How Important Is Money Essay Example for Free

How Important Is Money Essay To different people money is important in many ways. Money is used to do a lot, you use it to buy a house so you have somewhere to live instead of living under a bridge, you use it to keep your car running properly, and without money a lot of people wouldn’t be happy. Without money people cannot live healthy. You need money to buy food, clothing, and personal hygiene products. Some people go over bored and think that money is a necessity to have and whine up going over board and buying things non-essential to natural living. To me money is less important as long as I have enough to get food for my family, a roof over my head, clothing on my family and myself, power to my house, and gas in my car or money to ride the bus I am completely happy and that is what is important about money to me. It would be nice to have some extra here and there but as long as my family and I can survive that is all that matter. How would you pay your bills if you didn’t have money? How would sick children get the help they need without money? Both of these questions are questions that have been a big deal in my life. The answer to each is you would be able to. Even if you didn’t have money and you needed assistant that still involves someone donating the money. Money is an important aspect to everyone in this thing called life. Then again to other people money might be important in other ways. It all depends on who we are talking about when we ask the question â€Å"How important is money? † Without money we wouldn’t be able to go to school and prepare for life or get college degrees and further our educations. We wouldn’t be able to pay for medications that help heal us of any diseases or pain management. I do subscribe to the notion that money isn’t everything but I also believe that it is a major, critical facet of life today. If we can take the need for money out of our life’s equation then we will be free to live life as it’s meant to be lived but as long as it remains a means for survival nobody can tell me money isn’t important or doesn’t create an immense amount of unhappiness and stress. I think it’s very easy to say money isn’t important when you’ve got a lot of it but when you haven’t got it; it’s the most stressful part of living life. Many will argue that money is an object that, while making life a little easier, doesn’t or can’t buy happiness.

Writing Technology :: Writing Technology Technological Papers

Writing Technology One definition of writing is to form letters, words or symbols on a surface such as paper with an instrument such as a pen (www.dictionary.com). To many this is an obvious definition. We use paper, pens and pencils almost every day of our lives. It has become so much the norm that we take it for granted and don‘t give it a second thought. But in retrospect, writing can be looked at as a technology that has come a long way and that is more complex than we may know. When given the task to write 20 words or less by using something natural, I found it to be very difficult. I thought long and hard. Without using something that was created by someone such as a pen, I came up with very few ideas . Not only did I have to find the instrument to write with, but also the surface on which to write upon. What in the world around us today is truly natural? Not much is the conclusion I came to, and being as it is winter, a whole lot less with all the snow. At first I thought about using my nails and writing into a piece of fruit. However, I would have to go to the store to get a piece of fruit because of the season, and stores aren’t really natural. I really wanted to do this project with as little use of things unnatural as possible. Than I thought about doing something with fire and ashes, but I don’t know how to start a fire using only two sticks. There were plenty of matches around, but like the store, those aren’t natural either. My final choice was to use a stick to write in the snow with, since there was plenty of both around. However, I had difficulty getting a stick to break off the frozen branches of the trees. So, what I ended up choosing as my instrument was an icicle. The icicle was very cold in my hands, and very uncomfortable. I could feel it melting as I stood there thinking of what to write. So I thought quickly, and proceeded to write â€Å"hi† in the snow. I chose â€Å"hi† because it was a short greeting that is commonly known. As I etched my word into the snow, I found it very smooth to move through. At first I hadn’t written deep enough for the word to be readable, so I had to trace it over again , this time with my icicle halfway into the snow.

