In today’s society, there’s nothing wrong with a rough beard. Famous actors and musicians often grow a mild to thick beard, in hopes of projecting a “hip image”. Among high school students, however, it is somewhat rare. Some of the older, more masculine-looking students can pull it off, while others have trouble growing. Being of Indian descent, I’ve never had trouble growing a rugged beard. The problem is, I am a mere 5’6”, 125 pounds, and the general public seems to be against my beard. I feel the beard is quite striking, but I suppose it doesn’t fit into “society”. Perhaps if I lived on the east side of Richmond, among a more Indian student body, there would be no problem, as many people are bearded there, for religious reasons or pure laziness. All young men should be free to grow a beard, well kept or rough, if they feel the need.

Allow me to define rough beard: a beard that appears unclean, unkempt, that is not clearly shaped. A mild beard: a beard of low thickness, of average length.

During the winter holiday, I noticed today’s media icons, like Justin Timberlake and Tom Cruise, sporting a rough beard. I felt that I too, should grow a beard, because it would go well with my style. Since most of the school wouldn’t be seeing me during the break, I decided it would be the perfect time to grow a beard. I would be remembered as a clean looking, well-trimmed adolescent. I would suddenly return from the break, with a mild (mild was the best that I could manage) beard. The general reaction was all right. Some people thought it was excellent, while some were against it. There’s nothing wrong with not liking it, but some people felt it was “inappropriate” which I found offensive.

McDonald’s of Canada requires employees to be clean-shaven or have a well-kept beard; an employee going through a “growth phase” is not allowed to work. This shows that Canadians don’t want to buy food from someone with a scruffy beard. What difference does the beard make? It’s the same food. They assume that someone with a rough beard is not trustworthy (due to his shaggy appearance), and possibly lacks hygiene.

I will now state the fact that facial hair is a vestigial structure. In the past, humans used hair to keep warm. We have evolved so that we no longer need hair, and therefore it has no purpose. Nonetheless, it is a natural human growth, and society needs to grow to the point where it accepts people of scruffy appearance; we don’t all need to look alike. I suggest that we all grow beards to make them more accepted. Just because someone has a beard doesn’t mean that they’re poor and can’t afford to shave, or that they’re a hoodlum or something of
that nature. These stereotypes need to be eliminated.

As mentioned earlier, I’m a small, 16 year old guy. It seems that in general a beard is okay, but if I grow a beard, some people feel it’s wrong for someone of my size and age to have such facial hair. They constantly suggest I shave it. I’m not sure why that is, perhaps they just feel I don’t appear mature enough. Well it’s not a matter of maturity; anyone should be free to grow a beard without being hassled by people.

On the Monday that I arrived at school after the winter break, someone yelled “terrorist” as I entered the school. This was solely because I had a beard. They were joking, but nonetheless there must have been some reasoning behind such a comment. When I went to Seattle with my sisters, they suggested that I shave, as the American public would also feel that I was a terrorist. In defiance of such ignorant people, I did not shave.

Let me grow my beard and leave me alone. A beard does not define a person, it merely shows an aspect of their personality, and if a young guy like me wants to grow a beard, he should be free to do so without facing adversity from his peers. Just so you know, I kept my beard for a total of 4 weeks (it started getting itchy) and it was the best 4 weeks I’d had in a long time, because although I’ve been focusing on the negative aspects, the beard was quite a success.

Everybody has a story, and mine is a tale about stories. Growing up, books were my best friends, and my library card was as sacred as King Arthur’s Excalibur. Reading was breathing, and my younger days inhaled many a word from the likes of Mark Twain and E.B White. I endured the trails in the Giant Peach with James, climbed trees with Huck Finn, and had startling conversations with Wilbur, the barn pig. Every day after school, I would be seduced into a world woven with creativity and imagination; a utopia overflowing with misadventures, mischievous characters and magical discoveries. Instead of watching YTV at 3 o’clock or playing in the park like my fellow classmates, I would seclude myself in my living room, awaiting to be fascinated and excited by my next literary endeavor. With books, I could leap into a multitude of dimensions that would bring me “through the looking glass” and into wardrobes that held within it a world where lions ruled as kings. For those few afternoon hours, I could erase the curious glares I received at school, and start anew with bold heroes who were loved by those around them.

