Winnie the Pooh- Lovable Bear or Dangerous Outlaw?

When I was in first grade, my brother was invited to a birthday party. The party was to take place at a Western-themed amusement park called "Rawhide." Because my mom was asked to help chaperone twenty kindergartners riddled with ADHD, she got a little something in return: I got to go with her.

And I loved Rawhide. I was also in a phase where I was infatuated with all things Disney; most notably, Winnie the Pooh.

So we went. The party went surprisingly well, for a kindergarten party. We panned for gold, watched an old western style shoot out and ate Pizza Hut. I was making new friends and really enjoying myself. I really could not ask for anything more. The day was going so well.

Toward the end, my mom spotted a little booth. This little booth's sole purpose was to embarass people.

This was their concept: We will fake arrest someone with a fake charge. For a recovering alocholic, it might be, "You're arrested for loving booze too much," (I hope no kindergartner ever gets that title), or maybe a Star Wars nerd would be arrested for his passion toward George Lucas' cinematic tour de force.

Well, as I mentioned before, I loved Winnie the Pooh at this time. My mom connected the dots. Being a mother she did not see the embarassment potential in this situation; she just wanted to make a little homage to my secret love.

This is how it went:

We were all eating cake, when a sheriff approached the group. "Now, which one of you young cowboys is Matt Levy?" he growled. I raised my hand, unsure of what was to unfold. "Matt Levy, get up here!" he exclaimed in that raspy voice sheriffs are known for. I walked up.

The shrriff then proceeded to pull a certificate out of his holster and announced, "Matt Levy, you are under arrest for loving Winnie the Pooh too much."

Due to my naivete, I had no idea that this wasn't real. "How does the sheriff know I love Winnie the Pooh?" I thought. Then I remembered that cool kids did not love Winnie the Pooh, cool kids loved Power Rangers and Spiderman.

Before I could deny the allegations that this was untrue and they must have the wrong Matt Levy, all of the other kids started laughing. Even the sheriff was snickering. It was truly an awful moment in my childhood.

Moms snapped pictures of me on disposable cameras (an age before digital cameras, mind you) and my mom yelled, "Pose with the sheriff!"

So we posed. On the car ride back, I told her how humiliated I was. "Oh," she said. "It looked like you were having fun."

Religionism

Mother: Judaism is carried through the woman and you know that. You will marry a nice Jewish girl.

Son: But what if I love someone who isn't Jewish?

Mother: Well, I'd be pretty disappointed.

Son: But you're not even religious...

Mother: I know I'm not religious! But that's just the way it is, OK? I married a Jew and things turned out pretty nicely didn't they? You'll do the same, that's that. Now will you grab the pork from the freezer we're having tonight?

I Am A Winner.

In a society that is notorious for it's obsession with success, and is more famous for it's defeats, there are some ways to easily identify who the winners are as opposed to America's plentiful array of losers. A few simple ways to distinguish between winner and loser include: The top 8 on various friend networking websites, income levels, and the dreaded push up competition in Physical Education classes which separate the beautiful people from the fatties/ weaklings. The three aforementioned scenarios clearly distinguish between winners and losers in every way. However, nothing shows who the real winners/ losers are in a more effective and simple fashion than the college admissions process.


Ok. You grow up. Life is hard. Boo hoo. Toughen up, babies. By the time you reach seventeen, your nebbish educators are all up in your George Foreman (slang for "grill") about your precious admission into a university. The parents start looking at their little winner/loser with fear in their eyes. "What if my little fatty can't produce and maintain a comfortable enough income for me to have a ridiculously lush life after 65?" Mom and dad scramble. Mom and dad begin signing you up for SAT practice courses and for other various procedures that will ensure little fatty's entrance into a university. And think. This is every little fatty the United States of America has to offer. The competition is as steep as a large ice cream cone. Now little fatty has to succeed for his/her teachers, mom, dad and beat all of the other little fatties. How does one fatty do this?


