You Should Really Question Stuff

I hated that kid in middle school. He was the one kid that I wanted to just smack in a hit and run. It was as if he was on the lookout for ways to annoy me. If I were eating, he would say, “Xinlin sucks at using forks!” If I were speaking in a classroom, he would say, “Xinlin has a weird accent!” Admittingly, I did have a funny accent at the time—and much to my chagrin I still have a funny accent, after all these years—But that does not give him (or indeed anyone) the right to be fastidious about it. I wanted to show him who’s boss a couple of times when I got really pissed off, but he was a good-sized middle-schooler, and I wasn’t exactly bulky. So the taunting continued throughout middle school. I eventually got used to most of it, the notable exception being “nerdy pointdexter,” which I never managed to get used to.

Well, it was sort of true that I was a pointdexter, or in the words of Severus Snape, “an insufferable know-it-all.” I read rather copiously for the average teenager, and I was not exactly shy when it came to flaunting knowledge (really, now that I think about, it was more like trivia). Instead of being consternated at my insufferableness, I took every opportunity to explain to my classmates the origin of the Thirty-Years War, much to their annoyance. I also had a catchphrase whenever I began showing off: “Did you know—I read it in (Insert long, forbidding book title)—that…” As if to add credibility to whatever I was about to say. Honestly though, I could just have made up random facts, because no one was ever going to check their validity, but I still felt obliged to provide the most accurate and truthful answer (as if anyone cared for that). Back then, I really took pride in my little discourses, and I really didn’t like that kid interrupting my seminars all the time.

One day, I was repeating the stunt for the umpteenth time to a group of my friends: “Did you know—I read it in (Insert long, forbidding book title)—that…” When suddenly, HE burst into my speech, and bleated in an obnoxious voice, “Xinlin, why are you so gullible? You always believe what every book tells you?”

Naturally I was annoyed at this outburst, so I took swipe at his supposed inferior intellect, adding, “the people who write books are much smarter than you. You must be stupid to think that what they write could be wrong.”

Apparently he was flabbergasted for a second, but then he rallied and said, “Xinlin, do you never question stuff? You should really question stuff.” Then he ran off.

At the moment I didn’t think much of his advice (Indeed, looking back at it from now, he probably picked up the lines from some random hippie-leaning liberal TV channel or his probably hippie parents without knowing what he was talking about). After school, I went home picked up a book as usual. Then I saw a minor mistake in its content. I could not remember what it exactly was, but it was definitely an error. I was rather surprised. It never occurred to me that books actually could be, well, wrong. I concluded that I might be gullible, since I have always believed what the book said—on the basis that they sounded smart. Huh, I probably did not even understand the books, I thought, g-damnit, the kid hit the mark. Then a rather painful feeling followed, and I felt a ringing hollowness for the rest of the day.

I think that uncanny comment “You should really question stuff” wracked my persona as much as the Impact had on the Earth and the Moon. For one thing, I wasn’t really the quiz kid anymore. Instead of showing off, I started reading philosophy, and most importantly, I actually questioned stuff. You know, that wasn’t half bad, I thought. So I kept on reading philosophy, kept on questioning, and funny enough, there’s more to life than what other people say; what I say counted too! I still hated the kid, mind you, but funny how a random comment could unintentionally change one’s nemesis for the better?

Unfortunately sometimes the questioning takes to perverse forms, and now I am more of a cynic than your average human being. But hey, I think even a cynic is better than what I started out with, so it is all good.

My Life As I Wished I Lived It

There are two criteria that measure the value of life; one of the definitions is supplied by society’s values, the other is one’s own definition. The value of life from a social perspective is ultimately subordinate to one’s own interpretation. We interpret the values of society through the experiences we’ve had in our lives, and no one can have the exact same experience with another. In short, the definition of a valuable life is a life that is personally satisfactory to one specific individual (or me, for the sake of the prompt). However, I am against defining the value of my own life; the very idea convokes the image of a very old and senile patriarch who is confined to a rickety wicker chair on a sunny porch and tries vainly to recall his old glory days for self comfort. It is my philosophy to live for daily satisfactions, provided if these daily satisfactions do not harm the prospect of future satisfactions. In the meanwhile I’ll just shut the window against the bigger questions like the value of life, because such a question is not only quite time consuming for me to answer, but more often than not a concrete answer cannot be obtained since it is not easy to summarize every nitbit detail of our lives and making sense of it at the same time. Indeed, more often than not our own lives don't even make sense to ourselves.

With that said, there are some things I really want to experience in this life, but some of my aspirations are better kept private, so I will try to be as vague as possible while still maintain enough coherence so that what I write will be understood.

I want a solid education. I want to know three to five languages and I want degrees in economics and law. I would also like a solid background in military science. Education is the ultimate tool for survival in society. With an education and the linguistics skills I could find a job, and a job is the equvalent of a meal ticket in this society. In addition, If I could survive by taking a paying job, then I’d have to also contribute positively to humanity, since no one gets paid by doing nothing.

I want to be a critic of movies, video games, and anime in my spare time. As a critic, I take out three birds with one stone—I’ll have an excuse to watch all the movies and play all the games I want, I can champion the good and banish the bad, and I could even be paid for it. I could launch a moral crusade that will sweep Hollywood’s cultural corruptions into the waste bins that they rightfully belong--an ENOURMOUS contribution to the spiritual well-being of human beings worldwide.

When I get tired of my job, I want to take a hiatus and participate in an organization that is engaged in wildlife conservation patrol (especially the Wild Yaks Patrol, a conservation group active in Hoh Xil, Tibet). I don’t know if this urge is merely an extension of my teenage testosterone or if I am a particularly wild soul. I sometimes think it would be a great waste if my knowledge of the world just go to waste; other times I would see myself become a pedestrian salaryman in the future, and that repulses me. I hate the restricted environment that characterizes our society today. I want to move into the wild, experience the world in its primeval state untainted by the greedy fingers of men, and I want to preserve its pristine state for posterity.

Near the end of my life, I would like to have a chance to sit down and record my (hopefully) eventful life in nitbit detail. I would leave my ideas to posterity, and if even one person approves of my view and sets out to accomplish what I did, then my life shall not lack meaning. The follower himself will be kind enough to make a meaning out of my life for me, in order to justify his eccentric decision to follow my eccentric life.

If I would die, I would like death to come as suddenly and unexpectedly as possible. No Hollywood scene of tearful departure shall occur in my case. The entire idea is summed up in Ambrose Bierce’s view on his death:

“If you hear of my being stood up against a Mexican stone wall and shot to rags, please know that I think this is a pretty good way to depart this life.”