The Psychology of a Data Sheet

         I opened my Psychology book to page 483 today to embark on my "Psychological Disorders" reading. After learning learning about Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, Attention Deficit Hyperactive Disorder, Depression, Schizophrenia, and a host of other disorders, I began to think back to One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. The institutionalized patients suffered from a variety of psychological disorders. Then, I realized that I, concernedly, display the symptoms of a few of these disorders as well, the night before one of our "Infamous Data Sheets" must be turned in. It all starts around 3:30 pm...
       3:32 p.m: I have been sitting at the computer since 3:30. A whole two minutes. Enough time for me to type "Literary Techniques." The fact that I am only typing "Literary Techniques" is a bit concerning to say the least. I get up from my chair and leave the den. The television catches my eye. Suddenly, I go from eating a snack, to running on the treadmill, to doing my Biology homework, to stopping mid- Bio to do Psychology, then abandoning Psychology to return to the computer to check Facebook. While doing so, I am unable to sit down and focus for longer than five minute time spans. Potential Attention Deficit Hyperactive Disorder?
     9:00 p.m.: Thankfully, I am now well into my Data Sheet. Typically around "Significance of Opening Chapter." At this point in the night, I will myself to stay seated at the computer, NOT leaving Microsoft Word. I just keep adding on those page numbers, every new page scrolling to the beginning of my Data Sheet to be sure I have not messed up the order at all. Every two minutes, I press "Ctrl S" to make sure that I save my coveted Data Sheet. I proceed to find a small, fixable error in my work, such as two examples of a literary technique instead of three. Panic ensues. I frantically flip through the book and my notes to find a third example. Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, anyone?
      1:00 p.m.: (Approximately) I am approaching the printing and turnitin.com stages of the Data Sheet process. I start to think of my day tomorrow at school. Oh wait, it is tomorrow. I realize that I should probably go to bed now. My head  hurts. 'Could it be,' I think to myself, 'That I am getting sick?' I now fear that I am coming down with an illness related to sleep deprivation. I show symptoms of Hypochondria, as I am simply tired. On the other hand, I convince myself that I am going to wake up in the morning, too ill to attend school...and most importantly turn in my Data Sheet!
         After completing two whole Data Sheets, I can handle anything else that comes my way.

An Unaccepting Fan

        In conjunction to One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, we have been discussing the unaccepting nature of society. Through reading such powerful works, we enable ourselves to look beyond our own perceptions of the world around us. I am a huge Cleveland Cavaliers fan. Sometimes my extreme fanaticism does not work in my favor. I tend to display an unprecedented amount of hostility towards those who do not support the Cleveland Cavaliers. After learning about the importance of accepting those different than ourselves through our AP English reading endeavours, I should be able accept the non- believers. On the other hand, I have not yet proved my ability to do so. This realization that I have come to, that I do not possess the ability to remain composed and cordial around the Cavs haters, just surfaced this Winter Break. It all started when Uncle Steve came into town from Pennsylvania. Let me tell you, Uncle Steve is a Boston Celtics fan. Obviously, I have a problem with it. At my grandparents house a few days ago, the intent of the gathering was to enjoy the family togetherness around the holidays. I did not enjoy sitting next to Uncle Steve at dinner, while he rambled on and on about the Celtics WONDERFUL season. A Cavs- Celtics Fight ensued. I dished the Celts, and Uncle Steve dished the Cavs... but mostly I dished the Celtics. Ironically, the next day at tennis, another Cavs argument ensued. Yes, I was in the midst of it once again. My tennis coach, a non-believer, made a disparaging  remark about the Cavaliers. Of course, my Cavs fanatic instincts kicked in, and I walked right over to defend my team.  I argued about the Cavs more than I played tennis that day.  I think I need to take a temporary break from the Cleveland Cavaliers until I can exercise enough self- control to constructively discuss sports with others. I now realize, after our extensive discussions in AP English, that I need to accept those who do not root for the Cavs.  I often look to convert my peers to into crazy Cavs fanatics, like myself. After this epiphany of mine, I promise to respect others for their support of sports teams besides the Cavs.

