How It Feels

I am Asian, but I offer nothing
In the way of extenuating circumstances
Except the fact that I am the only Asian
In the United States
Whose grandfather on the mother's side
Was not--

Was not--

After reading Zora Neale Hurston's piece How It Feels to be Colored Me, I am prompted to analyze the parallels between the racial situation of blacks and Asians. Why is it that racism towards Asians seems to be disintegrating at a much slower rate than racism against blacks?

To a complete stranger, I fit the profile. I am a typical Asian girl who is good at drawing, is in the school orchestra, gets all A's, takes several AP classes, and is pleasantly reticent. I am an Asian girl, and that is what is expected of me.

Here in Troy, there really aren't that many black people, so a lot of racism and stereotyping goes on at school simply because they are a true minority at THS. But, at the same time, here in Troy, a different kind of racism exists for Asians; we are simply seen as a horde, a sea of faces that lacks any kinds of distinction and is consistently, though perhaps not explicitly, marginalized. Racism will always exist, regardless of the prevalence of one's ethnicity in an area.

Now, people are prompted to be racist toward blacks behind their backs, in whispers and after looking behind both shoulders. However, with Asians, people love to be racist to our faces. What with the horrific release of the horrible song "Asian Girlz" (don't Google this if you're weak) by Day Above Ground, I'm noticing more and more how racism toward Asians is simply brushed off as humorous and chumly. The band demonstrated a subtle but very present mindset toward Asians that is one of dismissive marginalization. I guarantee you that Day Above Ground would have NEVER EVER EVER even considered composing an equally racist song toward blacks with the same puke-worthy writing that is typical of all of their music (even the non-blatantly racist music). 

But I must say that the racial situation in America has drastically changed since Hurston's time. Indeed, I would be remiss to completely dismiss all social progress, but I must point out that this progress is fragmented and isolated to select groups; we still see open and blatant prejudice against Asians and Latinos for example (when will our rights movement begin?). But with the introduction of new ethnic and social groups in recent years, such as immigration of Asians and the gay rights movement, America still has to go a long ways in truly appreciating the diversity it claims to vanguard.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jQt8-NKPdt0

It's All Quite Disgusting

We all chase them. Dreams. They dictate our choices, our thoughts, our habits, our lives. We spend much of our youth chasing after them, what with the extremely competitive emphasis that the current American education system places on "college" and "your career" and some vague idea of "the future." Whatever that means. I'm certainly not saying that those things don't exist or shouldn't be taken seriously, but I feel that we're all being pressured to look ahead for these things instead of enjoying them as present moments of growth or happiness.  

What I'm describing is oftentimes labeled the rat race. In middle school, they tell us that this is in preparation for high school. In high school, this is in preparation for college. In college, this is preparation for the workplace. In a job, this is so you can retire. WHAT?? I'm supposed to be happy—I'm supposed to take in the fruit of my hard work—only when I reach retirement? This is a travesty! This idea of this "ladder of success" leaves people always looking at their efforts as simply a means to an end. When we view life as simply a successive series of checklists, we forget to cherish and enjoy the immediate fruits of our labor, resulting in a misguided and ultimately unsatisfying experience.

We see Fitzgerald scathingly exaggerate the incredibly material emphasis his characters place on success, as they all base their goals or American dreams on some vague and material idea of happiness that is unfortunately only an empty Winter's dream. They're searching for happiness in the wrong places, and they realize, once they attain them, that they weren't as special or magical as once thought. An example would be that Gatsby's vision of Daisy only serves his own selfish and chimerical dream of happiness, a vision too large for anyone, much less the flimsy and acquisitive Daisy Fay, to fulfill to his satisfaction.

My point is that we build up these dreams, these goals, these far-off vague ideas of success and happiness, when we should really be focusing a lot more on the now. We say, "someday, I'll stop being lazy and be super successful and own a Lambo!"

No! Stop it!

