I think by now everyone knows I’m from Flint. Or at least many people that read this blog will know I’m from Flint. You’re all probably sick of it, because I know I’m truly tired. I feel the need to justify my pride because I am constantly bombarded with comments such as: “Why do you care? Flint is so far gone,” or “We should just bulldoze it and start over.” My passion is not unwarranted. I am constantly barraged with opinions, and “facts” from people who want to tell me how to feel. I wear my hometown identity symbolically on my back, and physically around my neck with my Michigan necklace with a heart where Flint is. Let me take you back.

My family are constant defenders of Flint. Our family mantra goes something like: “People may give Flint a lot of shit, but it’s been good to us. We’ve built a great life for ourselves in this city.” To my knowledge, I’m a third generation Flint resident. My Grandpa Bob married my Grandma Barb. They bought a house on Oklahoma Avenue, walking distance to my grandpa’s job at the General Motors shop. My dad and uncle grew up in this 900 square foot house, occasionally working at their grandma’s convenience store up the street on Franklin. My dad, himself, walked into the shop at 16 years old, and he’s still there today, but commuting to Lansing now because he lost his job in Flint. They lived in the most prosperous GM universe in the world, to borrow some words from Ben Hamper’s Rivethead. Flint was an incredible city in those days because of the concentration of wealth, with generally low-skill, high-wage jobs that created the strong middle class that politicians today seem to be striving to get back to. GM created the economy in Flint, and that is undeniable whichever way you decide to dice the history of Flint.

Then GM left, slowly, but surely. I could give you the timeline, but I will spare you the details because in the end, it doesn’t matter. If I may speak generally, the people of Flint feel totally abandoned. Our once impressive community school model has crumbled. Just under 10% of the people living in Flint are unemployed. The median income in Flint is under $25,000. To top it all off: we still cannot drink our water. Even if the media or ‘experts’ say we can, I can tell you there is no way in hell that anyone I know is drinking it. That is, if they have a choice, which some in the city do not. Despite these bleak storylines, the pride and drive of Flint’s residents astounds me.

We ran a Flint alternative spring break (ASB) this past spring, through James Madison College. We were there at the pinnacle of media attention that Flint received during the water crisis, as this was the week of the democratic debate between Bernie Sanders and Hillary Clinton. We had 7 participants on the ASB, including myself. They all stayed at my house, and we went out and participated in different service projects, having a great time in the process. We were introduced to so many people that were heading up so many cool initiatives, and I realized that Flint people are more resilient than most. I mean, Flint produced Claressa Shields, the two-time boxing gold medalist who is no doubt putting the city on her back. No one can say we’re not a tough city. Another thing on the ASB trip that changed my perspective on my own city was what a friend of mine, Ewurama, said: “I feel more community here than I do in my hometown. I feel like I belong here. I wouldn’t hesitate to move here after graduation if I got a job here.”

Even though I know all of these things, I will no doubt have the same conversation this fall semester.  Someone will say:“Where are you from?”, and I’ll say: “Flint, Michigan,” proudly. I’ll be ready to defend my city and everyone in it from the genuinely ignorant, and from those who are purposeful in their slights. Great things will always happen in Flint, despite fleeing corporations and politics, Always.

 

Signed,

Mary Kathyrn

Here’s my secret: like millions of other Americans, I have a mental illness. Some days I have the motivation to change the world. Other days I barely have the ability to get out of bed.

A lot of us are masters in disguise. I’ve always hid what I’ve been going through because I felt alone. I felt like it would be a sign of weakness. I knew I’d be viewed as crazy. Because while there’s more understanding and acceptance of mental illness than ever before, there are still some illnesses that fall outside what is considered tolerable. Certain illnesses still invoke more fear and disdain than others, particularly mood and personality disorders, involving delusions, hallucinations, and psychosis.

So how much do we actually know about these disorders, excluding anxiety and depression? Bipolar—my personal poison—is something much greater than dramatized mood swings. It’s a rollercoaster of confusing hills of varying heights that can last for weeks on end. The highs and lows are unpredictable and filled with dark tunnels, and it’s terrifying.

In the short time I’ve lived with my diagnosis, I’ve received a number of misguided reactions from long time “friends.” Following my first full-blown manic episode, I returned home to readjust and stabilize myself with the support of friends and family. I wasn’t expecting some of my longest friends to disappear silently in the shadows, choosing to ignore my debilitating diagnosis. I wasn’t expecting to be slapped with the idea that my inability to manage school was due to my commitment of being a drunken slut.

