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Walk Emily Home

Good people admit when they don’t know things, and then they do something about it.

It’s December 2007, and I’m sitting in the outdoor patio of a family-style restaurant in San Diego, California with a few of my friends.

I ask my friend, “Why do we come here?” and she answers, “It’s cheap.” By “cheap,” she must not mean “inexpensive.” Fifteen dollars is quite a bit to pay per person, even if my entrée comes with a side of entrée. So she must mean “cheap” in the sense that it’s informal and unpolished, loose and unassuming. It’s the kind of restaurant where an army of waiters will sing to you if you order the “ridiculous platter.” It’s the kind of place where men don’t wear sleeves, where children wear pajamas and women don’t wear shoes. For some reason, there are balloons everywhere. I have to remind myself that I’m fun when I want to be.

About the time our check comes, (covered in glitter) the couple at the next table appears to be in some sort of argument. They can’t agree upon the starting date of the American Civil War. The girl swears it was in the 1860s, but her date insists it began sometime in the 1930s.

I’m recalling this now, because, Monday, a new flag was unveiled to the world: six white stars above a strangely-shaped country that looks a lot like an upside-down Lone Star state. No, The People’s Republic of Texas hasn’t seceded. The newest country on earth is Kosovo, and I realize, sitting here writing this, that I know precious little about Kosovo. Probably even less than that sleeveless San Diegan knew about the Civil War.

Actually, that might not be true. When I was in ninth grade I did a report on the 1999 Kosovo War. I remember something about Slobodan Milosevic. Something about Vojislav Kostunica. I remember how some refugees fled Eastern Europe to come to my hometown. One in particular, went to my high school. He was a cool guy. He had long hair.

But here I am, eight years later, willfully ignorant about something that promises to be pretty important in the coming weeks. A quick scan of the Internet confirms this. The United States has already recognized the 24 hour-old country, Russia’s already pissed, the E.U. doesn’t know how it feels, and Serbia has recalled its ambassadors from Washington.

I’m embarrassed because I don’t know more.

Two weeks ago, I wrote about growing apathy toward violence in the world, but it’s possible my point was too narrow. Forget violence — maybe we’re just apathetic toward the rest of the world in general. On the whole, we don’t know much about Eastern European issues. On the whole, we know a lot less about Pakistan’s election than we should. On the whole, we don’t know squat about South America, or what the United States has done down there in the past 200 years. On the whole, we don’t know enough about why Sunnis and Shia shoot each other. We don’t even know the rules of Cricket — a game over which one-sixth of the world annually prepares to go to war.

Now, I know there’s someone reading this who is a qualified expert on all of the things I just listed. It’s difficult to imagine an example we know nothing about. My examples aren’t the point, though. What I’m getting at is, we just don’t demand enough of ourselves and each other. Sure, we’re all bored to tears by the clichéd stereotype of the lethargic American youth, but, honestly, where’s our outrage at that image? What do we each do to prove it false? We all know, or should know, how lucky we are to live in a society where news is freely disseminated, so why do we remain blissfully unaware of things people in other cultures are dying — literally dying — to find out?

My favorite activity in high school was Academic League. The League consisted of high school teams competing against each other in contests of trivia. Sure it was nerdy, sure I took it more seriously than I should have, but at the end of practices, I always felt like I had learned important things. It wasn’t ever a smug sense of superiority, it was a sense of satisfaction that my personal pool of knowledge, though shallow, was at least broad.

But since high school, as I’ve gotten older and long-past voting age, the world has become more complicated. Suddenly faced with the power to do something about the world, to help heal what ails places other than the U.S., I, like so many others find myself retreating in resignation. Someone else will take care of it, I sometimes think. With a thesis, prelims and deadlines, Kosovo seems so far away.

If it were REALLY important, wouldn’t our parents have done something about it?

And then I think about how great trivia night is at Ruloff’s, and how much fun everyone has playing Trivial Pursuit in Collegetown apartments. I remember that we’re at Cornell because at some point we decided it was cool to know stuff. I then remember that it’s easy to learn things — you just have to ask someone who knows. Forget about checking the Internet, why not ask the faculty in person? Or try asking even fellow students who have taken a course on whatever topic rears its ugly head?

As we continue to ask the right questions of our experts we’ll find ourselves concerned about things we didn’t know we should be concerned about, and suddenly, hopefully, apathy will slink away, to be replaced by a sense of world-saving immediacy that lights the fire under our asses. First comes outrage, then comes progress.

Sweet Jesus! Why hasn’t Obama laid out a plan for the pacification of Basque rebels!? And just what the hell does McCain plan to do about endangered Kiwis?

Noah Hy Brozinsky is a senior in the College of Arts and Sciences. He can be contacted at nbrozinsky@cornellsun.com. Walk Emily Home appears alternate Wednesdays.

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