What can you do now? Why not stop being lazy now? What is the present? We need to ask ourselves what can we do now that will bring immediate joy and also aid the future?

Note: I'm sorry. This post turned out to be the destiny's child between a self-help guide and the crazy rants of a high-strung lunatic. I wrote this post mostly for myself, so don't feel too put out. 

Thanksgiving is Weird

Back when I was younger, holidays and parties meant something much more. They were these cherished and coveted events that held special promise, something to look forward to during the year. Thanksgiving used to be on that list. Back then, my family would pack up and drive down to Indiana to spend a few days there. Incredible hybridized Korean-American Thanksgiving dinner. Cousins. Videogames. Then back home.

But I've found that in the past years, it fails to hold a special place in my heart like Christmas or my birthday does. It simply exists. It's never been a particularly charming or heart-warming occasion when my family stays at home, as we always end up fighting over something or leaving me with some vague and ambivalent dissatisfaction with the whole holiday.

This made me question my previous anticipation for the holiday when I was younger. What does/did Thanksgiving represent to me? Was it a chance for me to actually spend time with my family and appreciate their presence, or did its specialness only appeal to me when fun was involved?

My mother, who works in the retail industry, had to work on Thanksgiving and Black Friday and the day after that. As a family, we were forced to postpone our family dinner to Sunday night. At first, it seems kind of tragic and pathetic to not be cherishing the family time I've been allowed on Thursday, but then, does it really matter when we celebrate Thanksgiving? No. It doesn't. November 28th is simply a date, a marker on a calendar reminding us to actually do something with our families. Precisely when I spend time with my family does not matter one bit; all that does is that I do.

Thanksgiving is supposed to mean something. It's supposed to represent a reminder to each of us that we must spend time with our loved ones. Thanksgiving doesn't have to be—or maybe isn't supposed to be—fun. It's supposed to teach each of us a lesson in remembering our roots.

Punctuation???!!?!?!?!?@@#%*^&()!@#^(&^*%&*)>>>>>....,,,,,,,,,,//////////-__------_-____----_----

With the recent events of the debate on punctuation's role and changing importance in the world (something that I heard 1st hour horribly misconstrued, ha!), I've decided to reevaluate my view on punctuation.

Before, I had never really made a distinction between grammar and punctuation and would always just clump the two together, even making a mistake in the debate to comment on the unnecessary distinction between "who" and "whom" (though I did sound terribly smart).

Experiment:       My friend and I went to the bookstore

                         Me and my friend went to the bookstore.

Which one do I actually notice in conversation? The one lacking correct grammar (this would be the latter, if you're an illiterate bastard*) stands out to me more than the one that lacks a simple period. I mean, why do you think there are only Grammar Nazis and no Punctuation Police, or something?

Frankly, I love correct punctuation and grammar and generally do my best to utilize my ACT English skills in any situation that requires writing. I am quite (infamously) known for correcting people's grammar, but I tend to forgive quite easily when it comes to the placement of a comma or period. 

After the debate--in which I took the side of pro-change (I had no choice, okay?)--I realized that correct punctuation really isn't all that important. I think that the fluidity and malleability of language and all its parts are what makes it a distinct part of culture. I used to lament the apparent decline of today's youth and experience "second-hand embarrassment" whenever I would see some less-than-coherent YouTube comment about religion or something. But as Robert Wernick so eloquently sums up, "what is for one observer a loss of essential ingredients may be for another an alteration of form and function." And we're definitely seeing this today. For example, check out this awesome sentence that reflects the increasing intelligence and creativity of my generation:

"OMG.. bout to #turnup!!!@mahouse imam go #ham errdayyyyy"

Okay, maybe that wasn't an epitomic example, but you can look at the existence of emoticons as the result of people using punctuation creatively. I mean, we can now express hundreds of ineffable sentiments just by using dashes, dots, parentheses, and colons. Check out this one I just made up:

 :()

 I call it the "Football with Eyes." Or the "Crab with No Extraneous Body Parts." I'm not sure how you would incorporate this into a convo, though. 