By the time second grade rolled around, I was already a bookworm at heart. I was never encircled by friends because most of my classmates could not understand why I would go digging through Roald Dahl books rather than Asterix comics during reading time. At the tender age of eight, I had already experienced the feeling of brutal rejection. Kids my age disliked me for my unwillingness to conform to Care Bears and Hello Kitty, and so I tried once and again to watch and learn to like those shows. In order to be accepted, I pretended to enjoy the many episodes that I fed myself with, and school life swiftly became easier. I could talk with my classmates about the latest toy, because I had seen the commercial on TV. We would exchange silly Sanrio stickers and offer each other snacks of all kinds during recess. Girls suddenly wanted to sit with me during lunch hour, and boys would invite me to play soccer with them. As much as those days brought me joy, I had lost myself in the midst of them. I drifted away from Christensen and Judy Blume, and found myself morphed into an ordinary little girl whose sole desire was to assimilate with the rest of the world.

In the fourth grade, I rediscovered the reader that subsisted in me. Educated in Montreal, I was given the opportunity to stray away from French in that particular year, and was put in an English class taught by a wonderful lady by the name of Ms. Tonge. She had stark opaque hair that lay upon her shoulders like white silk, and every day she would read an excerpt from Scott O’Dell’s Island of the Blue Dolphins. The story spoke of Karana, an abandoned Indian girl coerced into surviving on the island. I realized that my own island was awaiting me, where my willingness to uncover the aura that I had left behind two years ago would become my means for survival. Social rejection no longer affected me because the only person I now needed acceptance from was me.

Between fourth and tenth grade, I learned to find a balance between my passion for reading and the outside world. I never succumbed to media again, but I didn’t shelter myself from it either. I developed my share of friendships in those years and had even encountered fellow book-bound souls. I thought my journey of self-acceptance had already come to its last chapter, but I was surprised in Grade 10 as I entered my first English Incentive class. Ms. Mo, an effervescent bulb of energy, introduced us to her reading program on our second day. Her mad scientist ways would lead us into becoming “lab rats”, and soon enough, we were all reading from her list. It contained a vast array of books written by men and women of all cultures. Entranced by the variety, I swam through as many as I could. Gleaming gems like Nelson Mandela’s Long Walk to Freedom and Isabel Allende’s Daughter of Fortune aroused my independence and kindled a respect of individuality in me. My English class became my community, and they accepted me for the bookworm that I was and still am. I learned to communicate the unearthed treasures embedded into the text, and we would discuss them as amateurs of philosophy and anthropology. Through Ms. Mo’s encouragement, and inspiration provided by characters such as Coelho’s Santiago and Fitch’s Astrid, I learned that I shouldn’t be afraid of my love for reading. The prologue to my story would tell of acceptance, but it is in the chapters ahead that will tell of adventures in the greater unknown of individualism.

Ben Franklin once said, “One day our descendants will think it is incredible that we paid so much attention to little things, like the amount of pigment in our skin or the shape of our eyes or our gender instead of the unique identities of each of us as complex human beings.”

When I was younger it was hard for me to accept people who were different, especially the students who were not able to keep up with the rest of the class. I thought they should try harder instead of goofing off during valuable class time. I saw the vulnerable that needed my help; however, I was reluctant to give a hand.

Three years ago, I was blessed to befriend Ami, a girl with a learning disability. She was new at my church and she was unlike the rest of us. Often my friends and I would exclude her from our little group and we would gossip behind her back. My mom soon found out about my shameful behavior. She explained how Ami’s brain was damaged from a fever. After knowing the reason behind her learning disability I was embarrassed by my previous actions.

My parents forced me to become Ami’s friend and they forced me to go to church with her. My friends did not receive the lecture as I had, so they continued to tease and talk about Ami in front of her. Sometimes I could even see her eyes filling with tears as she stood against the wall enduring their insults. Their harsh words angered me yet I could not defend Ami. I knew it was because I was afraid. I was afraid that my friends’ attacks might become directed at me instead of the girl beside me.

I was aware Ami’s life at home was not happy. Her parents did not enjoy having a child with a disability, so they would shift their attention towards work instead of the person who needed love and security. For a long time her mom refused to admit Ami’s problem, she thought if Ami spent more time with “normal” people Ami’s disability would disappear.