Societal Flaws

       Upon reading that McMurphy underwent a lobotomy, and eventually strangulation, I felt a bit of sadness and disappointment. Towards the end of Ken Kesey's One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, I envisioned McMurphy storming out the front doors of the institution with Bromden, Harding, Bibbit, and Scanlon in tow. My picture perfect ending would not lend to the meaning of the novel, nor solidify one of the implications I believe Kesey makes. Through the strangulation of McMurphy, a result of the lobotomy, I believe that Kesey reveals the injustices people face when they fight against societal norms. After he rebels against the strict regime of Nurse Ratched, McMurphy winds up in the Disturbed Ward for a lobotomy: MCMURPHY, RANDLE P. POST- OPERATIVE...LOBOTOMY"(321). Kesey creates an element of situational irony, as McMurphy receives a life-altering,and potentially life-ending procedure, for attempting to help the patients gain respect. Though Bromden ultimately causes McMurphy's death, the lobotomy motivates him to put McMurphy out of his misery. Therefore, I believe that Kesey strongly and effectively criticizes the government for approving such procedures, and members of society for advocating and performing them. Interestingly, Kesey's life ends up differently than McMurphy's, though I believe they possess many similarities. Both men looked to curb societal conformity, and did so in a bold manner.  McMurphy attacked Nurse Ratched and broke the rules of the ward, while Kesey and his Merry Pranksters openly used illegal drugs. Kesey ends up serving a couple of years in jail,eventually forced to settle down . McMurphy undergoes a procedure that disables him from functioning properly, and then dies. Both men's lives end at different extremes. These two extremes help to show that there is no winning against the powerful societal norms, whether they are right or wrong, just or unjust. If Kesey did not end the novel with McMurphy's death, he would fail to show the true reality of the brave people who fight the wrath of a disapproving society.

Snowed In: The Side-Effects of Cabin Fever

        I have not left the house for three days now. I am becoming a recluse. My humble abode does not at all resemble an asylum, or the mental institute in One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. On the other hand, staying pent up for the past three days has helped me to better understand how the patients could experience a severe change in behavior after remaining in the ward for an extended period of time. We do not carry out lobotomies here at my house, or any other medical procedures for that matter. Nonetheless, I have displayed many uncharacteristic behaviors after hiding from the snow for the past 72 hours.  
    First, I found myself cleaning my very own closet yesterday afternoon. My family refers to it as "Hurricane Katrina," as there are usually clothes strewn every which way. I trudge through a mountain of clothes in the morning when getting ready for school. I never clean my closet. I just wait until my mother can not take it any more, and begrudgingly cleans it herself. But not yesterday. I do not know what possessed me, but I actually cleaned my own closet. I am convinced that this out-of-body experience was a side-effect of cabin fever.
      Next, I started to read a book...leisurely. What? Soon after delving into Jodi Picoult's Plain Truth, I thought to myself, 'Sarah, what are you doing? Reading for fun?' As an AP English 12 student, I shamefully admit to my lack of leisurely reading. By Monday morning, desperation kicked in. The last time I'd stepped out into the open air had been Saturday. My eyes could not watch another minute of MTV. Therefore, I ventured over to the bookshelf and picked out a piece of quality literature. Once again, a rare occurrence.
      The things we resort to when we find ourselves snowed inside the house. I am not at all saying that most people are up in their closets folding and hanging clothes to overcome extreme boredom. Furthermore, I am not at all implying that my temporary indoor captivity at all measures up to that of the patients in the novel. I am just acknowledging the fact that I understand how the Chronics and other severe patients can no longer reenter into society. Not seeing the light of day for a long period of time can cause people to change and adopt new ways of living.       

The image above accurately represents the visibilty level out my window for the past three days.