I think we all understand that there are definitely some necessary pieces of punctuation, such as quotation marks or question marks. However, when it comes to the precise placement of a comma or the abstinence of using a period, I lose interest or can even understand the writer's choice to do so. Sometimes, deviation from standard punctuation can also help to better illustrate a point. For example, when I'm texting a friend and I mean to snarkily question him or her, I will consciously refrain from using a question mark. i.e. There is a subtle but distinct difference between "what?" and "what" when I'm texting (the latter is meant to be more hostile and sarcastic while the former is a genuine expression of confusion or curiosity).

As (I would hope) a skilled scribe, I am quite conservative and traditional in my use of punctuation. I'm an aesthete, and in my opinion, correct punctuation allows the reader to read in relative visual comfort, knowing that everything is where it needs to be. In summation, I think punctuation's main purpose right now is making things look nice and professional. Granted, I'm still going to use traditional and correct-as-possible punctuation in my writing just to express my individuality in a world that is continually caring less, but I think that, in this case, the world is also being allowed greater freedom of style in the digitized realm of text. So, go ahead, make my day and don't include that apostrophe or that comma. I'm perfectly fine. But don’t you dare incorrectly use "less" when you really mean "fewer." Stupid 98.7 AMP.

*Okay, I'm sorry. That was mean. But seriously, you should know this by now, sheesh.  

I'm Stupid

When Ms. Valentino asked the class if Dimmesdale was a coward, my initial response was a resounding, YES. Honestly, whilst I denounced Dimmesdale's actions as cowardly and himself as a milksop, I hadn't been able to really connect with Dimmesdale's situation before, so I leaped at the delicious chance to condemn him, as we humans love to do. My reasoning was this, because Dimmesdale didn't stand up for Hester or Pearl by walking with them in public or admitting his own sins, he was a coward. He was a coward for not allowing himself peace of mind and for letting poor Hester suffer in shame. And he was a stupid coward for trying to physically punish himself. "The truth will set you free, you idiot," I thought. 

***

I tend to live by a philosophy that makes me do stupid things. Like, really stupid things. Oftentimes, I don't bother to think about the repercussions of a particular decision I make, and so I end up hurting and confusing others in the process. For lack of a better acronym, I tend to YOLO. I tend to just go for things, and, for me, this foolish and naive philosophy was justification for calling Dimmesdale a coward. I thought that I was brave for being stupid. Yeah, I'm an idiot. 

Only until very recently have I felt the gnawing tooth of remorse eating at my soul and wearing down my conscience. I now understand how hard it is to confront someone, how hard it is to embrace the truth. I realized that I'm a coward. But then I questioned myself, does the simple fact that doing something difficult seems intimidating make me a coward? Does being scared make me a coward? No, I realized. I'm not a coward or a milksop because I'm scared or hurt or confused. I'm only a coward if I refuse to face the truth in the end and proudly wear my scarlet letter.

Dimmesdale definitely has guilt, he definitely made a mistake, but wallowing in his private remorse doesn't make him a coward. The fact that he embraced the truth in the end makes him a personal hero. 

I've now come to the conclusion that Dimmesdale is not cowardly or weak or stupid. He is simply human. He learned, while a bit too late, that the truth will set you free. 

The Scarlet Letter

Am I the only one who wrote "scarlet" with two T's? Ah, well.

The Scarlet Letter is Nathaniel Hawthorne's criticism of intolerance and judgment that the Puritans are known to have. The story centers on Hester Prynne, a woman condemned by her community for committing adultery in the town of Boston, a place where the line between privacy and public news mesh together.

I see that we are addressing a similar theme as when we read The Crucible; the topic of honor and legacy.

However, I am going to address a different topic, one that requires a bit more in-depth analysis and observation.

Creepiness.