I will always remember the day when we talked for two hours on the phone. At the end of the long conversation, both of our cheeks were stained with tears. Ami told me all about her unhappiness at school and home. She truly despised going to school because she was forced to stay in a classroom with mentally disabled students. And those who talk to her in the hallways had only their pity to offer. At home it was a different story, her mom would often become angry because Ami was not able to meet her expectations. Ami’s parents were not pleased with her progress at school, yet they refused to spend extra money additional help. However, she told me that the hardest part was trying to fit in.

The conversation allowed me to see past Ami’s disability. I saw her sadness and yearning for the place where she could be herself. She did not want to be identified as a person with a disability, and she did not want her parents to neglect her problem. All Ami wanted was to be set free from people’s whispers and insults, and she wanted others to realize she possessed feelings as well.

Maybe those who taunted her, as I used to, did not acknowledge the fact that every tease and insult produces a cut upon the old scars. Maybe those who call her a “freak” do not know how many tears Ami sheds every night and how much she dreads waking up to a new day. It is ironic how I was able to learn so much more from a person who is regarded as inferior in our everyday lives. Ami, without knowing, taught me not to look down at others and I know for sure, she certainly has changed my outlook on life. Although her voice is small and often unheard, she overcomes her obstacles to push on and become stronger everyday. I am truly fortunate that she has become part of my life.

It was a shinny day yesterday when I left school heading down for home. We had a busy day at school and my mind kept worrying about the assignment given to us about a couple of hours ago on a challenging issue. We were supposed to write about a personal experience related to diversity and nothing specific was popping out of my memory at that time. I was aware of the changes I have gone through from the day my family moved to Canada, of the adjustments to the new environment I have made and of the many experiences I faced in mixing with multicultural groups in our community. But I couldn’t concentrate on a particular one that I was supposed to pick and write about.

As I got out of schoolyard, I suddenly decided to take a walk around my neighbourhood, instead of going straight home. When I turned right on Commercial Drive I was still thinking about my assignment for selecting the most significant personal experience linked to the respect for diversity. It took only a few steps until two men chatting loudly in front of the Brazilian restaurant around the corner distracted my thoughts. They were speaking in Spanish and seemed to be very high-spirited. Suddenly, I remembered that summer day, two years ago when the soccer team of Brazil won the World Cup. All their fans were on the streets honking their horns of their cars, waving the flags of Brazil and shaking hands with other people who happened to be in the area. There was a mixture of different men and women, kids and adults in that spontaneous crowd, all sharing the joy of those thrilled supporters. I continued my walk looking around and as I felt a little bit hungry, I decided to cross the street and get a slice of pizza. Being haunted by the topic of my assignment, I suddenly realized that I was craving for Italian food. Indeed, the Italian immigrants must have brought pizza to the North American continent; and not only pizza, but they had a lot of other tasty dishes they offered to their new country. There was also the delicious ice cream Gelato that makes us say “Grazie” when we have a cone. Aren’t we lucky that they were free to bring over their tradition and use their skills? I was just passing the café Roma and I could see a group of Italians speaking their melodic language and adding a lot of body language to their conversation. As I was continuing my walk I could not only hear the Italians speaking but also other people interacting in different languages. Focused on my thoughts, I did not pay enough attention to the fact that I started to step on the street crossing. When I noticed my carelessness, I looked quickly to my left and saw a car stopped a few meters from the pedestrian crossing. The driver was a charming young Asian woman, who was smiling at me and inviting me with a hand gesture to cross the street. Then, I glanced on the right side long enough to see an East Indian cab driver wearing a grey turban, waiting patiently for me to reach the curb. In the pizza shop, I saw a polite salesman with a strong East European accent. An instant flashback in my brain reminded me of the first days of school in Canada making me appreciate the others’ thoughtfulness. None of my classmates were laughing at my broken English; on the contrary they helped me a lot to improve my vocabulary and pronunciation.

Heading back home I passed the Greek restaurant that was advertising the course of the day: tzatziki, calamari, souvlaki. I remembered hearing these words used by Canadians and I realized that all these have actually originated from the Greek vocabulary. Indeed, the other cultures have been influencing the Canadian culture.