One friend who had recently scraped through Pysch 101 told me that my education of my own illness was incorrect; I was just exaggerating by dropping out mid semester. Another stressed that he “hadn’t asked for this” after being confronted about his sudden distance. The worst was a friend of nearly 20 years that told anyone who would listen that my story was a stunt for attention. Turns out, my diagnosis was just a plot to disguise my alcoholism and drug abuse. It was even suggested that I take some time to reflect upon my dishonesty. Other than that, they were “so over my drama.” How many times do you have to be rejected and blamed for things out of your control before you start to internalize it?

The truth is if you don’t live with bipolar disorder, or haven’t taken the time to understand a loved one who lives with it, your knowledge is likely limited to the media’s misleading narrative of PMS on steroids. Mental illness isn’t an excuse. It’s a terrifying reality. An astounding 1 in 5 diagnosed with bipolar disorder will complete suicide, a statistic that only sounds out of reach if you’re out of touch. I understand depression, the struggle to stay afloat in a sea of dark thoughts. I understand anxiety, the panic and hopelessness it’s accompanied by, and the frustration of trying to maintain the charade. But without trying to compete in the Pain Olympics, the general public at least has some sense of what these two mean. In regards to personality disorders, there needs to be a drastic change in our understanding of mental illnesses that fall outside the conventional spotlight.

The thought of people identifying me as bipolar is humiliating. It’s so unnerving to me that I originally told my friends my diagnosis was “manic depressive,” an outdated medical term for bipolar. Stupidly, I see depression as invoking sympathy, while bipolar is the adjective reserved for your crazy ex-girlfriend or Michigan’s weather patterns. This isn’t to say that experiencing stigma wasn’t something I dreaded as I hid my depression from my closest friends, but the nature of my relationship to my illness has evolved from something people dismissed and trivialized to something that—on top of all the rest—people are legitimately afraid of. In my mind, a depressed, anxious girl is weak for succumbing to her emotions, but still deserving of sympathy. Her manic counterpart is just downright terrifying.

Mania is much harder to pin down than the lows. It feels like enlightenment, bringing out a world of endless possibilities. It starts as productivity, a burning desire to get shit done. A sudden impulse to organize your closet, your 9^th grade biology notes, your life. It bubbles with a kind of optimism that is easy to welcome as stability, a light at the end of the perpetually dark tunnel. Colors are brighter. Music sounds sweeter. The haze of madness lurks in the distance, but its fine, because suddenly you’re flying, this is different; it’s not madness, just purpose.

To be honest, it’s a little like someone slips you meth every once in a while. There’s a point where you detach from reality and have no comprehension of consequences or time. As the physical limitations begin to fall away, your most assured traits dissolve, replaced by a thoughtless arrogance and an uninhibited recklessness. Pain is less jarring, hunger is unnoticeable, and sleep becomes dull and unnecessary. It’s an incredible high—as addicting as it is terrifying—and it’s startling to finally feel good. Life isn’t a confusing march to death after all; everything is so GREAT you can’t stop smiling. Perfect happiness gives way to a delirious joy, a euphoria that arrives with such ferocity that it threatens to split you in two.

Joy crumbles into irritation, anger, and hysteria. Maybe consequences exist elsewhere but right now it doesn’t matter, because you’re fucking rad and deserve to do whatever you want. Cycling out feels like a morphine drip being ripped from your arm. The inevitability of the dysphoria that follows mania is the most distressing part. I wanted to slit my wrists because I couldn’t comprehend why I kept making these mistakes, couldn’t even remember the series of impulsive, selfish, self-destructive and downright dangerous decisions that littered my past. To go from feeling so much to a droning numbness—I feel like an empty husk of a human being.

Yet the extreme highs and lows of bipolar are the easiest features to accept. No one likes to talk about the other symptoms—the paranoia, hallucinations, hypersexuality, and cognitive impairments—essentially the crazy that lurks beneath our carefully carved masks.

Imagine how frightening it would be if one day you could no longer trust your own mind to control your emotions. If the realness of every murmur in the background and every movement in your peripheral must be called into question. Your entire existence is a walking contradiction. I thought I was someone intelligent, but one day my brain was like molasses and days started to disappear. I thought I was hardworking, but one day my body felt heavy and my legs could no longer carry me out of bed. I thought I had my shit together; I was rational, stable, and definitely not an emotional person. I thought I was driven, but now motivation is a symptom that makes me wary, as I’m unsure which demons may accompany it. It’s hard to appreciate a pass out of the darkness if it means flying too close to the sun.