Well, quite easily. All one has to do is waste their fruitful years of youth cramming for standardized tests that will, if anything, lessen your brain power. The one exam that ultimately determines if you're Harvard material or bound for Massage College is the SAT. Four hours of standardized testing that will ultimately end up deciding your fate. If you do really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, well, congratulations. You sir or madam- you are a bona fide winner. Now you can go get high and relax until you go to the university and the studying cycle begins again. But congratulations on the drug habit. If you do moderately well on the SAT, you will have to fight for your entrance into college. Fatties scraping for that last piece of scholarship pie. This means writing plenty of online essays that begin with, "I'd like to change the world because..." because there's no way your parents are paying for their moderately successful fatty's tuition. These people make up most of America- the wosers. We're talking Middle America here, babies. The losers who are almost winners. When their senior year of high school rolls around, it's time to apply to a number of woser universities (ASU, U of A, NAU to name a prestigious few). Write more essays. As for the losers- they'll go to community college.


This process is ridiculous. A four hour test that tells you if you are a winner or loser almost immediately? Why can't this be done immediately? To solve this epidemic, I propose that the college admissions process become a beauty contest. Each student shall enter a room in their sexiest attire (fatties and weaklings must cover up) and the administrators will pick their incoming freshmen based solely on their beauty (sorry fatties/ weaklings/ uglies- skin deep beauty does not count). This way students can spend their fruitful years of youth not with their heads in textbooks, but in toilets. Further, we all know that the beautiful people are the winners. I have never seen an ugly person win the Miss America Pageant. College admissions should not be based on academia. Fatties and weaklings and uglies (or a combination of the three) must not get into good schools, they're not winners. Also, if there is a tie between the beautiful people (winners) into getting into the university, the ultimate decider must be a push up contest. If there is still no apparent winner, the university will call up Simon Cowell and he will personally judge them. In the event of another tie, Donald Trump will be sent in to evaluate and/ or fire them. If Trump fails, the university will send in Jeff Probst to communicate that the tribe has spoken. Once the winners are chosen, it will become apparent that the winners (the beautiful people) go to the good university. As for the wosers and losers, well, who cares about those fatties anyway? They're not sexy.

Pigs

There were three pigs. One was smart. One was stupid. One was somewhat smart. Not necessarily in that order. They were maturing. The mother pig said, Leave. The smart, stupid, and in between one moved out. Dumbfounded, they didnt know what to do. Um, the smart one said. The dumb one had an idea. Lets build a house! Since he was the leader everyone agreed. He said, Lets all build our own houses! Since he was the leader everyone agreed. He was big. He was the biggest.

The dumb one went to build his house. In the forest, he found straw. Internally, he knew it was an omen. If he had looked around the corner he would have found a mansion waiting for him. No, his omen from God didnt permit looking around corners. He put his house together quickly. His house was sloppy. At the completion of his house, the dumb pig felt pride. Yay! he shouted to the heavens.

The somewhat dumb one went to build his house. He was smart, but did not utilize his talents. Instead he liked to play computer games, doodle, and watch the cooking channel. He saw a muddy area. He set up a plan in his head (he did things quickly, mentally) and built a house of his mud that was much more stable than the dumb pigs. He only finished half of it. He decided to nap rather than finish building the house.

The smart one went to build his house. He knew his way around the town. He was polite. He got what he wanted. He wanted a bomb proof home. Naturally, he found the mansion when some locals pointed it out to him. He went inside. He fixed the house until it was to his liking. Then he sat down and ate pork chops. Little did he know, he was eating the dumb pig. Read on.

A wolf came into town. The pigs town to be exact. He was a door to door salesman. He loathed his job. He hated his profession. He despised his trade. He wanted to be a butcher. It makes good money, he said to no one in particular. He went to a straw house. He knocked on the door and started talking to the dumb pig. The wolf pitched his routine encyclopedia selling routine. The dumb pig was kind. He exchanged cliches and non witty banter with the wolf. The wolf pitied the dumb pig. His mind kept saying, It makes good money. The wolf huffed. The wolf puffed. He blew the dumb pigs house down. He butchered the pig. He was numb to the whole activity after seeing instructional butchering films. Two days later that meat was sold to the smart pig. Cest la vie.

The wolf was making good money. He was killing civilians and getting away with it. He loved his job. He had a hankering for his profession. He had an infatuation with his trade. He kept up the good work. He saw a mud house that was not completely put together. This was routine work. He knocked on the half completed, almost stable door and started talking to the slothful pig. The wolf pitched his routine encyclopedia selling routine. This pig invited the wolf in for a draft and was genuinely kind to him. This was hard. The wolf drank the beer. The wolf shared stories and had a fun time. His mind kept saying, It makes good money. The wolf huffed. The wolf puffed. He blew the intermediate level pigs house down. He butchered the pig. He was numb to the whole activity because he was drunk. He also plundered all of the alcohol. This pig was sold to his mother. Cest la vie.

