аЯрЁБс>ўџ ўџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџ§џџџўџџџўџџџўџџџўџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџ џџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџRoot Entryџџџџџџџџ РF EY9“-У€WordDocumentџџџџџџџџ CompObjџџџџџџџџџџџџ^џџџџџџџџџџџџўџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџёњћќ{|}qrs\]^ЅІЇ%&'Я а б ђ ѓ є іїј\]^вгдћїѓяычуплзгЯЫЧУПЛЗГЏЋЇЃŸ›—“‹‡ƒ{]c]c]c]c]c]c]c]c]c]c]c]c]c]c]c]c]c]c]c]c]c]c]c]c]c]c]c]c]c]c]c]c]c!ёћќ|}rs]^ІЇ&'а б ѓ є їј]^гд§ћљїѕѓёяэыщчхуспнлйзегёд ёд уџџџџџџџџ7K@ёџNormala "A@ђџЁ"Default Paragraph Fontаџ@ўџ џџџџ РFMicrosoft Word 6.0 Document MSWordDocє9Вqthe thoughts and feelings driving it. Some say you are what you wear. I disagree. But admittedly, only to a degree. Maybe I am my paradoxes and self-contradictions, my blatant hypocrisies. Maybe I am me because I only wear Ann Taylor and Banana Republic while scoffing at the mere idea of buying clothes from discount places like Target and J.C. Penney, yet also hate materialism and acquisitive mindsets and corporate branding and superficiality in general. Am I my thoughts? I think many thoughts, most of them quite possibly completely useless. To list them would be futile. Am I my feelings? But all life may come with a prepared and finite emotional pallet. Everyone draws from the same emotions. Everyone and perhaps every living being. Then what about likes and dislikes? Those may be fairly unique, at least in their specific combinations. Can I introduce myself as the person who loves Arundhati Roy's political-intellectual views and Edna St. Vincent Millay's lyricism and Banana Yoshimoto and Amy Tan's eloquence and Dorothy Parker's self-defeating darkness? Could I announce, "Hello, I am the one who hates male writers who take care to distinguish between female characters who are untarnished wife material or saucy but very temporary hayrolls, who emphasize the stunning beauty or pure hearts (read: unbroken hymens) of their love interests over their minds." I am the person who loves movies, especially sweeping adventures and fantasies that absorb her and art films that make her think and international films that immerse her in different worlds. Who abhors sentimental fare and bad dialogue and stories where chicks die at the end. I'm the person who loves to laugh and think and cry in movies but hates feeling manipulated or formulaic plots. мЅe#Р ёду,l,l  ЊG(ь˜Tю GTimes New Roman Symbol ArialTimes New RomanWho am I? I've been wondering that lately. It's such a hard thing to pinpoint. To say I am a woman would only rule out half the planet. What is the first thing one might say when asked? Their name. I am John Smith, one might say. Am I my name? A name means little: everyone has one. Some people have more, and many people share the same ones. My name is rare but not unique. Am I my appearance, my body? The only features that may not change are my small stature, except to shrink, and my unfolded eyes, which are so dark a blue-eyed girl once thought them black. But perhaps they'll fade in appearance if I develop cataracts. My skin is golden beige, but it may grow paler or darker, and my hair is black until I stand under sunlight, when all the brown and red shades appear. I am not overweight, but I may gain weight. I am not underweight, but I may become emaciated. I have a few small moles, on my right shoulder towards the front where the arm meets the body, and over the left corner of my lips and other places, but these can be removed and I may develop more. The body is really such a transient entity. Am I a transient entity? It's said that we all change throughout life. Am I then my body? But a body is just the cardboard of a package. It's nothing without the thoughts and feelings driving it. Some say you are what you wear. I disagree. But admittedly, only to a degree. Maybe I am my paradoxes and self-contradictions, my blatant hypocrisies. Maybe I am me because I only wear Ann Taylor and Banana Republic while scoffing at the mere idea of buying clothes from discount places like Target and J.C. Penney, yet also hate materialism and acquisitive mindsets and corporate branding and superficiality in general. Am I my thoughts? I think many thoughts, most of them quite possibly completely useless. To list them would be futile. Am I my feelings? But all life may come with a prepared and finite emotional pallet. Everyone draws from the same emotions. Everyone and perhaps every living being. Then what about likes and dislikes? Those may be fairly unique, at least in their specific combinations. Can I introduce myself as the person who loves Arundhati Roy's political-intellectual views and Edna St. Vincent Millay's lyricism and Banana Yoshimoto and Amy Tan's eloquence and Dorothy Parker's self-defeating darkness? Could I announce, "Hello, I am the one who hates male writers who take care to distinguish between female characters who are untarnished wife material or saucy but very temporary hayrolls, who emphasize the stunning beauty or pure hearts (read: unbroken hymens) of their love interests over their minds." I am the person who loves movies, especially sweeping adventures and fantasies that absorb her and art films that make her think and international films that immerse her in different worlds. Who abhors sentimental fare and bad dialogue and stories where chicks die at the end. I'm the person who loves to laugh and think and cry in movies but hates feeling manipulated or formulaic plots. Am I my nationality? Does being American define who I am? What does it say about me? Am I my politican stances within my American identity? But the quick to criticize and ostracize might say I'm un-American, if not because I am not of the race that first overtook the land from its natives then because of my views. But does it make me me that I hate how nationalism and patriotism promote limited understandings of humanity by enforcing loyalty toward one's own and indifference or worse toward the sufferings of all the billions of Others? Am I my compassion that I feel such sadness for those neglected Others? Am I my religious views (leaning heavily toward Buddhist introspection and compassion)? That I am passionately against the idea of organized religion that, as Christopher Hitchens so wonderfully pointed out, are each so hellbent on controlling their flocks by brandishing their own brands of Truth and judgmental morality, which again often promote exclusivity and artificial barriers and prejudices? Am I me because I subscribe solely to the philosophy and religion and nation of kindness toward all? Is there a defining characteristic about me? Or, perhaps the truth was obvious all along: I am all of these things.