The lights flickered, and the group began to chant. The chant was a hum and progressively got louder as the members funneled into the dark damp amphitheater. The room was circular in shape, with steps descending down into a ring where one chair was placed.

The lights stopped flickering and a spotlight beamed onto the chair cutting into the darkness like a sword of light. Simultaneously, the members stopped chanting. Without light, the group was invisible in the dark, wearing only their black robes and hood.

A side door was kicked open and two hooded men dragged a lifeless body across the circular stage, and threw him into the chair. After their task was done, the two men disappeared into the darkness with their comrades.

Another man walked out of the darkness and bound the subjects hands and feet, effectively immobilizing the subject. The man began to struggle against his newfound bonds, but to no avail could he loosen them. The man who bound him took this as an affront to his character, and struck the subject hard across the face, making the subject bleed.

Finally, the leader emerged from the darkness and addressed his dark congregation:

“Welcome my comrades! I have called you here tonight because we have important business to attend to.”

A low murmur began as the crowd began to talk amongst themselves.

“Quiet! Quiet please! We have a traitor in our presence tonight. He has given up names of members of this society. I plan to teach this traitor a lesson. I propose a hundred cuts!” shouted the leader.

“Yes”

“Teach him a lesson!” yelled the shroud of darkness.

The ritual commenced and a hundred cloaked figures lined up. Each possessed a dagger that they would use to cut the subject. The first figure approached and drew his dagger in one fluid motion. The dagger was blood stained, as if never cleaned and used before in this ritual. The first cut was made under the left eye, and the gash across the subjects face was filled with blood, which started to run down his face. The dark crowd erupted into an uproar, and a frenzy ensued.

Shallow cuts to the thigh, calf muscle, feel, torso, and abdomen were made. By the time the ninety-ninth cut was made, a pool of blood had collected at the feet of the subject.

The leader was next in line, and was not moving, he seemed motionless. Everyone was looking at him to make his cut and finish the ritual. Still not moving, the men in the crowd began to worry.

“Sir? Are you going to finish it? ” yelled on cloaked figure.

“Yeah, finish it already! I want this to be over and done with so we can move on and forget this prick!” yelled another from the top of the amphitheater.

“Oh…oh…oh, I will finish it alright. I will make sure that all of you understand loyalty and brotherhood!” screamed the leader.

As soon as he was done making his remarks, the leader shed his black cloak and hood and stood in front of the subject with only his shorts on. He breathed heavily as if he couldn’t get oxygen fast enough and his body moved up and down with each passing breath.

Screaming so loud that the whole amphitheater resonated with his voice, the leader drew his knife and ran towards the subject. Stopping within inches of him, the leader stood there looking down upon the subject.

“I find it honorable that you have kept silent throughout this whole ordeal,” snickered the leader. “I will allow you some last words.”

“I, I, I” croaked the subject.

“What? I CANNOT HEAR YOU!”shrieked the leader.

The leader began to turn his back to the subject. Swinging his arms out with the knife in one hand and an open palm in the other the leader spoke: “Now I will fini-”

“There will be a day that you answer for your crimes Donald, and that day will come sooner than you think. So enjoy it while it lasts,” boomed the subject.

The leader made a quick turn and ran at the subject again. This time he did not stop. Drawing his knife while running, the leader barreled through the subject and was on top of him.

“This is an example for those that wish to defy me!” shouted the leader as he drew his knife across the subjects throat.

The crowd went silent. The ritual should have ended with the last cut and the leader setting the subject free, but this was something else, something more sinister. Gasps of shock and horror were heard throughout the crowd, some even averted their gaze.

The leader rose from the ground, redder than the setting sun. Grabbing his clothes, and stepping over the lifeless body of the subject, he redressed and rejoined his brethren in the darkness.

Nobody moved and the room was silent for what seemed like ten minutes, before the light in the center went out. The pitch black was all that remained.

The door of the amphitheater was thrown open, and light penetrated the darkness. Those within the theater left one by one in sweatshirts, t-shirts, shorts and tennis shoes; as if nothing even happened, as if they just saw a movie.