At the next intersection, a police car caught my eyes. The tall and slim policemen were talking peacefully with a group of teenagers. They must have done something wrong, but I was more interested in the presence of one of the policemen. He was black, but that did not seem to surprise anybody. Nothing was out of the ordinary. The colour of the skin should not make any difference, as long as a person has the right attitude and is capable of handling his duties rightfully. I was about to leave Commercial Drive when I looked at the window of the bookstore. The First Nation painting that was displayed there reminded me of our respected neighbour. Thelma is an 88 years old lady who immigrated from England many years ago. She has a passion for Native art. She selects, promotes and encourages the good quality works of Native artists. A question raised in my mind as I was walking down my street: “Why a person who was brought up in a more sophisticated culture felt attracted by the products of a culture she discovered it later in her life, when she settled down in a new country?” Wait a minute, I said to myself, the answer is the very one I was searching for and this is the respect for diversity.

When I unlocked the door of my apartment I felt relieved and happy. I got all I need to write for my assignment. I don’t have to sort through my past experiences to illustrate the respect for diversity. The diversity is out there around us. Regardless of the distinct beliefs, ethnicity, colour, race, cultures and background of the diversity of people around us we have to respect and treat everybody the same. The equality of people is in the air, surrounding us and intermingling with our society. Now, I know what I’m going to write about. It is going to be about being vigilant to protect the human rights and ensure our respect for diversity is not spoiled. As Canadians, we learn to adapt and relate to one another despite our differences. Through practice, we have come to understand that the differences between us do not have to divide us. Canadians value diversity for enriching cultural expression and making daily life more varied and interesting.

Why is it so “wrong” to be different? Why does a person have to look and act the same as others, just to fit in? Why can’t a person be respected for being unique and themselves? And why are those who are mentally or physically challenged ignored and treated as if they don’t belong? Not only is this a sign of insecurity, but lack of self-confidence. In order to feel better about ones self, people try to make others feel worse. So tell me…who’s stronger?

It was October 2001; the first month of my 8th grade year had already gone by. I was in dance class and we were already preparing for a show in November. I am a very shy and observant girl, and I remember looking over at this girl. She was different, not because she was handicapped or because she was Indo-Canadian, but because every time I came to this specific class there was always this same girl there, greeting me with the same sweet smile and “hello.” In class I tried to focus on the choreography because I, myself was not the best at this type of dance but I started focusing on another issue that I had been watching for the past month. Every time I came to class I started noticing more and more how this girl was being teased, not only with racist comments but about her abilities too. Unnecessary comments such as; “Our show will be ruined now that she is in it,” and “I refuse to do this if she’s going to be in it.” Inside I wanted to stand up for her, but I felt I was too weak and unconfident. I continued to put up listening and watching this girl getting put down, but every class as I watched her pleading eyes as she looked at me and gave me a half smile, I realized the only person that could help make a difference in her life was me.

It was now three weeks before the performance and I began talking to her. Though it was at times hard to understand her, I discovered she was quite a smart and interesting person. All she needed was someone to confide in, and that person was me. As I started getting teased, that’s when I realized how it felt. To have no control over peoples image of you, and at the same time to pretend to be so strong. Realizing here was a girl who was trying so hard to be accepted in life, but she wasn’t because of her differences.

It was November 4th 2001, the night of the final dance performance. We had to be there an hour early, prepared to put on the best performance. I recall hearing

girls still talking about this being the worst dance performance not only because of this one girl, but now because of me too. I arrived a couple of minutes late and started looking for my new friend. Then I saw her, sitting in the corner, staring at the ground, tears in her eyes and pale. She was nervous, but I knew it was something more than that now. I ran up to her and asked what was wrong, all she could say was, “I can’t do this…everyone hates me.” That’s when I knew this is when my friendship and love was needed the most. I became teary eyed, but knew I had to stay strong, because here was a girl who had the guts to even try such a challenge in school, and through all these years put up with all of this discrimination against her. I looked her in the eye, and I told her she should have more confidence and to know that she is truly gifted in so many ways. I received a smile but she stood there still. They called us on the stage, and we performed. I remember looking over during the performance and seeing her smile…the girl no one had the strength to believe in and here she was, a smile on her face and a burst of confidence I had never seen from her before. After the performance we all ran off, and started packing up to go home. I turned around and she was standing there with her arms open, and she just hugged me and said thank you over and over, but all I could say to her was, “ You are incredibly gifted…don’t let anyone bring you down.”