There are so many questions I have for society and for people who used to be my friends. Why is it easier for you to explain my behavior with an empty fifth than a valid medical diagnosis? Why are antidepressants tossed at patients like candy, despite their dangerous side effects in the event of a misdiagnosis? Honestly, I’m still surprised Olin Health Center didn’t tell me I had mono again. As mental illness awareness is pushed, why are campaigns headlined only by particular illnesses rather than the wide variety that exists? Anything less than a full scale assault on all stigmas for all mental illnesses undermines their gravity and impact on real, living people.

Maybe a raw description of bipolar disorder only serves to support the idea of crazy. I don’t know. I can’t pretend to be an expert in any of this; I’m still new here and obviously I still stigmatize myself. Mental illness is scary and complicated, and I get why the conversation often falls to the background. But if it’s difficult for you to relate to and to understand, imagine how it feels to live with it alone. Unfortunately, there’s no way to pleasantly wrap up a runaway train and make it presentable to those that choose to ignore the alarms rather than understand them.

So to my friend of 20 years that bailed on me when I needed him most: I’ve spent a lot of time reflecting. Turns out you’re an ass.

-xxx

I was inspired to write this post with the passing of Gene Wilder, however, this post is dedicated to those who make us laugh in this fucked up and twisted world of ours.

Laughter and glee; my two favorite emotions (is laughter an emotion? Ah fuck you). It’s not easy to make someone laugh, especially “pee-your-pants” laugh, yet there are those who dedicate their lives in the pursuit of laughter and happiness. These people are special, these people craft jokes and stories for the sole purpose to make people happier. To make people forget all their worries and woes for just a brief moment. To laugh is to live for these people.

Comedians thrive on the obscene and the mundane. Thrive off of the odd and the weird of the world. Contorting what could be a tragic story into something that is hilarious and jovial.

This is why I think that a passing of a comedian is so sad. The comedian holds a special and intimate place in your heart, no one could make you laugh like that, no one could make you bust a gut laughing in that way, and in an instant they are gone. All of the lightheartedness (is that a word? Again fuck you) that they possessed and claimed as their own is sucked out of this world. I compare it to a star going out in the Universe, all the light that they produced in this dark cold place is snuffed out.

What is beautiful, however, is that they remain; all the laughs they conjured live on in their material. Yes, the loss stings like hell. I can remember the day that Robin Williams passed away, I felt empty and hollow. But to remedy this I turned on one of his sets and began to laugh again.

The passing of a comedian may sting, and may hurt like a knife in the gut that they busted with their jokes. But I’m going to tell you the same thing that my dad told me when Robin Williams died: “Don’t be sad, he wouldn’t want us to be sad. He would want us to laugh.”

And laugh we shall.

My hat is off to all of those that dedicate their lives to make this world laugh,

Mitchell Timmerman

The plane landed in New Delhi at about two o’clock in the morning. Awaking from the slumber that I was in, and after much commotion and confusion, Sree and I shuffled off the plane, I felt electric. Finally, the moment I had anticipated for a whole semester, nay, a whole year was here. I had just touched down in India.

The next hour and a half was dedicated to going through customs and retrieving our luggage. After waiting in line for about ten minutes for customs(which I found to be oddly short), I walked up to the desk, passport in hand, ready.

The customs agent looks at me and says: “Do you have your visa?”

I hand him the printed online eVisa that I had applied for, and he just looks back at me with a blank stare and points me toward the eVisa line(stupid American).

This line was not as short and took a hell of a lot longer. Walking up for a second time to the customs desk I felt anxious: “Oh shit, what if I forgot something, what if I printed the wrong paper, what if they don’t let me in the country, what if I’m in the wrong line again!?” But all these worries were redundant and I was allowed entry.

Grabbing our bags, and exchanging our currency, we finally made it out of the airport and met our driver. Communication was minimal, the driver knew where we had to go and Sree and I were both exhausted.

We drove for about an hour to our resting place(a guest house at an army club).

Upon arrival we were met by a man, I’m assuming was the caretaker of the establishment. The driver said something in Hindi, the manager said something back. The manager glanced at Sree and myself, and then said something to the driver. Keep in mind, while all of this is going on, not a single light was on; we’re in the dark(myself quite literally, stupid American can only speak english and broken french).

Finally, we were led to our room. Upon seeing the bed, I threw myself onto it and let the mosquitoes serenade me with their buzzing in my ear for four hours.

