involving the use of a weapon. As the tour commenced we continued to see more disturbing aspects of the facility. This included a bleak five-by-five concrete fenced-in box for inmates to get some “fresh” air. Then, from the compact outdoor area, we were speedily led to the medical center. On the walk there, a heavily chained inmate passed us. Both his feet and hands were chained as he shuffled through the hallway. Our tour guide suggested we not make eye contact with him. Aside from this particular inmate, every other inmate we passed in the halls was simply instructed by a single officer to hug and face the wall. But in this inmate’s case, he was surrounded by several officers who were covered head to toe in protection gear. We were not supposed to pass him but were rapidly pushed into the next area of the tour. This made me question: what else were they not showing us on this tour? The inside of Rikers Island penitentiary was grim. And my final question arose: is Rikers Island an inhumane place? The location fills you up with mixed emotions. You pity these people, but you are constantly reminded of the crimes they committed because pictures of their faces are plastered on the door to their cells with notes on their arrest. Feces cover their walls, but you are reminded by the guards that they not only smeared it there themselves, but they put themselves into this situation. You hear only the guards’ side of situations, while inmates can be heard screaming from their solitary cells. Their basic needs may be met, but their lives are immensely restricted. And while you know they are let out for one hour’s recreation time, you understand that all these restrictions exist for specific reasons. As you walk down hallways that feel labyrinthine, you are reminded of the giant corkboard that they showed you earlier, showing the levels of violence all over the institution. You are reminded of an area in which a murder possibly took place, potentially hours before your arrival. You ask yourself: is this the only way a prison can be run? Do people come out more violent than they went in? The experience was eye-opening; the glorification of prison on television shows masks the grim truths that occur behind these closed walls. Being inside those enclosed walls as a visitor for only a few hours, I felt my own hope slowly slip away. The sense of hopelessness endured is truly what makes Rikers Island inhumane. |
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