From this one experience, my perspective on life and all people, has changed, helping create a true understanding of equality and helping me notice the difference individuality can make in the world. For, these abilities and traits that make everyone their own person only add to the beauty of life. After all of these events I had been through with the girl mentioned above I left this school but one question still remains in my mind …”Who was stronger, her or me?”

To share and be a friend is a motto of the Girl Guides Organization. Seeing as I’ve been an active member in this particular organization one would think that I would live by these words. Though seeming to be very simple words to live by, I have not truly understood the full meaning of them until recently.

When I was a young girl, I practically grew up in girl guides. I was in sparks at the age of 6 and entered into Brownies at 7. My first year of brownies was my most memorable. All the girls that were in my pack were very nice to each other and we made sure that no one was excluded. We were all inseparable, like birds of a feather. Until one day, a new bird flew into our nest and ruffled our feathers. Her name was Meagan, and I’m sure if we had given her a chance we would have liked her. However, we never gave her that chance she deserved because she was different. She had a mental disability that made her talk a little slower and act a little differently than the rest of us. These differences caused many girls to be hesitant towards her, and no one would play with her, including myself. Whenever partners were needed she was the odd one out, and when teams were picked, she was always the last girl who no one seemed to want. The leaders tried to push us towards understanding why she was like this, and telling us that she was a really great girl, but none of that changed our minds. To us she was different and that’s all that mattered. Shortly after that Meagan began coming to fewer and fewer meetings, and eventually, she stopped coming all together. It was weird after she left, because even though no one really knew her, or talked to her, when she was gone, it felt like something was missing. Since the day she left I’ve had this guilt following me around as if it were a lost puppy. I’ve thought about Meagan once in a while during the past nine years but, it wasn’t until this past year, when I became a Junior Leader for a group of six year old girls I found I could help prevent what I did to Meagan from happening to another girl.

Eight blonde haired blue-eyed soon to be beauties were whom I got to instruct every Monday night. These girls reminded me of when I was in Brownies, they enjoyed each other’s company and were perfectly happy just the way they were. About a quarter way through the year a new girl came to our patrol. Looking at her face, she appeared to be a normal girl, eyes glistening, and smile from ear to ear. Yet, sadly, she was in a wheel chair, for she had been diagnosed with spinabifida when she was born. As soon as she wheeled herself through the door I had instant flash backs of my brownie years and of Meagan. The other girls had never met anyone in a wheel chair before and they regarded her as some kind of freak. I noticed this instantly, but there was no way I was going to let the others girls treat her the same way I had treated Meagan. This time, I was going to make the difference, and not just make an attempt at having the other girls accept her, but make sure they did. I began thinking that maybe it wouldn’t be so hard this time, seeing as most young girls are pretty accepting. However I was wrong. Not unlike myself when I was in Brownies, these sparks ostracized her, and played in a corner by themselves. When she first went up to the girls, with a glow on her face that could light up the dark night sky, the girls seemed hesitant to speak to her. They stared at her with confused expressions, with looks as if what she had was contagious. I knew I just couldn’t expect the girls to accept her right away, so I decided to give them a little push in the right direction.

I went up to the group and introduced Courtney, the newcomer. I told them the things she liked to do, how old she was and what school she went to. After I introduced Courtney, the rest of the girls seemed to be a little more accepting and asked Courtney to play tag with them. Courtney tried to play the game to the best of her ability, but obviously, being confined to her wheel chair made it a little difficult, and once again the other girls strayed away from her. During the meeting we had the girls get into partners. Now, I was not going to let this become the same story as it had been with Meagan, so I had one of the girls go with Courtney without any hesitation. This went better than I had expected, Stacy was getting to know Courtney for who she was, and had stopped judging her for what she was not. As soon as the craft was finished, it was as if Courtney had always been part of the group. As the meeting went on, the girls became even closer, like birds of a feather. However they would never have their feathers ruffled like I had, for both them and I, had found the meaning of being a friend.

