I Love Ladies: My International Women's Day Tribute to Femininity

It’s almost laughable how blatantly the patriarchal backbone of our society structured my own life when looking back; it would be laughable if it weren’t for the unfortunate mentality it forces into the mind of young boys, myself included. Growing up, I was “cursed” with a special yearly reminder of gender roles falling on my birthday. International Women’s Day, I am ashamed to admit, was something I once hated being associated with my day of birth. Of course, it didn’t help that other boys in my elementary school classes would inevitably tease me with that little bit of trivia each year, snapping me out of my self-focused birthday haze to feel my cheeks turn red at being associated with femininity. It’s absolutely stupid, in hindsight, but that was how it was. Not much more evidence is needed to prove a masculine culture than just a look at how little boys are raised to react to being compared to women.

But even at that age when boys and girls almost seem to be from different planets, I never felt quite right about the negativity attached to the opposite gender. As with many things in my life, this little paradigm presented itself to me most memorably in the form of music. In my younger years, I kept up with each semi-monthly NOW That’s What I Call Music! release, both to collect and to discover. Among dozens of tracks I still love to this day, many of my favorite discoveries on those releases were billed to women: “All For You” by Janet Jackson; “AM to PM” by Christina Milian; “Rock the Boat” by Aaliyah. “Bootylicious” by Destiny’s Child, I’m not even moderately ashamed to admit, was present on a mix CD I made in 2nd grade of my “favorite hits”. Despite the little quips by friends that my taste was getting a little too “girlish”, and despite the shame that society taught me to feel at that indictment, I never did feel truly ashamed for loving “girl” songs. A woman’s voice will always carry a certain emotion, a certain urgency that male singers will never truly be able to replicate - the ever-present knowledge that, in a man’s world, they are the voice that is able to be heard. 

It took years for me to be able to commit those thoughts on why I love female vocalists to words, but even in saying them, I concede that I’ll never truly be able to describe the unique power that a woman can convey; no combination of words will ever eliminate the fact of my privileged perspective as a male fan. Nevertheless, I’ll always be awed by the power of a committed woman to break through the ceilings arbitrarily set before her. This applies even more to women of color; as a longtime fan of R&B, from my young days with Janet to listening to Tinashe today, that’s a layer to the genre that I’ll never be able to ignore. And nor would I ever want to; when my little sister was able to go to a Ms. Lauryn Hill concert recently, I was beyond excited for her to experience firsthand the emotion and raw girl power I’ve always been awed by from an outsider’s perspective. That feeling of empowerment and gender positivity will always seep from between the notes of the feminine songs and artists I’ve admired, and it’s incredible to see the way that young ladies today can be inspired from them to speak their own truths. 

Today, on my 22nd birthday, I woke up and thanked those who had wished me well. But I did so with “Make Some Room” by The Suffers as a soundtrack, because there’s something else very important to be celebrating today. In a society that will always lean toward men without a concerted effort to the contrary, celebrating a single day each year to its fullest is the least that we can do - men especially. I’m lucky enough - I know this now - to have a very blatant reminder on my day of birth to celebrate the women that have made my life and the lives of so many others as great as they are. And again, celebrating one day is the absolute least that we can do in thanks. Each year, increasingly as I’ve grown and learned, I try to hold International Women’s Day as a signpost to keep in mind until the next time it rolls around - an impetus to always be thankful for the women that do the most to make this world a beautiful place.

One of the highlights of my semester thus far was the MU Vagina Monologues, a feminist play that my campus has held a rendition of for the past several years to highlight the issues that women face daily, the atrocities suffered by their gender that many would like to forget, and the feminine spirit that burns in each woman despite society’s constant efforts to snuff it. It was my first year attending, and I got to see several good friends of mine participate in discussions and readings that have stuck with me since. I can’t think of a more powerful singular piece than that evening that I’ve seen in quite some time, and International Women’s Day is as good a day as any to once again voice just how much respect I have for those women and all of their peers around the world who are increasingly carving for themselves the platforms they want to speak from. All I could think of while watching that show was how much I wanted my little sister to see and know those messages of self-love and gender positivity. Once again, the most awe-inspiring thing I always come back to about the female spirit is how powerfully they can and will inspire future generations to be the best women they can be. I’m just lucky enough to be able to appreciate all of it from the sidelines; it’s girls like my sister that will really be emboldened to grow from it. 

So, today, I wanted to just take some time to celebrate International Women’s Day and each and every one of the people in my life who are celebrating it as well. I love my mother, who will and always has been the biggest cheerleader I could ever ask for, and my father for showing me what it means to be a respectful, loving, and supportive husband. I love my sister, who seems to only ever be increasing her momentum toward a beautiful and successful future. I love my friends - those girls who let their voices be heard on the Vagina Monologue stage, those ladies who bring their own feminine spirit to each day and situation that they encounter to improve it, and my fellow men who hold their own respect for the women that help keep their world spinning. And most of all, I love that I was born on a day of such positivity and appreciation. You’ll catch me wearing out my “Power Womz” playlist today, and I’ll leave you with one of my favorites from it:

Kanye West and the Curation of Frustration

When Kanye West breathlessly exclaimed the release of his new album, The Life Of Pablo, on this week's Saturday Night Live, he wasn't met with the gasps of shock that he was likely looking for. Online, the general reaction was one of relief; after a notoriously messy rollout that was beginning to threaten the convolution of Rihanna's Anti, the final product was here at last.