There are two aspects of my identity which help define me, and aide in the telling of my life experiences. Those two aspects are my race and my ethnicity. To the average person, these two things seem interchangeable. A common example is “I am white” or “I am of European Ancestry.” Those two things serve the same purpose and elicit identical responses. For me, the difference between race and ethnicity is almost completely character defining. It is important to note that I was adopted from Russia when I was 10 months old, by an all white family who lived in an all white town. That being said, my struggles are not caused by me being from Russia. In fact, I don’t identify as Russian at all—not even a little bit. I am ethnically a Romani. The Romani people fled India in the 15th century because they were part of the lowest rung in the metaphorical ladder that is the Indian Caste System. The Romanies fled to Europe, but met resistance everywhere they went. An important but totally random coincidence which had terrible consequences for the Romanies was the outbreak of the Bubonic Plague. This plague, also known as The Black Death, wiped out about half of Europe’s population and hit very soon after the Romani people were beginning to settle into European towns. Being both foreigners and of darker complexion, the Romanies were blamed by many for bringing the plague to Europe (though science later found out that the plague was zoonotic and was carried by fleas and rats). Tensions increased between Romanies and Europeans for decades until year 1500, when Germany announced that Romanies, who were then called a slang word: ‘Gypsy’ (which is still used improperly today), may be murdered and no charges will be pressed against the aggressor. Switzerland followed just a decade and a half later with government-sponsored “Gypsy Hunts. ” Fifty years after that, the Pope at the time, Pius V, banished all Romanies from “Christendom.” Many religious people, following this decree, took up arms against the Romani and many were slaughtered in the name of the Lord. Things got worse for my ancestors as time went by. Countries started legally passing nationwide extermination acts targeting Romanies. Drawing on the angst of his predecessors, Adolf Hitler joined the crusade when he rose to power and killed more than 25% of Romani people who lived in the entirety of Europe. Adding insult to injury, no one gave a damn about anyone killed in the Holocaust except for the Jews (who, let me make clear, do deserve to be acknowledged). Today there are but a few million Romani left. I have gone my whole life to this point without meeting someone the same ethnicity as myself. I have been the ethnic minority in literally every situation I’ve ever been in in my entire life. That in and of itself is depressing, but what makes that worse is because anyone I would have come into contact with was probably killed by a European King, Fuuhrer, Archduke, or Religious Zealot because of the nature of his ethnicity and he or she was likely never thought of again.

This brings me to my race, the second defining aspect of Dan. I define my race as white. This puzzles many people, including myself sometimes, but I’ve developed a strange sense of self growing up in a town where, out of my graduating class of 300, I was one of about 12 minorities. I never viewed myself as any different than any of the kids I hung around with. All the kids I hung out with were white, all the girls I’ve dated were white, and my entire family is white. I never viewed myself as “the brown kid.” I was socialized to eat, talk, walk, live, pray, and dress like a white person. As a result of me choosing (whether it was a conscious or a subconscious choice I will never know) to blend in with everyone else at my high school, I simply became just an average everyday white person. Sometimes I would look at my arms in class and think: “this has to be a  mistake.” That being said, I rarely thought about being brown. If I had to give you a statistic, I would say that maybe one day out of every two or three months a thought would pop into my head which went something like “you’re brown and different and it’s stupid.” During all other times, I viewed myself as white, and so did everyone else. Directly resulting from that, I didn’t even know what ethnicity I was until my freshman year of college when I was forced to do a research project on it. I was always treated completely normally and fairly by my teachers and peers in school. A lot of this probably had to do with the fact that I was a fellow white person, but nevertheless, I was but a cog in the big, white, redneck machine that was Byron Center High School.

Probably the most unfortunate thing about my educational upbringing was that I was never taught about race or ethnicity. I wasn’t just not taught about my race and my ethnicity, but I wasn’t taught about race or ethnicity in general at all by anyone. I didn’t learn the difference between the two until college, and I never dug into my ethnicity until college for that exact reason. I didn’t even know that 25% of Europe’s Romanies were killed in the Holocaust (or Porajmos, as they call it) until freshman year of college, and I think I learned about the Holocaust in school at least three times a year, every year, since probably fifth grade. My schooling experiences taught me absolutely nothing about race and ethnicity, and at the time that was fine. But now, when I look back on it, I wish I had known. I feel like I could have been my own person—I could have been who I am, and I was not.