We awoke at seven o’clock in the morning(0700 for those on military time), and begin to prepare for our day trip to Agra. But before we did anything we had to have Chai. I donned a button up shirt, a pair of khaki pants, and my goofy tourist hat that would become infamous by the end of the trip(consult Sree on the matter, I’m sure he’ll tell you).

After a three hour drive through the countryside we arrive in Agra. Driving through the streets, bobbing and weaving through traffic I observe the daily life for the average Indian fly by: street vendors, stands for food and drink, and cows. Cows roam about undisturbed, at times even walking into traffic becoming apart of the ebb and flow of the constant and erratic traffic.

We finally arrive at our destination: the Taj Mahal. The heat beat down on us, and oppressed us to no end. Meeting our tour guide, who looks no older than Sree and I, maybe even younger, we make our way towards the monument.

Walking through the West Gate, I immediately feel a sense of awe. Walking in the footsteps of contemporary dignitaries, those of old, and the hundreds of thousands of workers that have maintained this wonder makes me feel a sense of historical glee. The monument sat and glistened in the Agra heat, the marble looked as if it had just been built the day before, but this monument had endured ages: simply amazing!

This moment is short lived as our professional photographer begins to make Sree and I take photos(much to Sree’s frustration). Meandering through throngs of people, disrupting other visitors, and causing a ruckus or two, Sree comments: “This feels like Senior pictures all over again.”

To which I reply: “Yeah, but only with a famous and historical back drop.”

Our photographer moves us across the courtyard, silly pose after silly pose(again much to Sree’s disdain). Finally our last photo is taken and our tour guide takes us inside the Taj.

Making our way inside, with anxious tourists shoulder to shoulder, and the occasional nudge, we arrived in the antechamber. Inside this room is where the late Queen(the inspiration for the Taj) and the late King(the architect of the Taj) are buried.

After a moments glance at the tombs, an enthusiastic and charismatic guide(who seemed literally to come out of the walls) begins to educate me on the ornamentation within the marble walls. Shining a light onto one of the many colored stones induces it to illuminate. My mind then begins to wander and wonder about how beautiful the inside must look on a full moon.

We exit through the South Gate and proceed toward the village adjacent to the Taj. It’s in this village that we go to a marble shop and get our pictures developed. This seems pretty rudimentary, but we were told not to bring money to the Taj per a family friend’s advice.

So, while I’m busy being pitched a sale on a marble box, Sree comes up to me and says: “Yo, I don’t have any money, you’re gonna have to buy these pictures,”(luckily they took credit cards).

Finally, we took an auto(a three wheeled yellow box) car back to our original vehicle. It’s in this auto ride that our tour guide informs us that our tour had cost $25 USD each. Sree and I both looked at each other with one expression:”Oh fuck,”(they didn’t take credit cards).

Arriving back to our car, Sree begins to tell our driver that we have no money to pay the tour guide, and promises that he will be paid back as soon as we make it back to our luggage. The situation is diffused, and we finally begin our trip back to Delhi. Our first full day in India was not even half over.

When I started this blog I never knew what it would become. I honestly thought that it would just be me writing stupid little stories and having 10 to 12 people read them. I never would have thought, or dreamed, about creating a community of writers, free to share their otherwise personal writing. This blog is more than just the product of one man’s boredom and desire for others to read his writing, this blog is made possible by YOU-yes you-the guest writers, and the readers.

I say this because I do have some news that will really cut down on the amount of pieces that I WILB posting on the blog: I am leaving the country to go study in Lille, France. It has been a dream of mine, ever since I started learning the French language, to go and study in France. And so, the dream is upon us, I leave in less than two weeks. The traveling, and the general frolicking that I will be doing in Europe is going to cause the blog posts to slow down a bit, but I hope you will stick around.

In fact, this is why I wrote this post. When I am abroad, please continue to send me your writing, your thoughts, your woes(lord knows there may be a lot come November). Just because I am slowing down does not mean you should, the Wilbblog’s life force is the guest writers, without you I would just be another asshole with a blog.

Signed,

A Wandering WILB

Last summer, my whole family gathered for a sendoff party before I went to college. I sat in a lawn chair, sipped my punch and numbly nodded my way through a thousand questions about what I was going to do with my life. Each interrogation about my plans for the future was punctuated by enthusiastic proclamations about how wonderful my next four years would be.

     Your glory days, they said. A time to just have fun, they said. I wish I could go back, almost all of them said, I never worried back then.