Well, not quite yet. On the other side of the screen, my friend and I spent a good half-hour desperately googling for a link or a sign of the supposedly-released stream. In typical modern West (and Tidal) fashion, the release was late and came with multiple misnamed tracks, seemingly as unorganized as they day it was conceived. One might expect a reaction here of frustration, but again, this wasn't the case. For us who had been following the rollercoaster of a release, such a drop was more than just par for the course - it was the only logical conclusion to the whirlwind ride that had caused Pablo to arrive two days late and stumbling into the light as though shaking off the hangover of an ill-advised night out. 

On the road to its release, the album we now know as The Life Of Pablo saw many forms. It went through numerous title and track list changes, many of which were announced on a barely legible notepad autographed by the most lucrative of names. These updates were peppered with increasingly troubling tweets, from West's now-infamous Bill Cosby siding to his defense of an embarrassingly juvenile line about Taylor Swift to the admission just before SNL that he was $53 million in debt. What this very public descent into madness says for West himself is horrifying and another topic of discussion for another day. 

What it says about the current state of music releases is another thing entirely. Through all the changes, all the confusion and all the middle fingers to the world at large, the public remained all-ears for West’s next opus. In fact, the constant flux of information created a curious effect; it actually became difficult to not anticipate the album. Even the biggest Kanye haters still found themselves refreshing their feed for a new morsel of half-baked opinion presented as ambrosia; the think-pieces on the ignorance and spectacle of the man only began to add into the hodgepodge of promotion for the release. West took the concept of “no press is bad press” to a whole new level - he actively curated frustration to fuel the hype.

Now of course, West would vehemently disagree with this assessment, but this was no revolutionary idea. Just a few weeks ago, the aforementioned Anti finally launched with a whimper via an accidental Tidal release to the chorus of millions of Rihanna’s Navy banging their heads against their walls. Besides the obligatory chart-fodder of the Drake-featuring “Work”, there was no clear hit on the album; even “Work” barely fit that bill. Remaining true to its name, Anti subverted all exceptions and hopes from both fans and critics alike, resulting a piece of work uniquely removed from realistic expectation. One could argue that this was Rihanna’s plan all along; one could just as easily argue that she truly stopped caring somewhere along the road. Either way, the album has been received mostly with surprised acclaim laced with bitterly conceded respect for its sheer irreverence to the structures that were once as integral to Rihanna’s star as her own voice.

Going against the grain doesn’t always work out as well, however. Nothing is more proof of this and relevant to the topic at hand than the case of Frank Ocean’s missing sophomore LP. The project had been rumored and hotly anticipated from just after the release of his debut channel Orange. The elusive R&B singer set the blogosphere ablaze early in 2015 when he posted a picture of what seemed to be his second album packaged as a magazine with a teaser hashtag of #JULY15. Well, as the sun set on the final day of July 2015 with no sign of an album much less an acknowledgement, fans began to crumble into hot frustration that sent Ocean’s name to the top of the trending topics. Unfortunately, there is yet to be a culmination to this story; his project (rumored to be called Boys Don’t Cry) still is nowhere to be found, with Ocean himself neglecting to even reference the stressful July of the past year. Fittingly, the only place we’ve heard Ocean since then is on The Life Of Pablo, soothingly closing the somber "Wolves" with a show-stopping verse that - again - brought him right back to the forefront of music fan’s discussions. With almost no promotion and little more than 20 seconds of total music released in the past year, Frank Ocean is once again the most anticipated name in R&B.

And likely, this is exactly what he was going for. In all three of these aforementioned cases, the collective anger of millions of fans and foes alike coalesced into something tangible. Trending topics, news headlines, thought pieces and condemnations all cobbled together create a fascinating whole: the modern promotion chimera. The days of traditional rollouts are slowly beginning to fade, and the proof is in the results; did anyone even blink when Coldplay announced A Head Full of Dreams, an album that bashfully released four weeks later to weak fanfare and middling reviews? No; it was Wilco’s release of Star Wars a day before their headlining performance of the whole set at Pitchfork Music Festival that turned modern rock fans' heads. Did Justin Bieber’s Twitter manipulation and use of famous friends to announce the release of Purpose light up the web? It did, but not as much as when Drake’s If You’re Reading This It’s Too Late - a glorified mixtape - showed up on iTunes with little more than word-of-mouth leading up to it to become one of the biggest pop records of the year. Both in terms of initial impact and long-term retention, the modern music-consuming public is clearly showing their preference.

To return to West, did the absurd rollout process affect how the world received Pablo? At least in my opinion, absolutely. In fact, the context of his stream-of-consciousness public persona gave an essential level of detail to the amalgam of sound and statement that drives the album. Just as the irreverence of Anti’s release structure lent the same devil-may-care attitude to Rihanna’s art, the mania that is Kanye West in 2016 is perfectly emulated in The Life of Pablo. To think of the project as an aural representation of West spewing his thoughts out onto a blank canvas and handing it to the world with a cherry on top is not only logical; it’s almost demanded by the time one makes it to the end of the tracklist.

To say we live in a complicated world of music is an understatement. We’re in the midst of the shift from digital downloads to streaming, from the traditional industry patterns to an age of throwing things at a wall to see what sticks (and recoups investments). And in the midst of it all, the projects that stand out are those that embrace the chaos. “Pulling a Beyoncé” was just the start; in 2016, expect music releases to become even more convoluted, frustrating, and - most importantly - compelling. One could argue that the Kanye method of promotion and release - complete, utter insanity - could actually be looked at as an extension of the final work itself. I’d tend to agree; in such a scatterbrained world, focusing attention is an art all its own, and truly enterprising artists are starting to see the crafting of frustration toward an eventual payoff as a worthwhile pursuit. Where this path will lead for music’s future is uncertain, but it will certainly catch us off-guard again and again on the way.