The wolf was a millionaire. He refused to share his success secrets. He went into business. He went into business with the smartest pig of them all. The best tasting (He presumed) pig in the world. He would eat him himself. The smart pig suspected something. The smart pig had also become accustomed to the tenderness of wolf meat. They met at the mansion for a business meeting. Each had a fantasy that the meeting would end in a feast for one. The wolf entered, skipping his encyclopedia routine. The smart pig automatically felt uneasy. He felt that feeling. Words slipped out of his pig tongue. Hello. He said. Im the smart pig. He said. You killed my family. He killed the wolf in timely fashion. He ate the wolf in timely fashion. He was ironically satisfied. Yay, he shouted to the heavens. Cest la vie?

The Portrait Of A Sandwich Artist As A Young Man

It all started when I was much younger than I am now. And now I am at the end of my prepubescent years. So it was at the pre-prepubescent part of my life. That was when I was much younger than I am now.

My father, a man of great prestige, a man of great honor, and a man full of great sandwiches had work to attend to on a daily basis. My father was once a sandwich artist himself, but has long since retired due to a lost passion toward this unforgiving artistic medium. Father took the road that straight and narrow- not the one that took place on sliced rye. Father felt that the sandwicherie field was too difficult to break into. Father did not know he was raising a true sandwich prodigy. Yet, my father knew he was raising me. And I was that sandwich prodigy.

I was/am the Picasso of the pepperoncini, I was/am the Monet of mayonnaise, and I was/am the Da Vinci of deli mustard.

Like I said, my father was a working man. The whole 9 to 5 lifestyle. Dad needed someone to make him sandwiches for his lunch. Like I said, he had lost his passion. Like I haven't said yet, I was recruited to take on this rigorous and demanding task of making his lunch. These delicacies had to be flawless. Or the former sandwich artiste (pops) would throw a conniption fit. I slaved over his precious sourdough loaves, I practiced the proper brushstrokes of mustard for hours, I studied until I perfected immaculate placement of oven roasted turkey, I also analyzed the proper placement of the tomato slices.

"GODDAMMIT!" Father would yell, when a slice of tomato was too thick for his mature taste. Father would throw the sandwich on the ground and stomp on it. I would sob uncontrollably. Father did not appreciate my genius. My craft.

I moved out.

I was eight and three quarters years old and I had dropped out of school. I was emancipated from my father. I did all of this in order to pursue the great American dream of sandwich art.

For a short while, I attempted selling my sandwich art with a little cart on the streets of downtown Rochester to customers who were obviously undeserving of my talents. I applied for positions at Blimpies, Quiznos and a local sandwich shop called Syracuse Submarines to showcase my abilities. No one would hire a kid who was eight and three quarters years old. Not even one who was a certified eight and three quarter year old sandwich artist. Devastated, I continued wandering the streets of downtown Rochester peddling my homemade sandwiches to undeserving, unappreciative folk. I did not have a food handler's card, my methods were not sanitary, and I didn't even merit sympathy based on my age. I was a true starving artist in every sense of that ugly title. Except the starving part. I had bags full of sandwiches.

Every last dime I received from making my delectable foodstuffs went into making more sandwiches. People pitied me, the sandwich artist. They spat on me. They told me to get a real job. I wouldn't listen, I was an artist- and I had already suffered from enough criticism form my father. I continued making sandwiches, inventing new ones- some with double meatballs, some with half cheese, and so on. Experimentation is the work of a true artist.

One day my dad walked past on his way back from work. At that time, I was living on my own, in a small one room studio. I was eleven, and I was receiving praise from all the local sandwich art critics. I was making customer's requests as well as my own daring inventions. The world was hailing me as the next; well, there was never a famous sandwich artist before me.

Back to my father. I guess if I was to be the next anyone, it would be my father. He walked past my cart one day. He was famished. He had had a really rough day at the office. His shoulders drooped, and his face was exhausted and emotionless. He approached and without making any attempt at eye contact barked, "Roast beef on sourdough. Easy on the mayo, bub."