Schooling is complicated. Teachers all think they can change the world, and students don’t give a flying fuck about anything the teachers say to them unless what is being told to them will have a very large and concrete positive or negative effect on the students’ lives. I don’t think my ethnicity or race made any real impact on my schooling, but I certainly feel led to teach my future students about culture, identity, class, etc. and try and help them understand who they are. That would have benefitted me, and if I can benefit even one other person by learning from my teacher’s mistakes, I think I’ll be able to lay down in bed next to my inevitably smoking hot wife and feel like I made a difference in the world—the feeling every teacher wants to have.

Signed,

Dan Martel

Sources Used:

romanies.wordpress.com (created by yours truly) 

There is so much strife in the world today. Every morning I open up my iPhone to the New York Times Now app and more times than not, I am plainly confronted with death, pain, and sadness. It has gotten to a point where I have simply grown numb to the words and images. Rhetoric is more bellicose and less respectful, less tolerant than the day before. Hope seems to be fleeting at a pace that I have not seen in my twenty years as a part of the human fabric. Frankly, the world is a scary place at this point in time. Yet, I have really found a diamond in the rough in the land of fire – Azerbaijan.

Here, I have been shown the ultimate definition of hospitality. The population here is significantly less fortunate than American travelers, yet I have been consistently refused when I offer to pay for anything. I have been treated to the best of the best. They do not know me personally, yet the people here have been bending over backwards to make sure that I am okay, that I don’t need more food (I will be dieting as soon as I step foot in the States), that I don’t need a more comfortable chair, more tea, more this, or more that. This is one thing that I will not forget when I leave Azerbaijan. I have been taught the art of being completely selfless: giving all you have to someone without expecting anything at all in return. My first experience with this happened a few days after I landed in the capital, Baku.

A semi-arid city of four million, Baku has what seems to be thousands of tea gardens populating it’s greenest nooks and crannies. A majority of the customers are old, graying men who have eaten their fair share of kabobs and don’t wear deodorant, and seem to have a common nostalgia of the good ole days of the Soviet Union. They sit, smoke cigarettes, drink pot after pot of the best tea I’ve ever had, and play backgammon, or “nard.” Their ebony and ivory game pieces are slapped–with all their remaining arm strength–onto the board in a sort of chest-thumping, inherently male routine. They joke with each other, talk about the beautiful group of women who happened to walk by, and complain about how they are in the doghouse with their wife (the latter two are not connected whatsoever).

I had been observing these little worlds nestled within Baku since I landed. I had flirted with the notion that I’d one day go in and learn the ways of nard and the rest of the routine of kibbitzing. Almost daily I would walk past, and one game in particular caught my eye. The sounds of laughter and pieces slapping onto the boards was an irresistible mixture. On the airless summer days in Baku, shade is extremely prized real estate, and this place had an abundance. One day, I had enough of the heat and decided it was time to try my luck.

I walked anxiously from the scorching asphalt stepping down into the greatly appreciated shade of some pomegranate trees. I looked from gang to gang of men, and they looked back at this weird white guy with a Jewfro. I realized my decision had to be quick and a couple of guys in the back looked intriguing to me; they were vigorously playing nard and both had a cigarette in one hand and a tea cup in the other. I approached, and in my broken Turkish, I proclaimed something along the lines of “I want to learn this. You are my teachers?” Chuckling, they nodded at me as if it were instinctual and said “otur” which is the command “sit.” The second my butt hit the chair, a glass appeared out of nowhere and was immediately filled with black tea infused with rose stems. Dice were rolling and hands were flying at the speed of light across a board which was far past its day. They did not speak English, and in hopes for better communication, they asked if I spoke Russian. I retorted with a shake of my head: no. So we got by with hand gestures and broken Turkish. The plump old man sitting to my right, Hüseyn, was uttering each and every number rolled on the dice. He had managed to win the game eventually. The losing party, Kamran, vacated his seat and again commanded “otur,” but this time I was behind one of the sides of the board.

