Sixteen is a liberating number. In cities across the country, it is the youngest age at which you can test for a driver’s license. Being able to drive holds great implications. Providing for your own transportation introduces a sense of independence and freedom. With this comes a time-consuming education period. During my hours of driving, I came to understand the transience of life and the abruptness of death.
Learning to drive was a long process. When I began driving, the car moved erratically; it paid no attention to my actions behind the wheel. A tap on the brake would result in a lurch forward; a tap on the accelerator would result in a lurch back; a turn of the steering wheel would result in a lurch to the side. With more time and more experience, however, these problems lessened. Abrupt brakings became smoother; wider turns became more precise. As I grew more comfortable with the car, my zones of driving widened. Parking lots led to neighborhood streets. Neighborhood streets advanced to interstate highways.
A new perspective of the world resulted from being in driver’s seat. After all, it was a different experience. For teenagers in general, a significant portion of their childhood lives were spent in the passenger seats, simply observing the world pass by. These numerous hours can be interpreted differently. Many view it as the time necessary for transportation. Some perceive it as time to relax, start a conversation or enjoy the scenery. Others perceive it as a waste of time and bring work to do on the ride. Despite the differences, these various interpretations all share the element of passive waiting. Their actions have little influence on the driving. However, driving itself requires the element of active control.
This element brought about the discoveries I made about life and death. It was a typical Thursday afternoon, and I was driving back home. This was a routine path: travel down Broad Street to Interstate 3, cruise south on the freeway to Exit Four, head north-east for Downtown Nashua and turn right towards my neighborhood. While on the highway, my prior experience took control, reminding me to maintain my speed, keep my distance and stay alert. This went smoothly, until I steered the car towards the exit ramp. In my peripheral vision was a frightening sight. The carcass of a small squirrel was on the side of the road.
Road kill is not a foreign sight. In fact, I have seen more of it in recent days, possibly from the city government’s lack of funds to clean the streets. Usually, road kill rarely evokes strong emotion from me despite its graphic nature. After all, it’s simply natural selection in action. One view speculates that hunger had motivated the squirrel to venture out of its original habitat to in hopes of finding sustenance. However, it did not consider the traffic of the road. Its life was quickly ended and the squirrel gene pool became slightly smaller. Another view considers the incident as conflict between man and squirrel. The squirrel’s small delicate body is unable to compete with the man’s intellectual capacity. The outside world, shaped by man’s willpower and intellect, is too dangerous for the squirrel to understand.
However, the contrasts present in this scene immediately struck me. The human mind is constantly analyzing the world around. This can be applied to the details of the car trip. For example, the mind handles time management, selecting appropriate routes and estimating arrival times. It absorbs sensory details, seeing the light from the rear-view windows and listening to the rev of the engine. It manages physical coordination, rotating the steering wheel or depressing the gas pedals. These aspects, and many others, merge to compose the entire experience of driving. On the other hand, the squirrel follows its basic animal instincts, searching for necessities like food, water and shelter. My effort was put into driving carefully. The squirrel’s effort led to its abrupt death.
Insights can be drawn when considering this incident at a larger scale. Any observer may look upon the squirrel and notice its powerlessness. Its lack of intellect makes it appear insignificant and disposable. Yet its death brings the existence of a higher life force into question. Does this force view human life as insignificant, just as we view the squirrel as insignificant? Are we humans merely squirrels on the side of the highway? We may be living under a deluded sense of control of our own lives. Flash floods in Ohio and France, earthquakes in South America and Indonesia, tornados in Mid-West America and other natural disasters cause heavy casualties. The squirrel’s life was extinguished at the hands of nature and the unpredictability of life. One day, ours will be too.
I continued driving on the high way ramp, and merged back into local traffic. The remainder of the trip followed the daily routine. However, I now saw the climactic moment of getting my driver’s license in a different light. Yes, it introduces more independence. Yes, it grants more control. But do these matter in the long run? I can do everything humanely possible to work for my future. Yet I rest in the providence of a higher force.
_________
This was another essay in my AP English Final Portfolio. I enjoyed writing it, so I decided to upload it.