Chills ran throughout my veins. Hairs stood on end. Anxiety ran throughout my thoughts as memories of being brutally beaten by this man who demanded perfection between two slices of rye on clearance. I grabbed my easy bake toaster and mumbled, "That will be three dollars and ninety-five cents, sir. Heh."

Father reached into his pocket for his wallet and I began making the sandwich on my sourdough canvas in a mechanical, almost robot-esque fashion. This was the real critic. This was the Superbowl of sandwicherie.

I
Sliced
Each
Piece
Of
Roast
Beef
And
Cheese
With
Undeniable
Precision
And
They
All
Floated

onto the paper just like that weird formation that I crafted above. A zig zag formation, if you will. Traffic stopped. Gawkers gawked. This elven year old wunderkind was defying convention. Art lived for that brief moment, and everyone knew what art meant.

I caught each piece of roast beef on the sourdough after flipping them while zapping mustard on them midair. Father was still looking at his feet, reminiscing over what had happended at work that day. Father was completely oblivious to the genius that was happening right before him. This was my Mona Lisa. Just as I finished wrapping the sandwich up, my father looked up. My little cart was gathering heat.

Father wiped the sweat off of his brow. I wiped the wheat off of mine. He does not recognize me. "Thanks man," he said. "I haven't eaten a good sandwich in a long time."

At this point, Subway managers and Quiznos bosses were running toward me to sign this amazing novelty act, that was me. The publicity stunt, that I was. Lucrative contracts with signing bonuses were to be issued.

The gawkers who gawked happened to tell these authority figures about me in a matter of seconds, which was a bit shocking.

Dear old dad bit into the sandwich. I held my breath. The whole world stopped.

Dad spit it out. "This is shit," he cried.


Moral of the story that made no sense
Art is subjective?

Laundry Fiction

The piles are starting to multiply. There are disheveled artifacts of my wardrobe strewn all throughout this dorm room I will call home for a year.

A fading gray “I Heart NY” sweater draped on my dresser, a joke t- shirt ("Word to the Mothersip" it says) crumpled beneath my bed. And the odor is getting out of hand. Nearly everyone that walks in has an issue with the unidentifiable stench that I claim could belong to my neat roommate’s side of the room. It doesn't belong to his side of the room, it belongs to me and I know it.

Anyway, I go to do laundry. Which means I stuff every dirty piece of clothing in a bag and I have people do it for me. Whoever these people are, they are magnificent folders. I get my clothes back and hardly recognize them as my own. On the way to drop off my stinking pile of clothes, I run into a girl I once knew. It's embarassing to be carrying your laundry, so I make a joke about it when she asks about the bag.

"Yeah, this is actually a big bag of money." I say.

The conversation goes from there. This girl I once knew has a lot on her plate. She is working two jobs, taking the maximum amount of credit hours one can take and is learning how to play violin. All the while, I have people do my laundry.

Anyhow, after the mandatory small talk about her classes and my classes and people from high school and places to eat on campus and movies, I tell her that I used to be in love with her.

I know she has a boyfriend. I know. I know. I don't give a fucking shit either.

She laughs to ease the tension. I blush.

"Uh, my class starts like right now," she says as she glances at her cell phone.

My cheeks burn. I am too timid to ask if she feels the same way.

"Yeah, and I, um, have laundry to attend to," I say in a defiant, sarcastic tone in order to alleviate the intensity of what was exchanged just moments ago.

She leaves. I turn in my laundry at the drop off spot. There are a lot of other people who have their laundry done at the same place as me. I wonder if they recognize the skill and craft of the folders.

Jesus and Mohammed

(Pan to Jesus dialing on cell phone, Jesus waits. Go to split screen. Muhammad picks up. Jesus begins speaking.)

Jesus: Hey Muhammad

Muhammad: Uh, what’s up JC?

Jesus: Not much, but uh, a few of us are getting together this weekend for a little poker, maybe pizza, drinks. 10 bucks to play. You down?

Muhammad: Who’s going to be there?

Jesus: Oh you know. Buddha..

Muhammad: That jerk? Hey, how’s that whole Atkins thing working out for him?