They did an excellent job of hyping up the whole experience, but as I opened my graduation cards that night and realized that I was going to have to put almost all of the money I received towards my tuition, I wondered just how carefree and blissful my next four years were going to be.

Look, I’ve had lots of fun in college so far, and I’m excited for what the next few years bring. But I would be lying through my teeth if I told you I wasn’t terrified about the future. The truth is, it’s very, very hard to be young these days. And there are a lot of reasons for that.

But let’s start with the most obvious one: If all of those well-wishers are correct, if this really is “the beginning of my life,” then I’m coming out of the gate bogged down by tens of thousands of dollars in debt. If I want to establish myself as a competitive candidate for meaningful employment, I’ll need to rack up double that debt for a master’s degree program. To do that, I’ll need to get a job in the interim to start chipping away at not only those debts, but also the regular, day-to-day expenses that everyone has to deal with.

So this summer, that’s what I did. I got not only one job, but two jobs, both on campus to minimize transportation costs. Both of my jobs paid Michigan’s minimum wage–$8.50 an hour. Not ideal, but the best I can do without a degree. I worked my ass off, full time, at minimum wage. I breathed in paint fumes at a maintenance job all day, every day and then pumped my body full of unhealthy amounts of caffeine and walked a mile in the dark (alone, armed with nothing but pepper spray) to work an overnight shift after that. Still I was unable to pay for gas, food, and rent–and compared to my friends, my rent was cheap. Now consider the fact that, during the school year, the time I can work is cut in half. Consider the fact that the current cost of a single credit hour (not a single semester, not a single class…a single credit hour of one class, mind you) is $452 and rising. Even if the rate held at $452, it would take me a full month’s salary to pay off that one credit hour. I haven’t calculated what it would take me to pay off all the credit hours necessary to earn my degree, because that would be overwhelmingly depressing.

My current economic situation is exactly the type of problem plaguing millions of people today. Global capitalism has shunted the flow of wealth towards the already-rich with such stunning effectiveness that 62 people are now as rich as half of the world’s population combined. Meanwhile, the poor only get poorer, and in industrialized nations such as the United States, the middle class–once the sign of a thriving national economy–is shrinking. For women and people of color, wealth gaps are even harder to close, and they’re only widening. Everything is becoming less and less affordable for more and more people, from the cost of college to the cost of housing to the cost of cars. The economic future of this country and this world has been dropped into the bloody hands of an elite few, and they would do anything to gain more money and more power. What a time to be entering the job market!

But that’s not the only reason why it is so terrifying to be young these days. Even scarier than drowning in an ocean of debt is drowning in the actual ocean, and with each passing day it looks more and more like I’ll meet my end in a watery grave. Every month for the past fourteen months has been the hottest month in recorded history. And besides giving my poor pale boyfriend a horrible sunburn, there are massive consequences to that. Right now, Louisiana is being washed away by floods of biblical proportions. The parts of California not ablaze in wildfire are shriveling in drought. A village in Alaska has voted to uproot their lives and move because the ground beneath them is literally melting away. And that’s just in the United States. In poor countries, the effects of climate change are even more severe. Recently, the capital of Macedonia was obliterated by floods that killed dozens of people. Climate change has exacerbated wars in the Horn of Africa. I could go on and on and on, but I think you get the picture, and hopefully you agree that it looks pretty apocalyptic.

Although I suppose that if climate change doesn’t bring about the armageddon, war will. If only we could just stop fighting, or at least chill out and not buy $1.8 trillion worth of killing machines that the army doesn’t even need, but neither of those seem like options for the future thanks to our disastrous foreign policy consensus. The financial cost is massive, but the human cost is even greater. 461,000 Iraqi civilians and nearly 5,000 US soldiers have been killed for absolutely no reason. Wars in Iraq and Afghanistan have destabilized the globe, causing terrorism to flourish. Every single day, terrorists conduct operations that kill innocent civilians across the globe, from France to Pakistan to Mali to Russia to Orlando, Florida. I have to strip down to my socks to get on a plane and every time I turn on the news another city has become a place that I’m supposed to pray for.

And if I’m not hearing about how I need to pray for a city afflicted by terrorism, I’m seeing the names of black men reduced to hashtags by a racist cop’s bullets. I’m watching in horror as my country’s institutional elites rig elections in their own favor. I haven’t even touched on the millions of families that have been ripped apart by deportations and our broken immigration system. Nor have I mentioned the fact that the NSA is spying on US citizens, the fact that the US routinely kills civilians in drone strikes overseas, the litany of problems plaguing our justice system, the epidemic of rape on college campuses, the issues destroying our school system, the fact that segregation is still a major problem in our cities, or the fact that there is an active effort to suppress voting rights unfolding across the country.