The best example, obviously, is Chillingworth, the vengeful and resentful ex-husband of Hester's.Well, to be exact, how vengeance and jealously lead to a more ugly character.

The reader discovers his past situation, in which he was once a quiet and calm physician who was captured by Indians and held captive for several years. After his release and Hester's crime, he has transformed into a man with an unsatiable desire to find revenge.

I think that Chillingworth's want for revenge is more indicative of the possibility that his own honor has been hurt. His pride has been damaged and he feels betrayed by Hester for taking that away from him. This festering want for pride and respect boil up inside him, until his personality takes a more physiological form on his body and face.

Break

Sigh.

I feel like every teenager is going through, will be going through, or has already gone through the questions and doubts I think about every day. Well, every week, 'cause taking 4 APs takes up a lot of one's time.

This week, in my lovely AP English class, we read the quirky commencement speech of David Foster Wallace at Kenyon College. He discussed the cliches of commencement speeches, the true meaning of a liberal arts education, and the lens of self. But what really stood out to me (and to the rest of the class, I'd like to think), was this idea of a default setting. 

A default setting involves the boring, the tedious, the virtually dead parts of adult life. The setting that we just automatically turn on when we're in the "hideously lit" store or in the disgusting traffic filled with "huge, stupid, lane-blocking SUV's."

***

Life isn't short. It's the longest thing you'll ever do. And if it appears that it's purely the young, optimistic, and sprightly individual of myself speaking, that very well may be true. At times I've looked back on my 16 years and thought to myself, "It's all so fleeting. Life passes so quickly." And I wonder why. And I think about David Foster Wallace. And I realize (or think I realize) that it's because I've forgotten to turn off my default setting. And maybe others who view life as too short have as well. Perhaps in forgetting to switch off our default setting, days and weeks and months and years become indistinguishable from one another, the same workaday lifestyle that sort of blends together, and so we forget how long life actually is, how much time has actually passed. 

"Our whole existence here is based on this great premise that we're, special. Superior to the whole thing. But we're not! We're just like everyone else. Look at us, we've bought into the same ridiculous delusion, this idea that you have to resign from life and settle down..."

What's the difference between a long life and a short life? If we compare the man who has lived 90 years working in the same pencil factory his entire life with the 50-year-old man who has traveled the world, held several jobs, and fallen in love numerous times, who has lived a longer life?

What makes a long life? What makes a good life?

***

"Carpe. Carpe. Carpe diem. Seize the day, boys. Make your lives extraordinary."

***

Now, as a 16-year old, I'm not very brave. I'm not very courageous or knowledgeable or, God-forbid, wise. But I have dreams. And I have fears. And not being able to turn off my default setting now or not too late in my adult life is one of them. 

Last year, I set a goal for myself. I would reform my work habits and study habits, I would become a more efficient person to allow time for my own creative pursuits. So that I would not only become more successful in school and please my parents but so that I could also directly fulfill myself and my art and my goals. And now, with the load of everything I've taken on in the name of "living on the edge" and "pushing the limits," I wonder if I've bitten off more than I can chew. And I cry and I scream and wallow in my frustration that this change that I've demanded of myself isn't coming as fast as I'd wanted it to, and I'm flailing in the between. Then, I remind myself. I'm living a long life. For myself. I'm living a long life for myself. And I must constantly remind myself to switch off my default setting. Because as a junior in high school, it's so easy to just shut down and do school. 

***

It makes me remember a scene from Rocky Balboa, in which Rocky reprimands his son for searching for people to blame for his own failures.

"It's not about how hard you can hit, it's about how hard you can get hit and keep moving forward, how much you can take, and keep moving forward."

Never stop pushing. 

Rhetoric, Rhetoric, Rhetoric

This week was all about rhetoric. Rhetoric, rhetoric, rhetoric.

To be honest, ideas of categorizing and structuring the persuasive techniques of writing bored me to death last year (sorry, Mrs. Chatel). Now, however, I've learned to look past my disgust with the bland dissection of it to realize that debate is actually, like, cool. Like, really cool.