I had absolutely no clue what I was doing, but Kamran had basically decided to take me under his wing against Hüseyn. He seemed to be the reigning champion in this particular tea garden. Kamran would move my pieces around because I could not move them at the expected, seemingly required speed, paired with the same mesmerizing slap that a native here could. After a few times around the board I understood the goal of nard (which I realized was quite literally an elementary version of “Sorry!”). I slowly began to make my own moves. This was over a period of about an hour.

These old men were absolutely random people from a tiny country sandwiched between Iran and Russia. They did not have to help. They did not have to make sure my tea pot was filled at every moment. They did not have to teach me. Yet they did, and after an hour I had learned the gist and I figured that in return for their hospitality I would pay for the tea. I told them I was ready to go. I stood up and began reaching for my wallet, upon which I was promptly told I was not to pay. I refused and started pulling money out. The skinny man stood up, grabbed my wallet from my hand briskly, and firmly shook his finger at me. He only returned it to me after he was sure I wouldn’t try and pay again.

From that point, I had realized I was in a special place: I had found a diamond in the rough. Lately, few things in this world have given me hope. But this hour in the cool shade of the pomegranate trees gave me that unexpected slice of humanity. Or what humanity should be.

Signed,

Eric Gerson

I know that in the days that come, and as we begin the 2016-2017 school year, we will likely see many women doing the exact same thing that I am doing now: sharing my displeasure and anger that MSU has decided to change the Women’s Study Lounge from what it was. But I would like to share a few thoughts and a personal experience I have had with the lounge and why it plays such an important and symbolic role in the experiences of women at Michigan State University.

It was a cold morning during January of 2016, and I had walked to the Union to warm up and study for a little bit before heading back to the bus to go to my next class. I went to Biggby (arguably, one of the best parts of the Union aside from the women’s study lounge) to grab a hot drink and, in an uncharacteristic move, I sat in the general part of the union not the women’s study lounge. I took out my books and computer and settled down to start doing my homework, and all of a sudden, someone came and sat down at my table. It was a man who I didn’t know, and he said hello. I was confused and said hello back, and tried to get back to my studies. He started asking me questions about myself, telling me I was pretty, and asking me to buy him books from a store down the road. I was very taken aback and told him that no, I couldn’t; I had just come to the lounge to study. He grew more and more insistent, and it got to the point that I packed up my books and went into the women’s study lounge.

I think this incident, small as it was, really speaks to the heart of the study lounge’s purpose, as stated on the plaque in front of the lounge—its purpose is to provide a “quiet and secure place for women” and a “safe refuge.” In that moment, a moment where I was trying to fulfill my purpose in attending MSU—where another space on campus did not let me do that, the women’s study lounge allowed me to. I am sure countless other Spartan women have similar experiences with the lounge as a place of refuge, a small shelter from a world that otherwise does not always necessarily grant them the ability to exist comfortably—a space where we can study, relax, and worry less about being harassed or heckled.

From the very first day I found the women’s study lounge during my freshman year, I knew it was a special, almost sacred place. I always read the bulletin board in the lounge that listed the month’s events being hosted by the Women’s Resource Center (which, much to my disappointment and anger, no longer stands alone), and it was through that board and the lounge that I attended some of the most enriching lectures and events outside of my classes, and found one of the first student groups I joined at Michigan State. My heart is heavy at the thought of the fact that future generations of Spartan women will not be able to reap the same benefits from the lounge that I and so many women before me have, and I truly urge our administration to reevaluate its decision to convert it. Many women are willing to take a stand, sit in, and fight back to keep it as it is, and I know that I am one of them.

Signed,

Ewurama Appiagyei-Dankah

Once the flights were booked, and the visa secured, the adventure was on the horizon. Nothing but non-stop traveling for 14 days lay ahead.

Our first leg of the adventure was from Detroit to Amsterdam. Driving to the airport with my suitcase and backpack I was filled with anxiety. “What if we miss our flights, what if they lose my luggage, what if, what if, what if,” were the thoughts that plagued my mind. All of which were unwarranted.

Sree and I arrived at DTW, checked our bags in, and said goodbye to his parents. Once the goodbyes had been said, we walked through airport security with the world in front of us. Waiting at the gate we made out final social media posts and waited with unbounded anticipation for the Boeing 747 that would take us across the pond.