Though I made a mistake when I was younger by judging people before I knew them just because they were different, I have made sure that the Brownies I look after will never do the same. I know that I have not fixed the wrong I caused by making Meagan’s childhood not as pleasant as it should have been but I have taught more children how to accept, and how to not judge. Even though they are such simple words, words I have not understood until recently, they have become words I shall now live by for always and forever. Share and be a friend.

I can still remember what I witnessed that day, a day that was filled with hurt, a day where I first encountered racism. Racism looked at me plainly in the eyes. Nothing could have prepared me for this.

It was a sunny day; the sun was shining for the first time in a few weeks, and the wind was blowing softly. I was riding on the 404 bus on my way to McNair Secondary. The atmosphere in the bus was a lazy one; everyone seemed to be relaxed because of the good weather. The bus window had filtered the sun’s rays. It felt gentle, and I was beginning to feel sleepy. The lady driving the bus was chatting with one of her passengers; the bus was full of scattered conversations. The mood was laid-back.

Perhaps the incident started because the Chinese lady, who was carrying a suitcase, pulled the signal to get off the bus too late, or it was because the bus lady was too busy carrying on a conversation that she didn’t pay her full attention, or maybe it was the combination of both ladies’ fault that started this racist event. I remember the bus was driving at a fairly fast speed. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the Chinese lady pull the signal after she craned her neck around to look outside; it was as if she was trying to make sure this was her stop. A few seconds later, I saw that the bus driver flew past the bus stop. Then, it happened. The Chinese lady looked angry; she started pulling on the signal and shouting in Mandarin, “Xia Che! Xia Che! Ting Che!” I understood what she said, but even those who couldn’t understand the language could plainly tell she was complaining that she wanted the bus to stop and let her off. By this time, all the chatter in the bus had stopped. All the eyes of the passengers were fixed on these two ladies. The bus lady, waving her hand in frustration, screamed back at the Chinese lady in English, “Stop pulling the signal! You should have pulled it sooner! I can’t stop in time like that!” The two ladies were having a fight while speaking two different languages.

I watched them yell at each other while feeling the bus stop with a violent jerk. I kept my eyes on the Chinese lady; I saw her haul off her suitcase, step onto the pavement, glare at the 404 bus with one last look filled with firing rage, turn around and walk away dragging her suitcase behind her. The bus door closed with a thud. For some reason that I couldn’t explain, the sight of the door shutting hurt me; it was foreboding. I was lost in my thoughts at this time. Was this the Chinese lady’s first time riding a bus? She didn’t seem to know any English; was this her first time in Canada? Perhaps she was a tourist? What would she think of Canadians as a whole now? As these thoughts raced through my mind, I was interrupted rudely. The lady driving the bus had picked up her microphone and said, “Those Chinese people have the worst habits in the world!” To my amazement, the whole bus roared with laughter. I looked around the bus in shock; what I saw seemed foreign all of a sudden. Everyone had brown or blonde hair and brown or blue eyes; no one had the same characteristics as I had, black hair and dark brown eyes. It then occurred to me, I was the only person of Chinese background on this bus. My feelings were deeply hurt. Pain spread through my body like a disease. The remark that the bus lady made didn’t seem to be only towards the Chinese lady as an individual, but it seemed to be a comment that was directed to the Chinese as a whole. I only then realized that I was being discriminated against. It wasn’t fair; no one deserves to be treated this way. At that moment, the whole bus became my enemy. I was determined not to show them that I was hurt by the comment that they all regarded as a joke.

My stop was near. With an expressionless face, I pulled the signal to get off the bus. The bus seemed unusually quiet, or maybe it was because I was too immersed in my feelings that I lost all sense of my surroundings. I stood by the door. The bus slowed to a stop, and I stepped off. I heard the door close behind me. Did that bus lady know that there was another Chinese person on her bus? Would she ever realize how cruel her remarks were? I do not know. However, as I slowly walked away from that 404 bus towards McNair Secondary, I felt as if some of my pain was left on the bus and with that bus lady. Even to this day, that same 404 bus would be traveling around Richmond bearing the hurt that I had felt.

I was touched by racism on that day. It left a lasting scar. A scar that reminds me every day that even sometimes the simplest comments can be interpreted as one that discriminates against a certain group of people. This event has taught me to respect others for their differences. In a way, I must thank those two ladies; they have taught me a lesson in life that I will surely not forget until the day I die.