Jesus: Ok I guess. He lost some weight. People aren’t rubbing his belly as much. Which he appreciates.

Muhammad: That’s very cool. Anyway, who else is in?

Jesus: We’ve got Joseph Smith.

Muhammad: My favorite Mormon!

Jesus: Yeah. Then there’s Gandhi.

Muhammad: Holy cow!

Jesus: Ha-ha yeah. All the other usual suspects will be there too. You know. Moses, the pope, Satan, Pete Rose. Hey God said he might show up too.

Muhammad: Allah is coming?!

Jesus: Actually I was talking about white people God. The one my people like.

Muhammad: Oh well, that’s not what my fortune cookie said. Where are we playing?

Jesus: My place. It’s past the river. I’m gonna walk it, but I’ll leave a boat out for you guys.

Muhammad: Oh Jesus! You kill me! You know I have a soft spot for subtle humor.

Jesus: I know, I know. Hey, that reminds me. The Apostles and I are going to see that new Dane Cook movie on Friday. You down for that too.

Muhammad: I’d rather be crucified.

Jesus: Eh, Dane Cook’s on par with crucifixion.

Muhammad: Yeah, I’m going to see Mr. Woodcock anyway on Friday.

Jesus: Cool, cool. I love Billy Bob Thornton. (Jesus’ phone buzzes. He looks down and exclaims) Ahh! Dammit!

Muhammad: What?

Jesus: I’m getting a text from L. Ron Hubbard.

Muhammad: Who?

Jesus: You know, the founder of Scientology.

Muhammad: That guy? He sucks.

Jesus: I know, but he wants in for poker. Man, I don’t want that jackass playing with the guys.

Muhammad: Make something up, man. Say you’re being resurrected or something that day.

Jesus: Ah, but that’s not for eight more years.

Muhammad: Fine, invite L. Ron. Oh man! I remember him now.

Jesus: Yeah.

Muhammad: I’m telling you, I’m not reading his science fiction crap again like last time. And he can’t be the Packers if we end up playing Madden. That’s my team son.

Jesus: Fair enough.

Muhammad: Hey peace bro, I gotta go. I’m meeting Muhammad and he’s got 72 virgins waiting for me.

Jesus: Right on man! Hope none of them are pregnant.

Muhammad: Like your mom was?

Jesus: Yeah. Hey, that’s mildly offensive!

Muhammad: All right, keep it real.

Jesus: Always have.

(Both hang up)

Looking At Stop Signs For Hidden Meanings

I was the strange kid that liked to read. There are a few strange reading kids remaining, and I am proud to be one of the last survivors in this iPod generation. As the strange reading kid, I always had an Archie’s Comic or an Uncle John’s Bathroom Reader in my hand to accompany me throughout my journeys as a kid. Whether it be waiting at the dimly lit doctor’s office clutching a Sports Illustrated when the secretary called me up for my physical, long family drives through the desert skimming through Harry Potter, or even thumbing through Lord Of The Flies under the chattery dinner table, any type of reading material was always omnipresent for young me. The appearance of a paperback at my side always gave off an air about how intelligent I was, and/or felt. It made me happy. I was happy.
Archie’s Comics and Uncle John’s Bathroom Reader among others definitely were good appetizers for my interest in literature. They were witty, interesting and devoid of substance. I thoroughly enjoyed tales about Jughead’s exploits at the local hamburger shop and unique snapshots of ancient Egypt in Uncle John’s. However, something was sorely lacking.
Around the crisp age of fifteen, I began to grow bored of paperbacks, novels, comics, periodicals, magazines, religious pamphlets, stop signs and menus. It seemed as if I had read everything that words had to offer. There was nothing remotely interesting left. No intrigue. I even made up a dumb little philosophy that I repeated to my friends as if I were some kind of Confucious-esque prophet:
ALL WRITING IS INSIGNIFICANT. EVERYTHING HAS BEEN DONE. EVERY WORD HAS BEEN USED. IF YOU DIDN’T NOTICE THEY’RE ALL IN THE DICTIONAR, ALL YOU HAVE TO DO IS REARRANGE THEM. THERE ARE ONLY SO MANY LITERARY ELEMENTS TO REHASH. AND SO ON. AND SO FORTH. ETC. ETC.
I was jaded.
I was cynical.
I was fifteen.
Really I was more naïve than anything else. Because it was the year I turned fifteen that I discovered God in human form: Mr. Kurt Vonnegut. Fifteen was the year I read Breakfast of Champions, a book about a car dealer who can’t cope with life and finds solace in an obscure science fiction writer’s works. Pretty simplistic plot, right? Sounds kinda dumb, right? WRONG.
No book (except every other Vonnegut novel) had turned my idea of writing on its little, insignificant head so radically. Vonnegut uses illustrations in a serious novel (to hilarious effect, especially in Breakfast of Champions)! Vonnegut has page long chapters! Vonnegut creates complex, developed, real characters! Vonnegut’s plots intertwine realism, Dadaism, surrealism and satire!
I nearly wept.
Writing had never been quite so beautiful and meaningful to me. Never. Kurt Vonnegut spoke to me. As corny as that may sound, the man renewed my faith in the written word. I looked at menus and stop signs differently searching for hidden meanings. All thanks to Kurt V. I mean who could not appreciate writing that had such one-liners as these:

“Like so many Americans, she was trying to construct a life that made sense from things she found in gift shops.”- K.V.

“Those who believe in telekinetics, raise my hand.”- K.V.

“We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful what we pretend to be.”- K.V.

Those lines still make me tremble inside. As a social critic, Vonnegut’s simplicity strikes a chord that resonates so deep it stings. I continued reading a steady diet of Kurt V. and vowed to read every word that he ever put on paper. Although, not everything he wrote was as top notch as his few masterpieces (Slaughterhouse Five, Welcome To The Monkey House, Breakfast of Champions, Mother Night, Cat’s Cradle and Sirens of Titan to name his most prestigious works), his other material was highly enjoyable, of course. In fact, I ended up reading approximately fifteen Vonnegut works. Thanks to that man, I have a new lease on reading and life. In the four-year span since I picked up my first Vonnegut novel, I have read plenty of other masterful books that have given me faith in words on paper. I never would have done that if it weren’t for Kurt Vonnegut Jr.
I may have been a reader when I was young. I may have stopped for a short period of time. Yet thanks to one Indianapolis native, I don’t plan on ever stopping again.
Epilogue: It wouldn’t be fair to finish this essay without mentioning Mr. Vonnegut’s recent passing. I was supremely shocked and believe that the world has lost the best writer of the past century. He was an icon, a hero, and proved above all that the pen is mightier than the sword. God bless you, Mr. Vonnegut.
So it goes.

Jokes I've Written

Last Tuesday, President Bush appointed former New York Federal Judge Michael Mukasey as his new attorney general. Mukasey comes to Capitol Hill with a reputation of conservatism on national security issues. In short, that means no more Mexicans.

Apple has announced plans to expand their business into automobiles. The iCar will run on iGas which will be sold to Americans by iRanians and iRaqis.

Last week, a student was tasered at a John Kerry speech for not cooperating with police officials. The student’s flipping and flopping on the floor was reminiscent of Kerry’s 2004 presidential run.

OJ Simpson’s back in the news. OJ was arrested for stealing his own autograph at an exhibit in Las Vegas. OJ claimed, “If the signature has been writ, I’m gonna steal that shit.”

The Phoenix Mercury of the Women’s Basketball Association won their championship last week. A Mercury spokesperson was impressed with the final game’s turnout- she said that the team doubled their attendance from 3 lesbians to 6.

Claims about housing discrimination continue. In a related story, Black people are running out of things to complain about.

Che Guevera is still revered 40 years after his death. It’s cool that he’s remembered for what he did best: Having his face plastered across every self righteous person’s chest in America.

A high number of adoptions are coming from Guatemala. I don’t know about you, but I think that that is the cutest method of drug trafficking ever.

A Guatemalan presidential candidate whose platform rested on his anti-poverty stance won his country’s election last weekend. His opponent commented, saying, “Great. And I thought all the people here would love my pro-poverty position.”

Condoleeza Rice announced that “We need to create a new Palestine.” Condoleeza then reportedly sat down at her computer and created one on Sim Cities. The Bush administration called it an overwhelming success.

Recently researchers linked a lack of sleep to childhood obesity. The researchers added that when the kids aren’t sleeping they probably shouldn’t stay up late eating chicken nuggets.