Life in the Orange Prison Essay

I never really liked that eerie-looking building that always stood towering over me. Its orange walls and antique framework did not give me an comfortable feeling, although my imagination of a 5 year old told me that it did try to present a fai ade of spurious geniality with those wide welcoming staircases leading to the front door and the colourful flowers skirting the yard. My inner self sent a shiver down the spine as I reluctantly followed my parents through Hell’s gates. I sincerely believed that the building, which was to be my school for the next six years, was not much better than an internment camp. So, on the first day of school, I was directed to my cell. The classroom was filled with a group of children of my size sitting on a circular carpet. The sight was peculiar – the collection of boys and girls from all over the world gathered in a room no bigger than my flat back in Hong Kong. It was like a tossed salad, with potatoes from Japan, cabbage from Australia, lettuce from Canada, tomatoes from Europe, and now there’s me – rice from China. I sat on the floor among the other fidgety bodies. In front of us sat a tall woman with blond hair and a pointy nose. She pointed at a board with apples and numbers on it and asked a question, which I identified because of the raised pitch towards the end of the phrase. Oh no, and then her watery blue eyes smiled at me. She’d chosen me! I could feel heat rushing towards my face and for a moment I thought tears would betray my composure. But I simply stared back at her; looking from the numbered apple to her face, then from her face back to the apple. â€Å"What does she want? † My gaze at her yelled for help, pleading for excuse. It wasn’t after a few weeks of continuous pointing to a new numbered apple on the board that I realized the whole thing represented a calendar. Then, it made all sense to me. Day school was not the worst part yet, because eventually I learned to speak English fluently with other students. We never had homework to do and the challenge in school was really to have fun. At first I struggled hard, as I lacked the means of communication. But eventually the language was programmed into my head and subconsciously I became a fluent English speaker. As I have mentioned, there was another part of my childhood which was even gloomier than day school. And that also took place in the very same building that I sensed to become the bane of my young carefree life. Upon arriving in Vancouver for 6 months, my mom introduced me to Chinese school. The idea baffled me. We were black haired people moving to a white skinned territory learning the yellow skinned language. Like many things that were beyond my comprehension and control, I complied with my mom’s decision. For whatever reason I was learning Chinese in Canada, I loathed the idea and did not look forward to the classes. My instincts did not lie to me. After the first 2 hours of class I was determined that I would never ever spend another minute with that old, squeaky voiced teacher, with that cheesy pictured book, and with those curvy, criss-cross, inscrutable characters. I absolutely despised Chinese. But, with as much conviction a little of girl of my size could hold, I did in the end return to that very intimidating classroom, pick up that very unattractive book, and learned those very perplexing characters. Once a week we would have dictation of the chapter we learned the previous class. The teacher would simply read out a paragraph while we tried to write down each word perfectly. To put it bluntly, we were to learn the chapter verbatim. As pointless as it may sound, it was not an easy thing for me to do. In fact, it was painful. Absolutely flesh pinching. Each night before the dictation, I’d be sitting at my crowded desk with a lamp shining precisely over my head, and staring at the jumble of words. Sitting there, I would circle all the words that I didn’t know how to write, and copy it over and over again until I could trace the word with my eyes closed. It was a tedious task for me because the chapter usually ended up with circles around every other word, if not every word. Worse yet, my mom would be sitting right next to me. With each mistake I made, either forgetting a simply word or missing a dot on the line, she would scorn at me. Of course, with that kind of chaperoning, I only became more frustrated and angry – both at myself for being dumb, and my mom for being impatient. Now, looking back I don’t blame her; it took me over one hour to learn one single paragraph. Dictation was not the toughest part of Chinese class because what I wrote and what mark I received would only remain between the teacher and me. However, reading aloud in class was a different story. It was like stripping in front of the entire class and exposing the most embarrassing flaws of my body to them for scrutiny. Whenever it was reading time, my stomach would lurch, and as each student finished his or her part, my intestines would tie yet another knot – until finally when it was my turn – my body would be so tangled that I could no longer work my diaphragms properly to speak. I made as little noise as possible, thinking that if I spoke quiet enough the teacher would condone my mistakes and let me pass. However, the teacher was not easily satisfied; she made me read again, this time only louder. Protruding my voice in front of the class was as hard as asking a five year old to lift a 50 pound dumbbell. My hands became clammy and I felt as if a furnace was working inside me. I could imagine other students seeing lucent flames embodying me. Once the teacher asked me to stop, the relief was indescribable – everything seemed to stop, the flames ceased to burn me and nothing else around me mattered anymore. I was done reading; I was out of the spotlight. My aversion for Chinese school never alleviated. As the paragraphs in the chapters grew longer and the characters more complex, my understanding of the language only became more dubious. I was like a defeated salmon that could not swim against the current and as a result was pushed backwards. But a lucky salmon I was, a savior from my class rescued me. Her name was Katy. Each time we received our dictation marks, I would be grateful if hers was less than 20 marks higher than mine. As the older girl, she was very bossy in front of me. And I, always been the submissive one, yielded to her, but I did not mind because I thought what I got in return was worth it. Katy helped me with my Chinese homework. She would help me copy those hand killing notes, and during dictation she would peek at what I didn’t get and write the answer on a scrap piece of paper and inconspicuously nudge it over. I was indebted to her. As life in that confinement became easier, an unsettling sense of guilt started to stir inside me. Once every year, the Chinese school principle would organize a dinner party at the school cafeteria. There were lots of fun at those parties; there was a magician pulling ribbons from hat, gift exchanges between anonymous people, long tables of homemade spaghetti, chicken wings, sausages, cookies, and pudding. However, no matter how hard I tried, I could never fully enjoy myself at the party. Throughout the party I would be worrying about the closing speech that the principle would make. I was tormented by the fear that he might expose my cheating to my fellow classmates and most importantly, to my mom. A part of me really anticipated this humiliation or devastation. Each time the principle spoke my stomach flinched as a natural reflex, but of course, not once did he mention my name or the notion of cheating on tests. Call me gullible, nai ve or whatever you want, but that instinctive feeling of being exposed really haunted me. At the end of the six years spent in Van Horne Elementary School, now head overlooking other heads, voice overcoming other voices, I once again stepped through the gates of Hell. Only this time, I stepped into the blinding sunlight and the honking of cars. I no longer felt the building towering over me.

The secret to success of East Asian economies Essay examples

Since the end of the second world war, many East Asian economies have seen a â€Å"miraculous† growth. And with so many other nations still in poverty, economists and leaders are turning their eyes towards the â€Å"East Asian tigers† to see if they can replicate their results. When looking at the facts it is obvious that the the circumstances facing the East Asian nations were quite different than the ones that nations face today. But outside of these differences a loose model of the East Asian miracle can be utilized in Third World nations today and, considering the high success rate of so many of the East Asian economies, would most likely see positive results. The secret to success of East Asian economies is the hand that the government has†¦show more content†¦This means that neither the pursuit of private profit for monopoly capitalists, nor the political agendas of big parties get in the way of the economic progress of the nations. This form of policy ca n only exist under a socialist-type state, where everything is centralized. The antitype of this would be again the Latin American economies where both dominant and lower classes pressure the government leading to a political equilibrium which translates into a stagnant economy (Kay, 2002:p.1086). As much as can be learned from the East Asian tigers, there are also a few particular factors without which these nations may not be where they are. One major factor to the growth of East Asian economies would be the Cold War and the fight against communism. Americas preoccupation with the USSR and the Korean War made it possible for Capitalist Asian countries, specifically Japan, to both promote and camouflage their own growth while manipulating the USA (Woo-Cummings,1999:p.55-56). Institutions such as the World Bank have attempted at â€Å"force-feeding† the same approaches throughout third world nations (Amsden, 1994:p.628). 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