Boarding the plane with my grey neck pillow(the neck pillow wouldn’t survive the trip) and blue backpack(which basically contained my life), we meandered our way to our seats and got comfortable. The pilot made his opening remarks, which I ignored, and we watched our pre-flight safety video(hoping to whatever God that exists that we never have to take the precautions that were instructed).

Lifting off of the the tarmac, I immediately plugged in. Listening to Courtney Barnett and playing solitaire-this endeavor occupied me for just about half of the flight. The second half was spent eating the always tasty airline food(what’s the deal with it anyway?), and watching Trainwreck as well as Mad Max: Fury Road.

The plane ride was 7 hours long, and at 7 A.M. local time, we landed in Amsterdam. Contrary to what people usually do in Amsterdam, we did not smoke dope. Instead, we searched for a place to drink(it did not take long).

After much wondering about the airport we found a quaint restaurant named: A taste of the Lowlands. Walking in I asked the waiter: “Do you guys serve beer this early?”

To which the waiter retorted: “Yeah, why not?”

The next course of action was deciding on the beer. Me, being the ignorant American that I am and being from Michigan (the home of the micro brew) asked: “What do you recommend?”

To which the waiter answered: “The tall one.”

A tall pint of Heineken it was then, with a buttered croissant for breakfast. Sree and I regaled in our miniature feast and happily drank our beers, toasting our adventures to come.

Finished, and a little buzzed, we searched for a place to have a quick nap. Low and behold we chose the one spot in the Amsterdam airport that was under construction. With the sound of high powered saws and hammers, we slept, well one of us did.

Once Sree woke up we went back to the same place we had breakfast and ate lunch. Heinekens and another choice of food was the course of action.

At noon, we went to the gate of our flight that would take us to Delhi. After standing in a long queue, and probably annoying the people in front and behind us, we boarded the plane, but not without the attendants pointing out the Dutch origin of my last name.

Once again, we sat in our seats and laid back as our plane lifted off the tarmac and rocketed to 15,000 feet. I fell asleep knowing that when I woke up I would be halfway across the world. No longer did I feel anxious, instead I felt the thrill of the unknown, the thrill of adventure.

Signed,

A Wandering WILB

Shots rang out

Many people began to shout

But the words fell onto deaf ears

A boy laid in the street

When all he wanted was a pack of swisher sweets

And the bullets took the life of a young man

Shots rang out

More people began to shout

But the words fell onto deaf ears

Wearing a hoodie

A boy went to go get some goodies

The night went south

And shots rang out

Many became angry

They wanted their baby back

While the perpetrator just sat and laughed

Shots rang out

People began to shout

But the words fell onto deaf ears

A hot summer day it was

When Michael Brown was killed, just because

His lifeless body sat in the street, while the police idled

Shots rang out

People began to march

But the action was seen by blind eyes

“I can’t breathe!”

Eric Garner wheezed, but the police kept on strangling

They mangled, strangled and shot countless others

But no one even bothers

To fix a system that is blatantly corrupt

I’ve about had enough

Hand me a ladder

So I can preach from this roof:

“BLACK LIVES MATTER!”

The warm mornings give way to even hotter afternoons. Pools are open, mosquitoes swarm, and there never seems to be enough beer. Summertime requires an attitude, a disposition of calibrated cool when even the grass won’t stay green. There are many ways to play the sanity game. For some people, its music. I have never been musically inclined myself, but many of my friends and even some family members are gifted like that. Making notes turn into songs, pulling sounds out of the clear blue sky. It is a form of relaxation and can be as spiritual as being visited by a holy prophet. Over time, this sort of meditation breeds temptation within the mind of another well-wishing hippie love monkey.

I decided I wanted in. I have strummed on a guitar, I have thumped and pounded on the drums. I, too, can be in the jam band man. Maybe I should get a cool headband? NO, no, that’s premature. Before the outfit, I need the instrument. I began searching, for what I wasn’t sure. I was looking for something stylish, classy – and above all else – cool. I want to look good when I play, I want to captivate my audience as I have always been able to do. More important than that, I want to learn how to make music. That look some people have when they play; unbridled passion mixed with quasi-orgasmic ecstasy. Give it to me, I want to feel it father!