I've Got 99 Prob-Lem-Lems but a Bitch Ain't One

Diversity programs are useless. If you are a teenager, it’s no doubt that you’ve been to over 50 of these seminars where adolescents of all races meet and discuss their differences. Great. Pseudo understanding of people’s issues with color and poverty is definitely a progressive step for future generations. However, many of the white students at these programs will never understand the life of a black kid or a Mexican kid. Their backgrounds are just too different. In an attempt to bridge that gap, I went to a ghetto ass high school. I took part in the culture. I went to crappy malls and had my white t-shirts airbrushed with my name:

Mo- Licious
I had photos taken of me with a black silhouette draped behind me as I stared emptily into the camera with my collar popped. These pictures would grow worn and tattered in my friends’ wallets. I listened to these various club favorites countless times:

Yeah!- Usher
Grillz- Nelly
Temperature- Sean Paul
Party Like A Rock Star- The Shop Boyz

However, while white kids with no exposure to hip hop culture were ironically worshipping these mostly unbearable songs, the group I was with honestly appreciated this music. And that’s where diversity conferences get lost and fail to put together the pieces in modern race relations.

White people will always be naïve towards other cultures, unless they fully immerse themselves in what is real. No conference shit with Costco bagels and Minute Maid Cran Apple juice. No hip hop on MTV2. No, white people (like myself) need to go to ghetto high schools and learn to live a different life. One without all the financial privileges. One without the constant suburbia safety net. The one where the step team captain is more popular than the quarterback. It’s not too bad either. All of the preconceived notions about different socioeconomic classes are far from the truth, and the only way for the white man to understand is to walk a mile in another pair of shoes.

Now I’m not advocating the idea that all minorities are poor, stupid, ignorant or whatever the Klan says. In fact, the poorest, stupidest and most ignorant people I know are generally Caucasian. Thus, the white kids at my school (a crisp 8% of us). I’m suggesting that the biggest difference between classes is money, like I mentioned before. If this generation never witnesses real poverty (the sad truth about ghetto ass high schools, more than anything) from an INSIDER’S perspective, this generation will never understand what the true meaning of diversity is, and diversity conferences will continue to fail.

Moral: Don’t act like you understand, go out there and really understand.

Scantily Clad Space Ladies Winked At The Camera

When I was twelve, I went to Blockbuster. I was there with a few friends of mine, while my mom stood impatiently by the front desk thumbing romantic comedies. Anyhow, the guys and I wanted something unconventional that Blockbuster night. We had had a steady diet of Mike Myers films and we’d raided the horror film section. While scouring the various aisles and Blockbuster’s notoriously thin collection of cinema, I came across something I had never seen before. It was in the foreign aisle. An Asian woman was on the tape-box cover. Wearing spandex, she appeared to be commanding some kind of spaceship. I called my comrades over. The prepubescents mulled over the possibility of getting my mom to rent this for us. Would never work. So I improvised. I grabbed “Jerky Boys: The Jerky Movie,” and did the ‘ol switch-a-roo with the VHS tapes. Waiting in line, the team anxiously awaited the clerk’s response to the wrong tape in the wrong box. If he caught us, we would claim, “Hahahaha! That’s hilarious! Too bad we didn’t get that one!” If he didn’t catch us red-handed, bam. We were in the clear. Luckily, the clerk was an acne-ridden, ignorant and didn’t give a care about his job. He absent-mindedly swiped my mom’s selection (“You’ve got Mail”) and ours (“Space Boobs”) and that was that.

Back home, the fellas waited until my mom and dad went to sleep. 11:30 PM. It was time to pop in the movie that we had broken Blockbuster’s Code of Conduct for. The credits were whimsical as scantily clad space ladies winked at the camera while bending for some reason. I approved. Then the movie began. Obviously, the plot wasn’t up to par with something like, “Stephen King’s It,” but it held its own. A tale of two space engineers (NASA’s job requirements must require you to have at least DD breasts) falling in love was touching. Interestingly, the woman’s friends liked these two so much that they decided to add to the film’s plot as well. With their scientific jargon coupled with their shapely asses, their complex roles easily won me over. And that was my first exposure to aerospace engineering.

Needless to say, I think I would make a fine candidate for Yale’s aerospace program. Thank you for reading my college essay, and good day to you.