When we are young children, we are so prone to taking whatever we are told and absorbing it, without question, like a sponge. It is only when we grow up and begin to see multiple viewpoints on topics are we able to break away to form our own opinions. The ability to doubt, is so important, I find, in discovering one's own identity, and it is one I'm still honing today.

When I was in middle school, I believed that I was an atheist; I was proudly atheist and all those other religious people are stupid and don't know what they're doing and I'm right and they're obviously wrong. It was only because I was surrounded by this youth culture filled with atheist beliefs and thoughts and because I really hadn't been that much exposed to religion growing up, that I so vehemently believed this. I was proud in my self-discovery, when I really didn't have much of a clue about what was going on.

Now, I find that I really have absolutely no idea what I think about religion. In a passage in The Reason for God, by Tim Keller, he stresses the importance of doubt and re-thinking things. I remember reading an editorial last year on the importance of self-doubt in essay-writing. It is this doubt that acts as a safeguard against the tempting effects of appeals, emotional, ethical, and logical.

Untitled

This week, we finished The Crucible and had a great time analyzing John Proctor's most heart-wrenching decision, to tear up his confession and go to the gallows. Reputation, honor, and legacy are enveloped in a main theme of The Crucible and address the question of which is more important: honor or life?

The romantic, Disney-story side of me congratulates and cheers on Proctor's noble decision as worthy and honorable. However, as a devout doubter, I doubted this. 

Confused about my own misgivings about Proctor's decision, I asked my father what he would do if he were one of the accused. My father, ever the pragmatic and wise Asian man, said that he would confess. Why? "Because everything comes from life. Religion comes from life. Honor comes from life. Shame comes from life." And so I pondered.

I think that what he meant to say is that life is so precious and important that we cannot give it up for something like reputation that seems so insignificant in comparison. Life is concrete; once we give it up, it can never be retaken. Reputation, in comparison, can be altered, can be started anew. Some would argue about what the point of living would even be if one's honor was lost in confession. I guess because I'm still young, I'm optimistic about living. You can change things. You can start over. You can go and begin anew. 

We discussed a Goethe quote that read, "The whole art of life consists of giving up our existence in order to exist." We noticed the difference between the "existence" as a noun, an inactive object, and "to exist" an active verb. We agreed that the quote meant that we must give up our stagnant "existence," or our life, in order "to exist," or maintain our honor and self-respect. I... kind of disagree with that.

To me, life is the ultimate verb. It entails so much of our existing; our movement, our breathing, our feeling, our touching, our thinking. In comparison, things like honor and reputation seem pretty stagnant. They are the nouns of our world. And I think that the Goethe quote should be interpreted as, we must give up our worldly objects, our worldly preoccupations with honor and reputation, and instead focus on ourselves, our own physical and beautiful existence. 

As Richard Dawkins so eloquently stated, "We are going to die, and that makes us the lucky ones. Most people are never going to die because they are never going to be born. The potential people who could have been here in my place but who will in fact never see the light of day outnumber the sand grains of Arabia. Certainly those unborn ghosts include greater poets than Keats, scientists greater than Newton. We know this because the set of possible people allowed by our DNA so massively exceeds the set of actual people. In the teeth of these stupefying odds it is you and I, in our ordinariness, that are here. We are the privileged few, who won the lottery of birth against all odds; how dare we whine at our inevitable return to that prior state from which the vast majority have never stirred?"

If ever asked to choose between something as malleable and impermanent as reputation and something as beautiful and as irreversible as life, I will always choose life. 

Oh, Pohn Jroctor, My Candian Lover!

The Crucible takes us back to the time when heresy and burning witches at the stake were common things of the law. Arthur Miller's biting play personalizes the story of the Salem Witch trials, which centers on the accusations of a few power-seeking women such as Abigail and the effects on the lives of Salem that include John Proctor.