Monday, June 21, 2010
This I Believe: Teamwork
“FIRST is the only varsity ‘sport’ in which all participants can actually turn pro”. This quote by Francois Castaing became a popular description of the FIRST robotics program. In fact, this program has made an impact on many high school students by attracting them with real world experience and challenging them with a complex assignment. But most significantly, it teaches the importance of teamwork. During my second year in the FIRST robotics program at Nashua High Schools, I came to understand this.
This past year, I was assigned to write software, or a set of instructions that the robot follows, for a camera. This would be used to establish a video stream between the robot and the drivers. After reviewing documentation, I began work, placing my initial code within the primary file to test the camera’s functionality. Soon, however, I began adding more instructions, like driving forward. Because the code made sense to me, I did not leave notes explaining my work. What initially was a simple comment turned into hundreds of lines of indecipherable code.
This proved troublesome for the rest of the team. In order to perform their own testing, other programmers had to sift through the tangled mess I left behind. Also, the adult advisors had to read each line of my code to understand my overall intention. Imagine a hotel. After entering its lobby, I decided that it was too warm, so I took off my sweatshirt and left it on the floor. The following day, I realized that my backpack was heavy, so I took it off and threw it onto a chair. This process continued until many of my belongings were in the lobby, rather than in my designated room. “After all”, I thought, “It’s more convenient for me”. This inevitably resulted in frustration among the other patrons of the hotel. Likewise, my code strewn recklessly in the primary file disrupted the rest of the team.
Through this experience, I learned the value of teamwork. My prior experience and a classic approach to software both told me that centralizing code is most efficient. This implies that functionality is valued over readability. The folly of this mindset was illustrated by Randall Munroe’s comic of a mathematician’s analysis of love. After a series of failed attempts involving algebra and trigonometry, he exclaims, “My normal approach is useless here.” Like love, working in a team is based on more than raw technical analysis. It involves consideration of others’ interests. Therefore, writing code for my personal convenience inconveniences the team.
Eventually, I realized this mistake. I moved my code to a separate file, so other programmers could test in the primary file while still having access to my work. In general, my original design was modified to connect with those of others, opening up lines of communications between sections of code. This past year’s experiences taught me the importance of teamwork. When I “turn pro” after college, I will keep this lesson close to my heart.
_________
This was one of the essays included in my AP English Final Portfolio. Today, I submitted it to the "This I Believe" essay contest. I enjoyed writing it so I decided to upload it.
This past year, I was assigned to write software, or a set of instructions that the robot follows, for a camera. This would be used to establish a video stream between the robot and the drivers. After reviewing documentation, I began work, placing my initial code within the primary file to test the camera’s functionality. Soon, however, I began adding more instructions, like driving forward. Because the code made sense to me, I did not leave notes explaining my work. What initially was a simple comment turned into hundreds of lines of indecipherable code.
This proved troublesome for the rest of the team. In order to perform their own testing, other programmers had to sift through the tangled mess I left behind. Also, the adult advisors had to read each line of my code to understand my overall intention. Imagine a hotel. After entering its lobby, I decided that it was too warm, so I took off my sweatshirt and left it on the floor. The following day, I realized that my backpack was heavy, so I took it off and threw it onto a chair. This process continued until many of my belongings were in the lobby, rather than in my designated room. “After all”, I thought, “It’s more convenient for me”. This inevitably resulted in frustration among the other patrons of the hotel. Likewise, my code strewn recklessly in the primary file disrupted the rest of the team.
Through this experience, I learned the value of teamwork. My prior experience and a classic approach to software both told me that centralizing code is most efficient. This implies that functionality is valued over readability. The folly of this mindset was illustrated by Randall Munroe’s comic of a mathematician’s analysis of love. After a series of failed attempts involving algebra and trigonometry, he exclaims, “My normal approach is useless here.” Like love, working in a team is based on more than raw technical analysis. It involves consideration of others’ interests. Therefore, writing code for my personal convenience inconveniences the team.
Eventually, I realized this mistake. I moved my code to a separate file, so other programmers could test in the primary file while still having access to my work. In general, my original design was modified to connect with those of others, opening up lines of communications between sections of code. This past year’s experiences taught me the importance of teamwork. When I “turn pro” after college, I will keep this lesson close to my heart.
_________
This was one of the essays included in my AP English Final Portfolio. Today, I submitted it to the "This I Believe" essay contest. I enjoyed writing it so I decided to upload it.
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