Bernie Sanders, I Love You But You’re Bringing Me Down

(Photo by Phil Roeder, via Flickr)

I’ve proudly displayed a Bernie 2016 sticker bumper sticker on my blue, slightly beat-up Subaru for a few months now. The amounts of little jabs at my ever-so-hip car-and-politics combo, middle fingers from people with trucks and confederate flag ornaments, and enthusiastic thumbs-up in the rearview that I’ve received in that time are more or less equal. I willingly and proudly became a stereotype in order to show support for the most exciting politician and, if you’d believe his words, revolution leader to come forth in my adult life. That this is only my second legal election is beside the point.

Actually, it’s definitely not beside the point. As the excitement of 2015’s historic “digital grassroots” campaign began to wear off, I started to feel a bit like the callow millennial voter I’d laughed off being pegged as at first. I began to find myself repeating the complaints of my parents and many others, things along the lines of “okay, Bernie, and what else?” No more common was this than during the Democratic Town Hall that was held last week; in such a one-on-one alternative to the gladiator fights of the debates, I was excited to see Bernie given the perfect chance and - more importantly - ample screen time to bring his message past the repetitive rhetoric.

And yet, he didn’t do that. In fact, he even fielded a softball pitch - almost literally “what does Democratic Socialism mean to you?”, clearly meant to coax this sort of detail - with almost exactly the line that my roommate predicted seconds before. "What democratic socialism means, to me, is that economic rights, the right to economic security, should exist in the United States of America," said Sanders, preaching to the choir with the intensity of a weathered pastor counting the number of sermons left before retirement. "It means there is something wrong and government should play a role in making sure that all of our kids regardless of their income are able to get a higher education." The words are strong and not without blunt truthfulness; they are also words that we’ve heard from Sanders many times before as part of the same grab bag of buzzphrases he’s seemed to pull from to answer every question while the camera is on.

What’s frustrating about this willingness to rest on his laurels is not just its contrast against Sanders’ repeated claims of a political “revolution”. It's far worse, in fact; it’s reflective of a confusingly unfocused late-game strategy that only seems to indicate a lack of planning for the campaign to have gotten to this point at all. These rhetorically charged messages, these facile castings of the government versus the kids, of income and class warfare, were essential to the establishment of the uniquely successful grassroots campaign borne of the Internet and a generation - my generation - more than willing to listen when things are put in such dramatic terms. Even now, they seem like great outlines, the kind of talking points that we cheered for when Bernie forced the hand of the election season into discussing them.

But we’re not in 2015 anymore, and that ingenious social-media fueled early campaign has given way to far less than its counterpart at the national stage. Bernie Sanders is not just an established name at this point; he’s the direct underdog-with-candor in opposition to Hillary’s “establishment” politics, and certainly able to be considered a big name in the election season. He’s eaten up a sizable - but not majority - portion of the Democrat preference. And here he is in a position many dreamed of but a year ago; live on national news, in front of millions, engaged in a one-on-one interview with the attention of not only the devoted, but the unsure and even the opposed. Here, of all places, he chooses to lean on the same surface-level quotables we’ve heard for the past year.

Granted, Sanders has always favored an easy grab for a head-nod over detailed explanations of his policies. Granted, he did do a solid job with litigative transparency later in the discussion when he compared his voting record to Hillary’s in big votes such as Wall Street deregulation and the Trans-Pacific Partnership. Granted, even, that he’s continuing to appeal very strongly to my generation which - granted - does not have the real-world stripes that lead many to shake their heads at Bernie’s idealism and ask to see the economic receipts. 

That all is granted, but a truly successful presidential campaign does not choose to shoehorn its appeal into one voter-base, and especially not one that historically has had a problem with actually getting off its asses come election day. The millennial still in college is all ears, of course, but Sanders has both the opportunity and impetus now to expand beyond his niche as the “youth candidate”. Ironically enough, the oldest candidate is still having issues reaching those closer to his age. To the average American, “Democratic Socialism” still sounds like something on a spectrum between Marxism and a blind fantasy that willfully ignores the capitalist backbone on which this country was built and continues to (for the most part) prosper. That’s not to say at all that his thoughts are to be laughed aside. However, it’s becoming difficult to argue for an unclear and controversial concept that even its champion refuses to explain. Such a politically inciting idea should be something that Sanders is itching to support with the sort of numbers-don’t-lie evidence that would appeal to the right-leaning voters he stands to sway; as it is, he seems content to let it remain a vague clarion call for those who’d rather not think about the details.

Therein lies the frustration of attempting to continue feeling the #Bern at the start of 2016. As fringe candidate Martin O’Malley continues an impressively stubborn losing campaign that has, to his credit, never fallen victim to sensationalism at the expense of never really gaining steam, many formerly unswayable Sanders supporters - myself included - are starting to wish that an O’Malley vote wasn’t so out-of-the-question. Even more frustrating, the Hillary Clinton campaign that has never truly needed to steady itself is still going strong, even as its candidate continues to prove that she needs to calculate the public response to any opinion (see: Keystone XL) before settling on something that would offend the least of her constituents (read: donors). Against a Goliath with so many weak points worth an attack, Bernie is playing a rather bashful David.

When the opportunity to unpack “Democratic Socialism” for the entire nation went unseized, thousands of Sanders supporters nationwide - once again, myself included - felt the momentum of his campaign begin to stall. As the night continued, those same supporters watched O’Malley make the absolute most of his time on stage with the charisma they once expected from their hero. They saw an ever-confident Clinton beam with renewed assurance that no more surprise “damn emails” moments would be thrown her way. And, frustratedly, they ended their watch with a feeling of lack - a lack of confidence in their candidate and a lack of an undefined but expected moment of #Bern that never came. Again, this is only weeks before the primary vote and days before the Iowa caucus. The #Bern should be burning brighter than ever, rather than complacently flickering as it currently seems to be. As the primaries loom on the horizon, now is not the time for Sanders to come off as anything resembling complacent. And unlike all of the other debates that left his supporters wanting more, there’s no longer a “next time” to hold hope for.