Now, I would like to liken the accusations and horribleness of The Crucible's story to the instance of a fart in the household. Ew, I know, a gross comparison, but it must be made.

Let's say that you have detected a mysterious odor, to say that least, and you know that everyone else can smell it. You feel infuriated at having your olfactory senses attacked so you decide to voice your concerns. Now, let's say that you've had an affair with a man named, oh, say, Pohn Jroctor (he's Canadian), but now he's abandoned you for his real wife, Belizaeth. Because you still hold resentment over your rejection, you decide to take out your frustrations by blaming her! Now everyone is inching away from her while Belizaeth is shaking her head no confusedly.

Drunk with your newfound power, you blame everyone who ever bothered you. Kyles Gorey for being ugly, Betty for looking at you funny one day in second grade, Martha Stewart for--well, I don't know, why not, and all the people who have the first name Goody, because that's just a weird name.

Admit it, we've all blamed a random person for a fart before, and we all know how easy it is, and how the accused will try to play it back on you, but it doesn't work as well, because the damage has been done, and we all point and laugh.

Why is it that when one is blamed for a fart, there is almost nothing that the accused can do to defend himself or refute the charge except to blame another? This is why the fart scenario is just perfect as a comparison for The Crucible, because the blame game is just so easily manipulable and because it is just so easy to point the finger (or fan the air and scrunch your face up while holding your nose in the most immature manner). Such was the nature of the Salem Witch Trials. When something like the existence of a higher power, which is so held in high seriousness and yet so unprovable or unjustifiable, is put into the hands of a few frustrated and repressed people, bad things happen.

Westboro Baptist Church: Jonathan Edwards' Legacy Revived?

After reading the gist of Jonathan Edwards' piece, Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God, I can't help but feel a little bit of disgust at what he is saying because I've been so influenced and so surrounded by my many peers who are atheist or agnostic or at least, non-Christian. I guess it's really been a part of today's youth, liberal, atheist culture, to look down on with disgust and contempt and ridicule on what we see as stupid, uneducated, devout, Bible-thumping, hill-billy, conservative Christians who we view as having these arrogant and self-righteous beliefs about who's going to hell and who isn't, and I just can't help but feel a little disgust at that. It's because of so many cultural and media influences, and even though I'm not really sure what I believe, I still have doubts about what I've been fed by my own peers. 

In class, we talked about the Edwards' and his Puritan thoughts, with the whole consensus being one of mockery of the idea of a fiery Hell and "Hey, his ideas are crazy extreme!" Well, I wanted to shout out as well, "Well, maybe you're crazy! Maybe because you all are living in this present moment that you think that! Maybe it's singly the influences of today's culture that make you think that, since you're all so young, you haven't had the chance to explore the ideas and thoughts of other cultures and times! Who knows what you'd think if you were all born a century in the future! Maybe we are all only perpetuating the beliefs of today, not of ourselves!"

But then again, I'm not that kind of person.

I guess what I mean to say is that I maintain doubt on both sides of the religious and the non-religious, the atheist and the agnostic, the pantheist and the pagan, or whatever. It's all really kind of confusing. 

I mean, look at the Westboro Baptist Church. We view them as crazy, condemning, "you're-going-to-hell" people, and maybe that's what they are, crazy, condemning, "you're-going-to-hell" people. But go back to colonial times and they're just the Brady Bunch of the 1700s.

So I guess what my point is that belief is based on perspective of time period. With like the ancient Aztecs or Mayans who never heard of Christianity, so are they going to hell? So, this brings into doubt so many other things about my own belief system; shouldn't truth be an everlasting thing that is not subject to time? So, what is the truth? Is there any truth at all? Have we missed it? Is it coming?

So what I really guess my point is that...well—stuff is confusing. And I regret having written myself into this hole of confusion. 

God, I Love Sherman Alexie

"Ni hao."