It is impossible to rid our world of its problems, but it is nothing short of irresponsible–no, frankly, suicidal–to suggest that we should face the staggering list of challenges threatening our country by reinforcing the same old policies that got us into this mess in the first place. A vote for Hillary Clinton is a vote for the status quo. It is a vote in favor of the Iraq War and countless useless, hawkish wars after that. It is a vote against raising the minimum wage to a living wage, a vote in favor of money in politics and the rigging of elections. Hillary Clinton and her husband spearheaded many of the crime bills that have led to the irreversibly damaging mass incarceration system which has destroyed millions of black lives and black communities; she dehumanized poor black and brown youths by referring to them as “superpredators“.  Hillary’s main donors are the financial elites that brought about the collapse of 2008 that tanked the global economy; she has no plan to prevent these people from playing fast and loose with your money in the future. She claims that she will help students like me by making tuition free, but why should I believe a woman who has lied so many times before? Hillary Clinton’s foreign policy facilitates right wing coups against democratically-elected governments, throwing countries into chaos and leaving the rest of the world to deal with those dangerous reverberations.

The United States–and the world–will soon reach the breaking point on a number of serious issues. We will have to decide whether or not we are brave enough to overhaul the broken system we currently have, or if we desire the easy-in-the-short-term solution of sticking with what we know. For me, the answer is easy. I know that the world needs to change. I’ve lived the struggle of an unequal society and I can’t, with a clear conscience, do anything that would support the continuation of such oppression and inequality. So when it came time for me to cast my ballot, I voted for the man who was brave enough to vote with the future in mind. The man who held Vermont’s first pride parade, decades before LGBTQ issues were socially acceptable to even discuss in public. The man who has fought consistently for workers’ rights and against the anti-labor trade deals that have cost millions of people their jobs. The man who proudly stood against the Iraq War even as his Senate colleagues were duped by lies, fear, and the promises of wealth and power. The man who has consistently stood with the best interests of the public even in the face of the immense wealth, manipulation, and power of the world’s elite. I voted for the man who boldly fought the status quo for his entire life. I voted for Bernie Sanders. And I will never stop fighting for his political revolution. Because the world can’t wait any longer.

Signed,

Eloise Mitchell

Check out Eloise’s Blog: https://shutupeloiseblog.wordpress.com

 

Laughter, from head to toe and edge to edge, fills the chest with lack of dread.

I find this to be true in many respects, especially for my own survival. I need to laugh. Much like a washer needs a dryer, and the broom needs the dust pan, I must find the funny to combat the idle woes. The action itself is satisfying to me. Think about it, when you tilt your head to the side and just give way to the giggles, you are doing yourself a favor. Laughing releases endorphins into your brain, following the activation of the ventromedial prefrontal cortex, to say nothing of the infectious way that laughter can spread, from person to person. Traveling unknown miles and indeterminate levels of consciousness, “funny” forms in ways we can’t explain.

In my family, my mom is the one. Ya know, the one that can’t stop laughing. She’s the one at the dinner table that covers her whole face with a dish towel because she can’t stop laughing. The same one that runs to the bathroom on the frequent occasion that she actually wets herself. Ma is the one that laughs so hard, by the time she actually gets around to explaining what it was that was so funny, it’s not funny anymore. She’s completely uncontrollable, and it’s hilarious. From showing me how to make Lasagna, to shopping for evening gowns, and to late-night binge watching The Golden Girls and Friends, my mother and I have a laugh every chance we can. I have often said that my Mom is my best friend, and I think it’s because we can find all the fun in the world by doing nothing at all. Rochelle is the main reason I write this story today.

It is paramount to create friendship, fellowship, and togetherness, among brothers and sisters built on trust and understanding. A community of peaceful companions is not found, but fortified. Brick by brick, trust is built. If enough effort is devoted to the cause of cohesion, safety and security will begin to materialize. For example, since my brother and I were very young, we have been referred to as ‘brother.’ My mom would phrase it in such a way, too. “Where’s brother? Go get brother!” His name, Dylan, wasn’t important. My name, Daniel, was not important either. We were brothers, to each other and for each other. Thus, we were created equal, in the eyes of our parents and in our own. I have never had a biological sister so I cannot comment on the bond that is forged in that respect.