I’ll continue to rock my Bernie bumper sticker with the pride of a fan, albeit one with slightly less conviction. I’ll still be out for the primaries to cast my vote for him, even as I begin to accept that I will likely not be able to do the same in the fall. I’ll be following the Sanders campaign until he’s voted out of the race, a conclusion that is beginning to seem foregone. But I’ll be doing so with the concessive frustration baked into me by growing up as a Chicago sports fan - that my guy, despite all of the hope once poured into his name, will not be coming out of this on top. And frustrating of all - it’s his own doing (or lack of doing) that’s sinking the chance for a Sanders ticket.

Thoughts Post-Meditation

If life is a film reel, the present is the projector. Each second that we’ve experienced - each moment, breathe - is encased eternally in one frame of film. The sum of those frames is our life, the span that we are present upon this earth. Though we have millions of frames in our life, we have only a fleeting second to cherish each one individually.

Of course, with the illumination of the present, there are bound to be shadows. Each figure in your frame casts a dark replica behind them, invariably and despite any efforts to the contrary. These shadows are not to be feared; in fact, they are to be embraced. For the shadows of our present are merely the reflections of the frames of our lives. For each dark shadow we see in our days, remember that each is but a consequence of the projector. We see darkness, but within each spot of dark is the essence of something illuminated by light.

This is the way in which we live - frame to frame, image to image, shadows to new shadows. We have millions of frames in our life; of those, a large majority will pass with no fanfare. But it’s our choice as to which frames we will choose to pause upon and cherish. When our film reel is paused, and we remove an individual frame from the context of the prior and the following, the individual beauty of that moment is clear. What else is clear is the true natures of the cast shadows. What would seem dark when looked at fleetingly is actually just a consequence of our life’s illuminations. 

Life can go by very fast; our film reel, if you will, has a lot of time to cover. Without our pauses, our frames will blend into each other until each moment’s preciousness is lost. It’s our right and our privilege to pause the movie. We have no way to rewind, nor to fast forward. Our film will one day end, but it’s up to us to ingest each moment heartily. When the credits roll, it’s the frames of our lives which we had paused upon that will shine in our memories the clearest.

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Use your pause button. Meditation takes only a bit of time out of your day, and it can make all of the difference when life gets ahead of you. I recommend Yoga Nidra meditation or, alternatively Vipassana. A good guided example of the latter can be found here: http://www.diydharma.org/guided-vipassana-meditation-joseph-goldstein

Scratching My Head About the Monkeysphere

I'm sure we've all heard the terrible news about Tracy Morgan's limo accident. For those who haven't been updated, the hilarious stand-up comedian and 30 Rock actor was critically injured a few days ago when his limo was hit by a tractor trailer on the Jersey Turnpike. The crash sent Morgan and four others to the intensive care unit; Morgan's close friend and mentor, James McNair, was killed in the crash. Those sent to the hospital have received varying degrees of diagnoses, with Morgan's latest being that his leg may require amputation.

It's a terrible, terrible story. Of course, I send my thoughts and good vibes to those involved in the accident and their families and loved ones. But what's really interested me about the situation is the public response. For obvious reasons, news coverage has centered on Morgan, the celebrity. But what about the five other passengers - one of whom was killed? A quick browse through the relevant trends on Twitter reveal, scattered among Tracy Morgan condolence posts, several acrid tweets blasting the mainstream for "forgetting" the other five victims.

The posts mean well, but there's a reason I put quotations around the word "forgetting". See, it's difficult to forget about someone that you've never heard of. Unfortunately, the five other victims were not famous. Not even McNair, who has received by far the most coverage next to Morgan, was even close to a recognizable name. It's sad and blunt, but it's true. We won't care about the unrecognizable deaths when a familiar name stands out, especially in a situation like this.

There's a great term that applies here: the monkeysphere. "Monkeysphere" refers to a thought experiment that I'd like to explain (with the help of Cracked.com having previously explained to me). Imagine that you have a pet monkey. You care for that monkey immensely, and you have a unique bond with it. You'd care if it died, no question. So, what if you had 10 monkeys? Each has their own personality and value to you. You'd probably still mourn the loss of all 10. How many monkeys would it take before we don't care when one dies?

The answer is Dunbar's Number. The psychologist Robert Dunbar defines this as the number of relationships we as humans can individually and reliably maintain. The number is commonly thought to be between 100 and 200 people. This brings credence to the saying that one death is a tragedy and one million deaths is a statistic.

So, back to the Tracy Morgan crash. Unfortunately, our nation has a collective monkeysphere, and these five were outside of it. But why does that lessen their value? In truth, it doesn't inherently. It's us that choose to lessen their value by not acknowledging them.

I'd like to use this concept to illustrate a point about our modern world. America in 2014 has never valued the individual less. With stories like these constantly littering our news, what's another 5 deaths when 500 people are killed in Chicago each year? And what are those 500 when over 5,000 have died in conflict in Afganistan fighting for a cause that the average American doesn't even come close to understanding?

We've created a cult of impersonality. We hear so much tragedy that we just aren't able to care anymore. The exception to this lies within our monkeysphere, the limits of which are defined by us. So, how big is your monkeysphere? How much of the world do you actually care about? When you heard the news about the crash, did you only tweet to Tracy Morgan to stay strong, or did your mind wander to the others involved that won't see their names in headlines upon recovery? Or did your mind wander further to the amount of people killed by reckless driving each year? It's a difference in our understanding and our open-mindedness that very much intrigues me.