Kids Menu

     As we read further into One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, I find myself continuously empathizing with the characters. After making that statement, I would like to clarify that I do not currently suffer from any mental and/or emotional disorders. Throughout the course of the novel, all of the patients at the institution are treated like babies, and looked down upon. The way in which Nurse Ratched talks to them greatly resembles the way in which my mother talked to me...before I knew how to walk. I feel as if teenagers, including myself, often encounter such treatment when they venture to various public places such as the mall, or a restaurant.
        Just because 89% of teenagers in America are friends with an individual who they know shoplifts, it does NOT mean I am a shoplifter. At the mall last weekend, a Dillards employee followed me around the entire store, leaving my side when I walked out the department store doors. Yes, I could see this woman staring at me through a rack of jeans.My mother sent me off to the mall as a fully capable 17 year old. Why did this women feel the need to follow me around Dillards? I do not think my black northface jacket and a pair of jeans elicited a suspicious look. Though some of the patients in One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest suffer from severe mental/emotional disorders, the Acutes and McMurphy seem perfectly capable of carrying out normal daily functions without blowing up the ward. Yet, they are monitored while brushing their teeth? Like these patients, teenagers, in particular me at Dillards, deal with many unreasonable people and unjust situations.
       Along with being stalked by a Dillards employee for an hour, I experienced a situation similar to the patients in the ward on vacation last summer. The waitress at dinner brought me a kids menu. I was 17 years old at the time, and last time I checked I do not look like a 12 and under. Then, she proceeded to call me "honey" for the duration of the meal, and brought me a drink in a kiddy cup. She also asked me if I wanted a refill, and then checked with my mom to see if it was alright. (sidenote: this woman looked to be in her mid- twenties, just a few years older than I) I was mildly embarassed, and felt a bit degraded after going for dinner at that resturant. Therefore, I can empathize with the patients, as Nurse Ratched treats them like children. She speaks down to them as this waitress did to me. I noticed a drop in my self- esteem after that night.I am sure that Nurse Ratched is not doing the patients any favors by treating them like petulant children. I hope to never experience a similar situation. Likewise, I am sure some of the patients feel disrespected by Nurse Ratched's condescending manner.

Apparently the Dillards employee percieved me as this kind of person...

     

Trust Issues

       In class today, we got all caught up in our trust issues with Chief Bromden and his narration of the novel. Though Ms. Serensky told us to "move on," I can not yet move on. I would like to bring to your attention a particular moment in the text in which we did not pinpoint in class today. After his delusional episode of sorts, Bromden acknowledges the oddness of his experience: "I think about jumping up and running around and waking up McMurphy and Harding...but there wouldn't be any sense in it. If I shook somebody awake he'd say, You crazy idiot, what the hell's eating you?"(88).  Kesey indirectly characterizes Bromden as aware, as he acknowledges the strange reactions he would get if he were to share his experience with others. If Kesey's intent was to create a completely unstable and untrustworthy narrator, he would not insert moments of Bromden's rational thinking into the work. I believe that if Bromden can accurately assess the reactions he will get from the bizarre episode and/or dream he experiences, he proves his ability to sufficiently describe the happenings around him as a narrator.
       As I am writing this entry, I am suddenly reminded of an unfortunate event that occurred in the Ross Garage a few weeks ago. I crashed my mother's car, taking off two car doors. Since this incident, my parents do not trust me behind the wheel (with reason of course, as I have hit the mailbox three times, attempted to back out when the garage door was closed, and hit the refrigerator in the garage, sending the refrigerator into the house and subsequently denting the garage wall). Along with the driving , my parents question my ability to carry out various other tasks, unrelated to driving, since the accident. For example, my ability to clear my plate from the dinner table. I am told to "Carry your dish with both hands," or "Don't drop it." Therefore, I recognize that an event such as Bromden's exotic dream/delusion may cause us to question him and his stability as the narrator. Bromden's episode seemed quite strange, as did the fact that I managed to take off two car doors after "tapping" the garage. On the other hand, this does not make me incapable of completing simple tasks, and Bromden of credible narration.


...I won't be crashing into the garage again anytime soon.

Another Definition of Insanity

Though our mid-week discussion of insanity is well over, I would like to present another definition of insanity. No, it is not from dictionary.com, the dictionary, or any other reliable source.

In-san-i-ty
[in- san-i-tee]
-noun, plural 

1. The Cavs- Heat Game Thursday night

         As I sat at the game, watching the Cavs slowly sink into a 40 point deficit, I also watched the craziest of fans emerge from the crowd and make themselves known. Many incidents took place at The Q that night, and I am not referring to the horrible game of every single Cavs player. I may lobby for a March 29th field trip to the Cavs- Heat game, as it could help us to better understand true insanity before our AP Exam in May. I would like to detail some of the events that took place, some literally right in front of my eyes, that led me to believe, 'this is insanity at its best.'
   