Expanding on this idea, to develop a sense of kinship between scholars instead of siblings takes a little more work. Some children, if this you can believe, were actually brought up to believe they could do no wrong. I do not respond to this well. This is one main reason I never joined a social fraternity here on campus. It seemed, to me at least, that it was hordes of young men who never learned how to be a brother before they became one. According to my twisted view, the fraternity is supposed to be about a sense of honor for each brother and the fathers that came before. My friends, who shall remain nameless for they already know whom they are, represent the very best and the very brightest. Artists and authors, Jews and gentiles, rich and poor, musicians and magicians; these are my people. So, what we decided to do was form a brotherhood around us and call it a fraternity. The gang is better when its altogether. Harmony is but a drug, too sweet to insatiate.

The real world is scary at times. I may have bills to pay, debts owed, books to read, people to see, and things to do; but so long as I have air in my body, I will laugh until someone laughs with me, and with my friends I never have to laugh too long.

Cheers,

Daniel J. Neebes

What a time to be alive. Not because the American 2016 election is a soap opera. Not because the UK is leaving the EU, sending Europe into a frenzy. Not because the Olympics are taking over everything on our T.V’s and social media. Ladies and gentlemen, we are living in the most extraordinary time to be a Star Wars fan.

As an avid supporter, Star Wars continues to hit me in the face every week. Almost a month ago, the Star Wars Celebration 2016 concluded and I’ve realized that never before have Star Wars fans had the accessibility to information about everything Star Wars. 63 videos have been uploaded from the 3 day event onto the official Star Wars Youtube account and I have still not finished watching it all. We are in the midst of a cultural phenomenon never before witnessed on our pale blue dot. The Force Awakens broke dozens of box office records last December and that was only the first of 6 Star Wars films to be released in the next 5 years. This year our theaters worldwide will be graced by Rogue One: A Star Wars Story, the first installment of a Star Wars film independent from the Skywalker Saga covering episodes 1-9, and they are releasing a new trailer on Thursday during NBC’s Olympic coverage (hence the timing of this post). Rian Johnson’s episode 8 in December 2017 will see the (real) return of Luke Skywalker, more Daisy Ridley (Rey), the evolution of Kylo Ren, and so much more, promising to be perhaps the best Star Wars film ever. What a time to be alive.

However, whether you are a fan or not, as members of humankind, recent world events also allows us to take in Star Wars as the guide to our actions (this is where the WILBing begins). In the words of my dear uncle Buck, everything always comes back to Star Wars; it is a metaphor for all things in life. In recent months, fear, division, and instability has dominated the psyche of people around the world. Nevertheless, Star Wars stands strong as a beacon of cosmopolitanism.

If you support Star Wars, you support cosmopolitanism. Regardless of species, race, or planetary origin, all creatures in the galaxy far far away are either light or dark. Loving and caring for our fellow humankind regardless of nationality, religion, skin color, etc. is something our world does not perform enough. For the movie production itself, Disney/Lucasfilm has made a point to hire a variety of actors spanning all races and genders in all of its Star Wars installments in order to represent the whole of our world in their galaxy.

Lately in the real world, cosmopolitanism is on a downward trend. However, when dissecting Star Wars there are countless metaphorical responses to these anti-cosmopolitan events. The American presidential election has been a long fear mongering festival: fear of Muslims, fear of immigrants, fear of the global economy, the list goes on. If you know Star Wars, then you know to never forget the wise words of Master Yoda: “Fear is the path to the dark side. Fear leads to anger, anger leads to hate, hate leads to suffering.” The Dark Side flourishes with fear. In times like these, there are those trying to take advantage of these fearful moments and take more power while they can. Hitler did it in 1930’s Germany. Chancellor Palpatine did it during the Clone Wars. America must not forget Padme Amidala’s shocking discovery: “So this is how liberty dies… With thunderous applause.” Like young Luke Skywalker, it might be difficult for us in such chaotic times to tell the good things from the bad things, but again Master Yoda hits us with the wisdom: “you will know when you are calm, at peace, passive.” A true Jedi is cosmopolitan. They identify not with a species or a planet; their ally is the Force and they protect anyone and anything it touches. Unfortunately, evil does sometimes win, as the Revenge of the Sith and the Empire Strikes Back demonstrates. However, we know that the sentiment and power of the Jedi will always win in the end. The central theme that guides the Jedi is the inherent cosmopolitanism they promote through the Force. So, my fellow believers in a better world, ask yourself more often “What would Yoda do?” (#WWYD) and you’ll find yourself acting much more like a cosmopolitan, much more like a true Jedi. If you don’t believe in me and this message, well, I find your lack of faith disturbing.