I challenge both myself and any readers to expand their monkeysphere. It's easy to stick to your personal bubble when you're scared of what you might find outside. Next time you read a story about a celebrity in some situation like this, it's okay to feel for them. But I challenge you to think not only about the others involved, but how we can take this situation as an example to change something we're encountering in our nation. Remain conscious of the limits of your monkeysphere, and remember their fluidity. Think outside of your personal world, and you just might find the way to betterment for the rest of us.

More Philosophical Musings: The Experience Machine

Today, I came across a very interesting little thought experiment while reading through my Philosophy texts. It's called "The Experience Machine," and it was proposed by Robert Nozick in 1974. It runs as follows:

Imagine, if you will, that we live in a far future which possesses the technology necessary for an "Experience Machine". An Experience Machine would be able to plug into one's senses and allow them to experience, well, anything. Because it would run directly into the five senses, whatever one would choose to experience would be completely indistinguishable from reality. You could use it for something as simple as a simulation of a vacation of a few hours, or you could choose to live in the simulation. One great application that was discussed was the virtual house; a house that is in reality constructed by cinderblocks to be indestructible, but made to look like a beautiful condo with the machine.

Nozick then asks this - would we prefer to live within the machine, or in reality?

My knee-jerk reaction was no. Even if it looks like a beautiful condo, I'd still know that it was a cinderblock cave within. But then, I realized that it would likely be furnished within through some digital means. It would probably also be much safer than an actual house built for beauty rather than to withstand the elements. So, in this situation, I suppose I wouldn't actually mind having to "live in the machine"; I surprised myself here.

But Nozick meant a deeper question when he asked it. We're humans; if we have the ability to simulate reality, where will we stop? Houses are fine, but what happens when we choose to simulate life itself? What about when we simulate a happy marriage to avoid a lonely life? When we choose to educate our children not on campuses, but in entirely virtual schools? When we realize that we will eventually die in reality, which will not necessarily occur within a simulation? If we choose to live within the machine, it'll be awfully hard to get out. As they say, the genie won't go back into the bottle easily.

There are a lot of problems stemming from this. The ones that really stuck out to me, though, were those involving the individual living within this society. Will society ever even see each other? Will we only know fellow humans through avatars? Will we even know that it was ever different? Will children play with balls and toys anymore, or will they even know what playing is? Will they even want to play? It's not hard to see what could go wrong with a meshing of the virtual and the natural. There are many positives that could come of it; it's just a matter of where we as a species can draw the line. And as shown by our track record from imperialism to concrete jungles, we're very, very bad at drawing the line.

I have no doubt that we will eventually encounter some sort of simulated reality of this kind as technology continues its swift crawl out of the primordial ooze. The question is less of if, or even when. Instead, it's how we will approach such a thing. Philosophical thought questions such as these are interesting when defining the human experience, and it's even more interesting to probe into humanity's future.

Personally, I'd like to think that we as a species have a bit more foresight than I've given them credit for. Hopefully, should such a machine appear on the horizon, we would take considerable precautions to avoid the things I've talked about. But even if we see virtual houses popping up on the hillside and virtual cities just behind them, there's still a comforting thought to be had: even in a world in which we can control reality, we as individuals can still remain in control of our own lives.

Martin Luther King, Jr.: Politician of the Century?

I'm a Political Science minor. Why? Because it's fun for some reason. Boring details about politics are pretty interesting to me; even more so is when I'm able to make connections between past political schema and those of today.

Case in point: Martin Luther King, Jr. I just finished reading a few of his texts, most notably his last book Chaos and Community: Where Do We Go From Here? This book is particularly politically charged. The average member of the American public knows MLK for his (not to be in any way downplayed) contributions to the 1960s African-American Civil Rights movement. He made a name for himself by standing apart from the angry crowd, preaching peace rather than uprising and voting rather than rioting.

It was these ideals that influenced King's thoughts on national politics, which he covers in the book. Perhaps the most interesting idea he posits is that of "assisted autonomy". Here, he talks of individual liberties. He acknowledges the benefits of a welfare state, but declines the idea; he brings up a very contextually relevant point about abuses of a welfare system by both the poor AND the rich, which could and should be brought up in congress today.

A man, says King, is most fulfilled when he is his own master. To this end, King offers several ideals. Obviously, the idea of a man being his own master regardless of skin pigmentation spits in the face of the racially charged segregation of the time. He argues that a man who is able to provide for himself and his family will be a much more active and contributing member of society.

To this end, he submits an idea that I personally love: the guaranteed minimum wage. The solution to poverty is rather simple, King thinks: give a man a wage upon which he can COMFORTABLY live (not an hourly wage barely scraping $10) and he will in turn give back into the nation's economy. He talks of turning the noncontributor into the consumer. And unlike the majority of today's far left, he doesn't advocate giving money out for free. He emphasizes that earned income will be spent much more furtively for both the individual and the country as a whole.

Today, we have politicians pushing agendas like they were grocery carts. Almost nothing can get passed without some manner of inane compromise or hidden salary increase for the members of the voting council. Worst of all, most economic decisions (Obamacare, food stamps) are made with the business class in mind rather than the poor. In today's world, the poor can't be helped unless the rich are doubly compensated, or at least unhurt. Paying workers a livable wage and reducing a CEO's salary? It'll never fly. Not, at least, while said CEO funds election campaigns.

King was a politician unlike any other. Instead of claiming to be a "people's champion", he was a champion of the individual. He believed in every single American citizen, black white or orange, and their guaranteed right to a happy, autonomous life.

What's more, he advocated for an alternative. In today's day and age, could an MLK have the same impact? Perhaps, but it would be rather hard to get past our stubborn two-horse system that likes to paint the world as black and white. MLK, on the other hand, paints in shades of grey.