The day finally arrived; pay day. I combed through ads on Craigslist until I found my match. She was a modest acoustic guitar, in a deep navy blue. She came with a strap and extra strings, a case and a stand. Everything in one, tailor made for me and my first venture into the musical abyss. A crisp hundred dollar bill is all it took. It was in my arms, my guitar was in my hands. What a kick-ass kind of moment, it was irreplaceable.

I was trying to bring my new girl into tune the next day, and the son of a bitch broke. The string snapped right the hell off. The second smallest one, the one that is the fifth one down the neck, it tightened too tight and snapped off with a monstrous twang. It was actually magnificent. The piece of shit that I just got off Craigslist decided it wanted to be funny, to play a very funny, funny joke on the new guy that thinks he can play. I haven’t touched the guitar since. I’m sure you can imagine we are having an unfortunate disagreement. As my new instrument and I move through grief counseling together, I realize that it won’t be easy. My musical talent won’t be brought into focus with one step. I’m not about to be the next Hendrix or Santana or Garcia. It is going to take time, and effort, to play well.

While I may not be sufficient yet at playing music, what I can do well is cook. Food is my specialty. So what I have decided to include with my piece here is a recipe, because I think that food and cooking is like the way instruments make music. Different notes, sounds and pitches can be heard, and I say even tasted. Adding fresh basil to garnish a dish gives off an intense robust flavor, adding it to the dish during the cooking process yields a more even flavor of comfort and subtlety. I want to share my talent with the world, I want to be applauded. Above all else, if I can end the day by teaching at least one person something, then I can sleep just fine.

Buon Appetito,

Daniel J. Neebes

The NAFTA

1 egg

½ of an Avacodo

1 or 2 slices of tomatoes

1 slice Canadian Bacon (or regular bacon)

Shaved Parmesan

Olive Oil

Salt & Pepper

1. Begin by heating the oven to Broil. Slice tomatoes to desired thickness, drizzle with olive oil, salt and pepper, sprinkle shaved parmesan over each slice and broil for about 2 or 3 minutes on a cookie sheet, until cheese is gold and bubbly.
2. While the tomatoes are in the broiler, fry up the bacon. Regular bacon will give off grease in the pan, save a small amount of this after you’re done cooking the bacon to fry the egg in.
3. In between frying the bacon and making the egg, take your half of avocado with the skin and pit removed, and hold it flat side down so you can get even slices when you cut. Begin to layer the dish: tomatoes on bottom, followed by the slices of bacon (egg after that, and avocado on top).
4. The last step and the most important is the egg. You make it last to make sure it is hot and fresh when you plate the dish. Cook to your liking; sunny side up, over medium, basted, or fried hard and stepped on. Your egg, your way.
5. Top the whole dish with salt and pepper, and serve. Hot Sauce is also a good flavor booster. I would also recommend a piece of toast, English muffin, or a bagel to soak up the good stuff.

At night the light goes out and I am alone. Only the sounds that the wind makes keeps me company. I curl up within my blankets and shut my eyes wishing that it was morning, but the night is long. I shut my eyes only to open them and see darkness, no light penetrates the deep black. I hear the howling of wolves and wonder: “Am I their dinner?” Will this be my last night? After much anxious thought I finally find the sweet release of sleep. But it does not end there.

I awake in a corridor with no windows. I know it is a dream, yet I do not know, the dream allows me no control. Getting up off the floor I follow the dark hallway which is the only direction that I am afforded. The hallway is smoky, dream smoke I call it, and figures jump out at me; faceless and nameless they do not frighten me. I get to the end of the hallway and open the solitary door, the room inside is bright and I can see the outside world from the windows. But I know that I cannot leave.

A statue stands in the corner of the room. I try to forget its presence but I am drawn to it. Inching closer and closer I see the statue has a wide grin on its face.

I call out: “Who are you, who put you here?” No reply is given. I continue to talk: “I am the master of this dream and I command you to speak!”

A thunderous laughter erupts and the once well lit room turns blood red, “You think you are in control do you?” a disembodied voice echoes. All the while the statues expression turns to anguish. “You think that this is your domain?” the voice whispers.

I begin to panic and run to the door but it is bolted: locked.

“Fool!” shouts the voice.