"Oh, I don't speak Chinese. I'm Korean."

"Wait, what?"

"Yeah."

"I totally thought that you were Chinese."

"Well, I'm not, haha."

"So, you're Korean. North or South?"

"Uh, yeah, my family totally crossed over DMZ into South Korea, somehow afforded a plane ticket to Midwestern America, and managed to live in a well-to-do suburban community."

"...Oh, wow."

And, like any other self-respecting Korean, I would loudly defend my proud South (NOT North) Korean nationality. This conversation is bound to happen with almost all of my friends. It just does. And I'm not spiteful or angry, it just happens. And that's okay.

***

After having read Sherman Alexie's "fictional" memoir, The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven, as well as another of his hilarious books, The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian, I've decided to address what it means to be the first child of an Asian immigrant family in a well-to-do suburban community.

Let's begin.

Granted, stereotypes exist for some sort of truth, whether minorities like it or not, and, I'm ashamed to say, that a lot of my Asian friends (okay, all of my friends) fit a good number of them.

For example, due to America's view of Asians and from what stereotypes I'm aware of, I am supposed to...

Have small slits for eyes

Have extremely conservative and strict parents.

No speak Engrish.

Be unathletic.

Be a piano virtuoso or a violin virtuoso.

Have a blackbelt in kung fu.

Be a doctor or engineer when I grow up.

Have no fashion sense.

And look like everyone else in China, Japan, and/or Korea.

Of course, I fit all of these.

I'm kidding! I'm kidding. 

I never took kung fu.*

But the sad truth about Native Americans or even all other ethnicities is the dark side that occupies each one of them. I bet you don't want to hear about the tear-filled nights of bad grades, or the frustrations of an "A-Average Asian" to become the best that her parents pushed her to be. The hours of intense solitude sprinkled with the hope of making it to the Ivies. The resentment, the resignation, the stress. You don't want to hear about that, just like how it's painful to read Alexie's dark tales of booze-filled, hunger-filled, and hopeless experiences on a reservation. And yet, at the same time, it's these experiences that bring us closer to one another. Anecdotes of punishments, lectures, and that "one time when," help us to cope with our own dark secrets. The kind that are shared by everyone. 

*I took judo.

How Does Fear Fuel Hysteria and the Mob Mentality?

This concept of the "mob mentality" has been analyzed and observed in many novels over history as well as in the individual reader.

In terms of our summer reading, the concept is most directly introduced in Huck Finn, when Colonel Sherburn confronts the mob outside his house. He says that the mob mentality was only engendered by one fool who screamed to "lynch him! Lynch him!" This led others around him to begin fearing embarrassment and ridicule for not joining in. Thus began a domino effect, until everyone was peer pressured into conglomerating into a lynch mob. Colonel Sherburn asserts that no one really wants to lynch him, as they just want to follow the crowd. It is this fear of embarrassment and peer pressure, that forces them to his door.

We can also see the example of mob mentality when the duke and the king's ridiculous rip off performance convinces its initial audience to lie to the rest of the town. The first audience is quickly embarrassed and so agrees, as a whole, to lie to the rest of the town so that they are not the only ones fooled. This trickery and deception only occurs because of fear and embarrassment

In ninth grade English, we first learned about the mob mentality in To Kill a Mockingbird. It has its relations with racism against Tom Robinson. When the mob gathers outside, Atticus explains that one of the men there, Mr. Cunningham, is a good person but that he's allowed the mob mentality to pressure him into joining outside.

To be honest, when I first read that chapter in Huck Finn, I felt that Sherburn's whole speech was kind of unexpected and unnecessarily included. To a first time reader attempting to quickly finish her summer reading, the speech was confusing and out of place. I found myself asking, "Why did Twain include this speech?" However, after some contemplation, I found that the theme of mob mentality is consistent with the rest of the book. It's an example of an extreme form of peer pressure. It's a comment on Huck's experiences with racism, with religion, and with society overall.