Going off of that, it's very important to note that King was a man of intelligent compromise. I don't mean the shifty "compromises" that often come off as business deals in today's politics. King explicitly promotes aspects of both communism and democracy - in the middle of the red scare. He's unafraid to not only understand the opposing view, but to integrate positive aspects of that view into his own. This is the sort of intelligent politics that we are desperately in need of today.

Our modern world could take a cue from the selflessness of King. It's easy to forget that while speaking on all of those controversial topics, he was facing racist hostility at every turn. He was a man of both strength and wit. Most importantly, he was a man of ideals. He wasn't a religious fundamentalist, though he proudly practiced his own personal faith. He didn't fight back when his own race spat at him and refused to vote in the "white man's game". He stuck to what he knew was right.

I'd like to close with a quote from the man himself that I absolutely love. It's an important one to keep in mind in today's world. Hopefully a lawmaker will run across these words as he passes yet another bill to pad his pockets at the expense of the nation's poor and desperate. We would be blessed to have another politician such as King, but until we do, his words will hopefully do more than enough:

"When scientific progress outruns moral power, we end up with guided missiles and misguided men." - Martin Luther King, Jr.

Lonesome Smile

Such a frantic society, this

We race the night

Just as we do

The hands of the clock;

We do win some;

We lose some, too

And still we wander

Bright with youthful wonder

And young adult hunger

Through each passing night

In search of

A lonesome stranger

A girl whose eyes twinkle

Beside the fire escape

Or a friend of a friend

From another state

Someone not unlike yourself

A lonesome smile upon their face

Love's all we want
In whatever form it takes

Another's company -

Noncommittal though it may be -

Is that which fuels

The core of every human being

The essence of attraction

That thing we call love;

Whatever that thing may be

I've yet to see it;

Could you show me?

Dysthymia; That's a Big Word, Isn't It?

Many of you now know that I've been dealing with manic depression, or dysthymia, for several years. That wasn't always the case; I remember carefully stepping around eggshells to keep it hidden from all but my closest friends throughout high school (my family included). But recent times and developments have persuaded me that, rather than keeping my problems hidden, I should be more open about them in order to foster a climate of warmth and positivity around me.

Today, I screwed up in that respect. I blew up at one of my best friends over minutia that I'd been brooding over and building up for weeks. In that moment, there was nothing but chaos for me. I mean that literally - I've been prone to blackouts at my peak emotions for some time. This usually meant during panic attacks caused by anxiety, but this was different. I didn't feel the familiar forced clench of my fist from hyperventilation that has always heralded an attack.

Rather, once the fight began and my voice was raised, things went dim. I only remember a rouge curtain over my vision peppered with flashes of light and a loud ringing that quickly overtook reality. I didn't even remember what I did during the actual fight until those present reminded me after I found myself on a couch I had to be led to, still shaking and partially blinded.

As I said before, I've decided to be more public about my problems in this manner. This would have been an isolated incident previously, but I'm finding a solace in writing about it. After I staved off a panic attack by writing eight pages of disparate and meaningless thoughts, I came to the realization that writing was my best medicine in these times. This post itself is therapy to me.

As such, I'd like to talk less about the actual blackout (because that still frightens me) and more about how I plan to avoid more of them. This was a negative situation, but I'm choosing to take the best from it. I did learn a lot about how my mind works from it. You can learn a lot about a machine by figuring out what causes it to break.

I'm, unfortunately, a very self-depricating person. The best way I can describe my thoughts on a daily basis is as a nagging middle-school bully sitting behind me at all times. My depression can manifest as a wayward thought second-guessing myself. "You may have aced that test, you lucky bastard," he'll taunt, "but good luck on that final! You're going to need it, stupid." 

More often, though, it's less blunt. It's a constant reconsidering of reality. A friend will compliment my shirt, and I'll remind myself that it'd look better without my fat ass belly bulging through it. I'll meet a girl and as she smiles at me I'll run through thirty reasons why she'd never date me. I'll show a friend a song, and if they don't like it, I'll delete it from my playlist and convince myself it was shit anyway.

As the years have gone on, I've become more and more worn down by these thoughts. I've found myself with trust issues by the dozen. I wake up every morning and end up working on my hair for an hour because maybe a new hairstyle will make me hate the way I look a little less. I've learned to give up and move aside rather than speak my mind, because I'm terrified that they might run away if I do. After all, if I don't love myself, why would they?

That's the long and short of it - I don't love myself. It's painful to admit, but I've wished upon countless shooting stars and tossed coins that I'd wake up one day and be somebody else.

If you didn't know that about me before now, I'm sorry you had to hear it. But, luckily, this isn't going to be a sad blog post. Instead, I'm ready to stand up straight.

There are going to be bad days and good ones, but I'm not going to allow myself to make good days bad anymore. I'm not going to hold myself back because I've convinced myself it was a stupid idea anyway. I won't tell myself I can't or that I'm not capable. I'll eat all three meals because I'm not that fat, and I can skip a workout and not be a failure. And, no, my face isn't perfect. My hair won't ever do exactly what I want it to do, my acne scars aren't going away without some laser surgery, and looks-wise I'm certainly no James Dean. But hell, I'd say I look pretty okay.

These are the things I will be telling myself from here on out. I'll remind myself multiple times a day. I've already been doing so, but it's all too easy to lapse back into depression. It's even easier from there to fall into hopeless desperation, and I refuse to end up in that place again.