       With about 9:00 left in the third quarter, a man comes charging up from the floor boxes to section 100, my section. He points a finger at the man two seats down from me, signaling for him to come over. This man looked slightly deranged, with his eyes popping out of his head. 'Great, just feet away from  me a deranged man stands, trying to start a fight,' I thought. Yes, a fight did ensue. I crouched under my seat to seek safety. Eventually, security rushed the scene and broke up the fight.
   
       About ten minutes after coming out from under my seat, a burst of noise came from the neighboring section. I looked over, only to spot a man punching a security guard in the face. 'Great,' I thought. This fight lasted five whole minutes, as security guards attempted to tame the unruly fans. 'Time to go now...this is insane,' I thought.

       No, the insanity did not end after the two fights I witnessed. And who knows, more fights probably ensued on the other end of the arena. Suddenly, commotion starts behind me. I fear to twist my head around, but I do. Yes indeed, there is a man standing on the ledge of the upper level section above my own waving around a Miami Heat jersey. Fans throw beer cups, shoes, and game towels at him. All of which landed a few rows behind me. 'Time to get out of here,' I thought. Needless to say, we left after that spectacle.

    If that is not insanity, I do not know what is. Maybe I should not lobby for a field trip after divulging the preceding personal accounts. Though I feared my safety many times during the game, I am glad that I attended. Along with booing LeBron, I found another real world connection to English class. I will most likely watch the next game in the comfort of my own home.

New Book Day

In AP English we complete 25 page data sheets, write 5 paragraph essays in 30 minutes, and have graded discussions most days of the week. Surprisingly, the day we have to bring in money for a new book always seems to cause me as much worry, if not more, than data sheets, essays, and discussions. Things start to get a little stressful the night before when I go home and ask for $11.50 or $8.50 exact change. First, I just go straight to my mom's wallet to get the money, but she never has the correct change.  This means I actually have to ask her if she has $8.50 exact change. Then, she proceeds to get mad at me and tells me how irresponsible I am for telling her the night before I need it, and wants to know how long I've known I needed the money ...and so on. Actually, for The Namesake, I told her the morning of, and she had to go out in the early hours of the morning to break a 20 dollar bill. I am a little nervous to ask her for $8.50 tonight.

Along with the fact that I leave everything to the last second and I am always scrambling around the night before, or the morning of to get the exact change, I always seem to temporarily lose the money throughout the day. I zip it in one pocket of my backpack to make sure I do not lose it, and then forget where I put it. Or I will just nonchalantly toss it in my backpack and it will get buried under all of the papers and pencils, which I also just toss in there. Thankfully, the money never permanently disappears, and I am able to recover it before going into a complete panic.

Also, I find bringing the money to Ms. Serensky's desk to be a bit stressful. I always have this irrational fear that I will trip over my own two feet on the way up and embarrass myself in front of the whole class. Last time, I successfully made it up without tripping, and then forgot to get a book! Thankfully, Kaleigh O'Hara noticed I did not get a book last time, and kindly reminded me to get one. I never know whether to say "hi," or "thank you," or "here's my money," or just smile... or just keep the serious face I already have on and just turn in the money. I guess I should worry more about actually taking a book. I hope all goes well tomorrow, and that I successfully obtain the exact change needed, keep track of my money throughout the day, and do not do anything embarassing when turning it in.

Mustache, Or No Mustache?

This afternoon, I spent about an hour searching Google Images for a picture of teenage Moushumi. I could not find a single picture, which was a bit disappointing, as I wanted to post one along with my blog entry. I guess it is better without adolescent Moushumi. I would hate for my blog to make your eyeballs fall out of their sockets. In fact, I wish the filmmakers could have given us a little heads up about Moushumi. The following film is rated PG-13 for:  drug use, brief language, disturbing images, and Moushumi. Along with Moushumi, I found many aspects of the film The Namesake to be quite eye-opening.

TOP 10 EYE-OPENING MOMENTS OF THE FILM THE NAMESAKE:

1. The face that we got a short glimpse of when Ms. Serensky turned on the movie for the first time. After that preview, I feared what was to come...

2. Teenage Gogol: After looking at him for the first time, I felt a bit of shock. I could not quite pinpoint why Gogol struck me as so odd looking. Then, Katie Connolly pointed out: "He's 35! You can't just give him long, greasy hair and say he's a teenager." That was it.