I run up to the statue and give it a smack with my hammer…the hammer breaks.

“The first lie they ever told you was that you were in control. What they never warned you about was the eventual deterioration of your will, or the breakdown of your once flawless constitution. All those ideals you once had; once so noble and true would transform into abominations and falsehoods. You are nothing more than an empty shell, a shell crafted for strong wills like me” cackled the voice.

As if on cue the statue came to life, moving slowly at first like a new born baby learning to walk. Then it began to walk fluidly, making its way towards me with that ominous grin plastered back onto its face. The statue grabs me and opens its mouth letting out a blood curdling scream.

I wake up in a pool of sweat, and see that it is dawn. Birds chirp and squirrels start their day looking for nuts to eat. The trees are greener than ever, and dance in the wind to a silent song. I look up and see a clear blue sky and cannot help but laugh. It was all a bad dream, none of it was real.

I stop laughing but my face feels sore, feels stretched. Touching my face I only feel a smile, trying to frown is impossible. I begin to feel bubbly, almost funny, but at the same time lethal: mean.

Looking out from my camp I see a city, full of people and noise. Oh how the noise hurts my ears, makes me loath the thought of people.

“Let’s go tell them a nice joke, yes? Oooohoo that will be a nice funny one. All of them will think I’m a clown, no, better yet a JOKER!” I squeal as I descend from that camp, ready to wreak mindless havoc on the people below.

Signed,

🙂

I don’t often comment about the political climate in this country using social media. However, today I felt that being silent was no longer an option. In 48 hours, police at different ends of the country killed 2 more young black Americans. A riot broke out in Dallas; a sniper attacked 11 officers of the law, killing 6 at the time of this writing. In the United States, tensions between people and government are running higher than ever. It is a scary time to be alive. You would have to be a fool to not realize that there is a large amount of anger in this country. Some individuals who wish to spew hateful rhetoric that threaten the fabric of our society are tapping into this. I wish to offer my opinion on how we might confront this deep-seated anger that is simmering in our society.

All I ask is that every person in this country educates himself or herself about the people next to them. The world is never worse off for knowing a little bit more. If you are a white person living in America, ask people of colors, all colors that comprise the spectrum of the broad term “minority” (ironic, since black and brown people outnumber white people in the world. But I really don’t have the space on Mitch’s blog to talk about the power structures found in label construction) about their lives, their cultural identity, their norms and practices, and the fears and insecurities they have about what it is to live as a non-white person in the United States. But it shouldn’t just be white people asking People of Color about their lives. People of Color have a responsibility to help educate others about their culture and values. It also means respecting each other. Fun Fact, we are all human so there is no point trying to dominate over another group. You aren’t a conquering warlord. We don’t like those in the 21^st century. If you want to do that, build a time machine, go back in time, and live out your Attila the Hun fantasy.

The best part about education is that it builds respect. You may not like something, but that doesn’t mean you can’t respect it. Respect can change your entire decision and in turn has life-changing effects for others around you. My favorite story about that is: in the end days of the Second World War, American strategists were trying to decide on where to drop the atomic bomb and Kyoto was an initial target. It was removed since one of the men in the war room went on his honeymoon there and didn’t want to see it destroyed. He respected the city and its history. That action spared the city, saving hundreds of thousands of lives. So when you respect something, it changes it for the better.

We can all learn to respect each other more, and non-black people of color like myself can lead the charge. Men need to be raised to respect women. Rape is not ever acceptable. Brown guys need to stop using the n-word. It doesn’t make us look cool. We just sound super douchey in my opinion. I used to be guilty of this myself. But occasionally, being called out for your behavior is a helpful tool that allows you to respect others and changing that action lets others build respect for you.

I am confident in the American public, despite what tragedies befall us as a people. I really do believe that if we start educating the populace about the issues that people of color face, start respecting our neighbors, and ourselves and start working on unity and inclusion, that we will truly reach the Golden Age of humanity. Because lets be honest, when the asteroid that will wipe out humanity is gunning for earth and the space laser we built can’t stop it, we might as well let it take out the best version of humanity out there. The version that works to solve problems that can actually better us all, not just a select few. There is no fun in low ambitions people. So lets strive for the best in humanity.

Signed,

Sree Sarma