I can't say what the future will hold, but I'll face it with conviction. From here on out, you might see me smiling a bit more. You may see me wearing things that I want to wear, because damn it I want to. If I give you a seemingly random compliment out of no where, here's why: nothing makes me happier than making another person smile. Besides, isn't that the golden rule? Treat others the way you'd like to be treated. I'd like to treat myself better, so I'll treat the world likewise.

There are two post-its on my bathroom mirror as of today. The first is on the mirror itself, about eye level. It has an arrow pointing towards where my reflection stands, and it reads as follows: "This guy doesn't suck." It may seem braggadocios to you, but it's a genuine reminder for me. I'll wake up and see that note every day from here on out, and I'll smile even as my brain tries to tell me I shouldn't.

The second is a bit less blunt and sits to the side of my mirror, still in view but out of the way. This one is stuck to the wall with a pin so that it doesn't fall. It reads, "Life is For Living", which is the name of a Coldplay song and a rather poignant phrase to me. Life is for living, and it's too short to spend hating myself.

I'm not going to become happy overnight, but any change has a starting line. That line was marked in ink when I marked my rib with a bird to permanently remind me of how far I can fly. I won't hold myself back anymore. Life is for living, and I'll live with a smile.

A Few Thoughts on Showers

Today, dear readers, I'd like to invite you into my shower.

Not literally. Figuratively, not literally. Oh god. That's weird. You're weird. Stop thinking like that, that's weird. Man.

Anyway, it's clear that showers are inherently awkward. First of all - obviously - you're naked, and you're probably still half asleep. You're bound to screw something up on the way in, be it a quick stumble on the way out of bed or (as I did this morning) a wayward arm swing sending your toothpaste into your toilet. At least it was almost empty anyway.

Then, you have to stand there naked or close to it, no doubt regretting leaving your bed and its warmth, as you wait for the water to heat up. Once it's judged to be a sufficient temperature, you hop in and cringe as - guess what? - you're doused in water. You can barely see from your hair flopped over your eyes, and the damn water isn't hot enough anymore. You turn it up slightly and stand there a minute because you're still half asleep and attempting to blink into reality. If you're like me, you have music playing from your laptop and are nodding your head to "Walking On The Sun" by Smash Mouth, reenacting "Let It Go" from Frozen, or otherwise jamming to whatever song is on.

You got used to the water temperature again; better turn it up a little more again. This obviously doesn't apply to some of you, but around now is the point at which I remember that I do, in fact, have a tattoo, and that it's been there for a year - and damn, it looks cool. After some quick self-admiration and another slight temperature increase, you realize that you'd better get around to actually cleaning yourself. You drop a too-big amount of shampoo into your hand and immediately regret your carelessness. Those bottles cost like $5.95, man.

By now, the room has filled with steam and you've incrementally ventured about three-quarters of the way up the temperature dial. Regardless, you still turn it up a little more because, screw it, it's eight in the morning and if you're going to be up at this ungodly hour, you're going to turn your bathroom into a sauna. Because that's adulthood, damn it. If you don't turn your bathroom into a sauna yourself, no one else is going to do it for you.

Of course, the soaping and cleaning of oneself then commences. This in itself is an incredibly awkward thing to describe in any level of detail, and so I will not. Apologies.

So, you're probably about three songs in at this point and standing in a vision-impairing field of hazy steam. You probably should be getting out soon, but "Semi-Charmed Life" just came on and you woke up fifteen minutes early anyway, so you belt out those timeless words that you barely know or understand the meaning of. Finally, at some point around the end of the song, you regretfully turn the water off and venture out into the steam-field. You grasp for your towel and give yourself a noogie that older brothers could only dream of as you dry your hair.

Then, once you've put on boxers and gotten a bit more reacquainted with your surroundings, you stand in front of the sink and stick a vibrating plastic object in your mouth and vigorously scrub your teeth with it and some minty cleaning agent. You spit frequently and in the color of a shamrock shake during this, and some toothpaste inevitably ends up sticking to the sink, defying you in the face of the cleaning you just did the other day.

For me, the music has been going this whole time. We've generally made it into "Teenage Dream" territory on the playlist by now, and are belting it out as you walk in circles around your room getting dressed. You put a dab of shaper in your hair, tousle it around a bit, then give up and accept your mediocre hairstyle. You grab your wallet, keys and phone and are finally ready for the day - that is, until you run back inside to grab the backpack you somehow managed to forget. How did you manage to forget your backpack on your way to school?

Showers are weird, man.

2AM In Florida

It's 2AM in Naples, Florida, where I'm currently visiting my family. We're in a two-room hotel suite that I was absolutely loving until I woke up drenched in sweat about half an hour ago. After a quick midnight pee to resolve the situation (always a good solution), I quickly decided that my ocean of a bed was not where I wanted to be at the moment. So, I took to my laptop out on the kitchen counter and started furiously pressing up, left, down in a nice game of 2048.

Don't click that link, by the way. It links to the game, and it's incredibly addictive. I'm sorry.

Anyway, here I was electing to avoid my sweaty bed for at least a little while by smacking keys and making numbers add up. It took me a little while to register the time, but when I did I didn't really care about the lateness. I was up at 5AM yesterday for my flight out, and I went to bed around 7PM, so my internal clock is as wacked out right now as it can get. I decided that it couldn't hurt to smack buttons a little longer until the bed situation was rectified.

So, yeah. Not the most solid plan. That is, until, my dad was awoken by a combination of me out in the kitchen and his habit of never closing doors. He came out and found his son covered in sweat in the middle of the room, smacking keys on a laptop until the cows would inevitably come home. I explained the hopeless situation: there's no fan in my room, it's hot as hell, Maddie'd die if I open a window or something, I don't know, I'm waiting out here until it's not sweaty anymore.