3. MOUSHUMI: Is it just me, or does she have a slight mustache?

4. The sudden transformation of Gogol from adolescence to adulthood. I feared Gogol would never cut and comb his hair. That he would be walking the streets of New York City as an adult with a knee-long hair. It seemed to be past his shoulders already when he graduated from high school, so it was getting there...

5.  Ashima's Breakfast: Maybe it tasted better than it looked.

6. Gogol and Moushumi's Wedding: I have never seen a Bengali wedding before, so it was a bit of a shock when all of the people at the wedding were jumping up and down and sticking out their tongues.

7. Gogol's hair style: Obviously a fan of the tousled look.

8. The number of lines in the film that are a different variation of "hmm." When Maxine greets Ashima, she says "hmm." When Ashoke gives Gogol his graduation gift, he says "hmmm." Many different variations of "hmm" seem to appear in the subtitles, including the "hm" with one m, the "hmm" with two m's, and the "hmmm" with three or more m's. Exciting dialogue, huh?

9. Gogol's reaction to the Taj Mahal. I never knew visiting the Taj Mahal elicited such strange facial expressions. But then again, I have never visited the Taj Mahal, so I would not know.

10. Sonia's high school wardrobe: I happened to notice Sonia's eclectic wardrobe during the film, though Gogol's long hair seemed to steal the show.

I don't quite know why, but the strangest of films seem to entertain me the most. I do not know how much more my eyes can handle the sight of adolescent Moushumi, so I might not watch the movie ever again. On the other hand, I appreciate the laughter it has brought me over the past three days.

Put Yourself in Their Shoes

For the second night in a row, I find myself blogging about the class discussion. After hearing many opposing thoughts about Ashima and her assimilation into the American culture, I began to form my own opinion on the controversial matter. I acknowledge the fact that Ashima's acceptance of the American culture took quite a while, maybe even 30 years too long. On the other hand, Americans are not the most accepting bunch either. Take for example Judy, Ashima's neighbor, disapproving of her decision to give birth at a hospital. Since when do people just head on over to their neighbor's house to criticize the delivery of their child? In my neighborhood, we don't do such things.  Therefore, I believe we should put ourselves into Ashima's shoes before we assert opinions in regards to her assimilation into the American culture. I am not saying we should all show up to school one day wearing a sari, because that would be slightly offensive. But we should all think back to a time when we felt slightly out of place. I can think of many moments myself, all of which I would not like to relive anytime soon. I understand Ashima and her hesitation to incorporate the American culture into her life, as she finds it hard to express herself among such different people for a long time. It seemed as if she would never embrace the American way of life. Then, it seemed as if suddenly, she did. Rather than feeling happiness and pride, many people felt frustration, while thinking 'it only took you 32 years.' Though maybe 32 years is quite a bit of time, think about if you were in Ashima's situation. Imagine getting married to someone you hardly know, then hearing that you will be moving to a foreign country for their job. Sounds exciting to me. The furthest place I have traveled from home is Disney World. Therefore, I can not empathize with Ashima and her long-term seperation from home. I can only sympathize with her when I consider the circumstances of her life after her marriage to Ashoke. Ashima took many years to appreciate the American way of life, but I can not bring myself to fault her, as she overcomes so much conflict with herself and the American way of life. Can you?

Ignorance Is Bliss

As I walked out of the classroom after the bell rang, not after the announcements, our discussion about Gogol's passiveness still lingered in my mind. It remained as I drove home from school, and as I started my Biology homework. Therefore, I decided I should probably just stop everything and  blog. So I did. I empathize with Gogol and his passiveness, as I recently experienced a similar situation, though it did not involve marriage complications. A couple of weeks ago at tennis states, we faced a five-time state championship team. Like Gogol, who feels scared to confront Moushumi about the potential marriage issues, I felt scared to find out the potential issues I might face against my opponent. When other people on my team were discovering that their opponents were ranked third in the nation, and state finalists, I was clearly not unearthing anything of the sorts. In the back of my head, I had a bad feeling about this girl, a bad feeling that she was pretty good. On the other hand, like Gogol, I did not want to hear it. I made the decision to be a little bit ignorant at that time in my life. When I got on the court, I looked over to find that my opponent fell within the 4'8 to 4'9 range, and I thought 'she's shorter than the net, I can beat her!' Yes, I realize the meanness of my thought. My presumptuousness did me no good, as shortie hit winners left and right...and annihilated me. Obviously, I felt extremely upset. Extremely similar to Gogol's situation, I knew that my opponent might be great, but I just did not want to know that losing might be in the cards. Before the match, life was good. After the loss, life was not so good. Therefore, I believe that ignorance is bliss in some cases, in particular my experience at states, as I only felt happiness and excitement before I found out that my opponent was a machine. Obviously, a tennis match does not greatly compare to a marriage. On the other hand, my experience at an important competition lead me to understand Gogol and his fear of confronting Moushumi in regards to their marriage. In Chapter 12, Moushumi might do to Gogol what shortie did to me.

Why?

I would like to expand upon our class discussion, as we talked about the importance of a woman changing their name upon getting married. As I sat in class listening to numerous people talk of the respect that a name change signifies in a marriage, I wondered why the wife changes her name, rather than the husband. I found that the tradition is derived from Biblical history. Though I value the Biblical roots of the tradition, I do not agree with the modern application it. Today, women hold equal, if not superior jobs to that of their husband. Women, along with their husbands, possess bank accounts, credit cards, insurances, and passports, which require change if they choose to assume their husbands name after marriage. A husband does not just pop a ring on his wives finger and her name changes. The woman must go through a legal process in order to change her last name. Why is it only the woman who goes through all of the work to change their name? Many women already establish themselves through their maiden names, as Moushumi Mazoomdar does in Jhumpa Lahiri's The Namesake: "Besides, she [Moushumi] has begun to publish under Moushumi Mazoomdar"(227). Similar to Moushumi in The Namesake, many women establish their career previous to their marriage. Why should they, rather than their husband, have to go through the work of changing their name and causing potential confusion in regards to their career? Though Moushumi keeps her last name for career reasons, it seems as if this decision causes an unwarranted sense of complete independence from Gogol. Moushumi, after her marriage with Gogol, chooses to see Dimitri, an acquaintance, behind Gogol's back: "They begin seeing each other Mondays and Wednesdays"(263). Lahiri creates an unexpected twist to the plot, revealing the lack of respect that some women hold towards their wives. I agree with Lahiri, as I obviously do not condone infidelity. On the other hand, I do not believe that a name change guarentees loyalty and respect in a marriage. Many couples with the same last name cheat on each other, just as couples with different last names do. The same holds true for couples that remain loyal to each other. Therefore, if a husband and a wife live happily together and remain true to each other, why is a name change necessary? And why, in this modern and changing world, do the women have to do all of the work to change their name? I believe that in this modern world we live in, some things must change!

Rossipoopoo

Throughout the course of Jhumpa Lahiri's novel The Namesake, the internal and external conflicts involving Nikhil Ganguli and his undesired pet name "Gogol" seem to repeatedly resurface.  Though I am not of Indian descent, and do not partake in Bengali cultural practices, I can empathize with the frustration Nikhil feels towards his Bengali pet name, Gogol, as many people call me Rossipoopoo, a name that I strongly dislike. Gogol suffers previous to his legal name change: " It dismays him that his parents chose the weirdest namesake" (76). Lahiri indirectly characterizes Gogol as extremely frustrated over his parents choice of name, revealing the internal conflict he struggles with in regards to the name. Personally, I can empathize with him, as out of all the possible nicknames that my friend could have derived from my name, she chose Rossipoopoo. I wonder why she chose such a weird name, and like Gogol, I feel a bit of frustration towards her, as many people have picked up on the name and permanently call me Rossipoopoo. Along with the weird name choice, Gogol faces much scrutiny due to his odd pet name, and classmates call him "Giggle"(67). Lahiri reveals the external conflict Gogol faces, as people call him "Giggles." Like Gogol, the people who unfortunately refer to me as Rossipoopoo have come up with a host embarrassing variations of Rossipoopoo. Some of these include Rossipoo and  Rossipoopoopie, all of which I find disturbing. Therefore, I once again empathize with Gogol, or Nikhil, as the variations of Rossipoopoo cause me much embarrassment, as "Giggles" does for Gogol. Though Rossipoopoo holds no significance to my father, and does not hold any significance to my culture, I feel bad for Gogol. I understand that changing his name betrays his family and culture, but I understand his decision after dealing with the dreaded Rossipoopoo for years now.