My dad did something then that I had not even faintly considered previously; he turned the temperature down on the thermostat, making the air conditioning come on. Apparently, it was off prior to this, which explains quite a bit. Anyway, my dad saved my sweaty life with a couple presses of a button and swiftly retired back to his room after I sheepishly thanked him.

I guess I'll be heading back to bed now, but the lesson I'm taking from tonight is this: my dad is awesome. He's always known exactly what to do, no matter what the trouble. Of course, that may be some whitewashed retrospect, but isn't everyone's childhood a wash of white? My dad's been my idol since I was young, and I continue to work to be like him today as I enter adulthood.

You know, it's pretty easy when you're living on your own in an apartment two and a half states away to take for granted the folks that are allowing you to study to follow your career. Of course, I love my mom equally, but, as it happened, she was peacefully sleeping through the whole debacle (not that I blame her; she had some terrible travel scenarios today, and I'm glad she got her rest).

So, this post is a specific thank you to my dad for reminding me that no matter what, no matter how far I go, I'm still your son who was still scared to go to sleep without a nightlight when he was ten, and I'm still your son who can't figure out how to work a thermostat when he's twenty. I'm not sure if you'll read this, dad, but the point still stands: you're awesome, and I'll always look up to you. Thank you for making me who I am, and thank you for saving me from sweating out my body weight.

In closing, I'm totally not about that room-with-no-fan life. Not my thing at all.

Hello, World! / The Break I Needed

I had nothing to do today, so I decided to start a blog.

This idea wasn't made with any kind of plan attached. I have no idea where I'll go with this, or what I'll be talking about. But, as the late and great Benjamin Franklin once said, I'll wing it.

At present, I'm sitting alone in my apartment in Columbia, Missouri. It's a Tuesday, and it happens to be Spring Break. That said, there are very few people left in town. Due to a combination of terrible planning on my part and some unforeseen external circumstances, I've found myself alone in my apartment until I leave to see my family on Thursday. As a twenty-year-old swamped with work near the latter end of his sophomore year of college, this ended up being a godsend.

These days have been a much-needed breather in a stressful few months for me. I still did have a few responsibilities, but the solitude has been good for my focus. I'm currently in the middle of an appeals process to stay in the extremely competitive Journalism school at Mizzou (my 2.8 is a bit below the minimum GPA of 3.0), and I've finally found some time to get some serious work in on the various aspects of that process. I've also been able to catch up on reading for my classes. In particular, I've gotten really into my Philosophy text (Word & Object by William Van Orman Quine), which is always an interesting subject.

But what's really been interesting is what I've found myself getting done after my responsibilities: for the first time in almost a year, I've ended up doing a lot writing.

For the past several months, I've been in one of the longest droughts of my life when it comes to writing. It's not really a mystery as to why; I haven't been a part of any publications since I left my editor position at the Zou Feed in July, and I've had a hell of a lot to deal with academically during that time. Save for a few disparate works last semester, none of which were published anywhere, I haven't written anything outside of schoolwork (with the exception of poetry, which I'll get to later) and some extended Facebook posts.

What's strange to me is how, for the first time in my life, I felt little to no drive to write during those months. It wasn't a conscious decision to stop, nor was it premeditated. Yet it stuck for months, and once a habit is broken it's hard to start again.

That all changed about a week ago. A couple things led to this change, the first of which I'd have to identify as a writing prompt given to me by my friend Marshall. The prompt was, essentially: what if Jesus Christ was a living person and a tabloid superstar? It wasn't particularly original, nor was it especially thought provoking, but it tickled my fancy and I wrote it out within half an hour of seeing his prompt. It wasn't until I had finished that I realized that I'd just written my first creative work in years (again, excluding poetry, which I'll get to later) without even thinking about it. It was a bit of an eye-opener. Creative writing has always been a bit daunting to me, and I jumped that barrier without even thinking about it. It really made me think about my potential as a writer. There's so many things I could write about, and the realm of non-fiction is no longer a boundary for me.

The other major catalyst in my new attitude towards writing is, as I've mentioned, my no-longer-recent foray into the world of poetry. I've always written little poems and rhymes in my spare time, but I only started saving them into a collection around a year ago. It was even later still, near the beginning of the fall semester, that I consciously began to identify poetry as a hobby of mine. I've grown proud of my poems, and even joined a poetry group to share them with some friends (guys, can we please start that again?) over tea and coffee on Thursday nights.

Poetry has become, for me, a way to escape the stresses and complications of daily life in a constructive way. It's also helped me (among many other things) with my continuing battle against depression. I've become a much happier person over the past year, and poetry has been a big part of that. The ability to reflect on feelings in the form of written word is both cathartic and fulfilling.

In conclusion, I suppose the point of this entry is to say this: I love writing, and I plan to do a lot more of it. This blog will serve as both an outlet and a collection for me, simultaneously a therapy and a diary. I haven't decided how often I'll be updating it, but I'd say at least once a week is reasonable. So, get ready to be hearing a lot more of my thoughts. I hope you enjoy them!

I'd like to end with a poem I wrote recently. I think it fits well with my current feelings and position in life. Hope you like:


Glory Days

You've seen it all, the scars and tales
But not yet did you cry
You've met old Lucifer himself
And looked him in his eye
You've read your books; you've passed your tests
And now you want to prove
But life's not ready for you yet;
You've got so much to lose

You think you know the world, my friend
But there's still much to learn
The candle wouldn't see a flame
Without a wick to burn
You've come this far; now go on forth
And shine bright as you go
You're old by face but young by heart
And clever to the bone

The finish line may be in sight
But you've hardly left the start
The real world's close enough to taste
But home still has your heart
Enjoy your glory days, young man
'Cause time, it waits for none
Your story's still on chapter one
And the best is yet to come