May the Force Be With You All,

Casey Copp

Editors note: the author of this piece is a 19 year old college student. He does not claim to know about life, nor does he know how you should live. This is his perspective, nothing more nothing less.

Going to college has really opened my eyes to how life really is. At times it can be really great, and at other times it can be really shitty.

I just recently started to live on my own. In doing so I’ve learned how to cook myself, learned how to pay bills, and realize that you have to pay to have your trash removed.

This summer has also taught me how important friendship is, and how more important family. However, learning how to balance both is challenging as hell.

Yesterday I had to say goodbye to some good friends(dare I say best friends), friends that I will not see until January of next year. I would by lying if I said it didn’t hurt like hell. You go from seeing them just about everyday for a year and then don’t end up seeing them for days, weeks, months at a time.

Is this what adulthood is like? Not seeing the people you truly care about because of school, and work.

Everyone seems to be moving forward, while I am wishing for those rare moments where everyone I care about is in one place would last forever.

So, I’m writing this post because it’s the only way I know how to work through it.

Growing up is hard, you have to begin to face the harsh reality that the moments you have with the people you care about are fleeting.

One silver lining in this hurricane we call life is: the people that REALLY matter will stick around. You’ll leave for a period of time, come back, and pick up exactly where you left off.

But damn does saying goodbye hurt.

So I say to those that I love; both family and friends: You all hold a special place in my heart. Never will I take your company for granted, and I hope you all feel the same. Because without all of you I do not know where I would be.

Until next time,

Mitchell Timmerman

The title speaks for itself. This thing happened, and it happened to me. You don’t imagine that you will no longer be allowed to come into work anymore. It’s not exactly out of the realm of possibility, but getting the pink slip usually doesn’t come on the everyday radar of what you think about. This day was like any other, and that’s actually the tragic part. I had only been in the job about four months, I was just starting to make headway with my coworkers and supervisors alike. I made them laugh, they made me work. I put a smile on their face, they put a mop in my hand. The world went round and round.

I was a waiter at a big banquet hall, I was one out of a hundred-fifty servers. I really enjoyed the job, it was fast paced and always interesting. One of my first shifts was serving breakfast to a crowd of about fifteen people who were on a religious retreat for marriage counseling. It was frigid that morning, and I had to be at work at 6 A.M. When I strolled in with usual prowess at 6:20, I found a nearly empty building with sleep-walking staff. Of course they weren’t happy with me, but it was only twenty minutes and we had a job to do. We got to work setting up silverware, making sure the linen was positioned just so, fixing floral arrangements, and sobering up. You see, I had a few beers the night before, and setting an alarm for 5:30 in the God damn morning was so crushing that I decided to have a few more. So when the clock struck 8, that’s when I was finally awake.

Before you wash me in your judgement, let me explain to you how good I had gotten at this. The summer before, I made it through a sales meeting and two conference calls with nothing but Tequila and self-loathing in my system. While working at a fast-food restaurant, I was once so high that I took three giant gulps out of a strawberry milkshake before I realized it wasn’t mine. For a period of time I was working over 60 hours a week at two different jobs. Any free time I had was used to calm down and smoke weed. So what? I am young and full of life, these are the years for stupidity to trump responsibility.

Unfortunately, responsibility came a-knockin. My service as a waiter was good enough to be yelled at one minute, and congratulated the next. A table full of old white ladies will drink two full pots of coffee before you can say: “Lubriderm,” but serving lunch to a hungry hockey team is about shoveling the carbohydrates at them by the truck load and staying out of the way when they feast. Despite my fast formation of rich experience in the food service industry, I had yet to grasp the concept of arriving on time. It plagues me still to this day. Occasionally, by extraordinary circumstances that belong in the anthology of whimsy and caprice. Normally, I am the guy that forgets just about everything upon departure. My wallet is in yesterday’s jeans, phone still plugged in the wall, and my glasses are on top of that book in the corner by the thing.

I’m always late. I know it, and now you know it. Why hadn’t my employer jumped on board with my tardiness? Well, you see they had a system; three strikes and you’re out. I was on my second strike when judgement day came. I turned 21 in February, and then my very dear friend and roommate Shomari turned 21 the following April. We went out, as college kids do, to celebrate legally the thing we have been doing twice a week for three years. On this particular special occasion, I let it all go. Stress, inhibition, resentment, and responsibility. Nothing mattered to me. Not in that bar, not on that raining spring night. I had two Long Islands and a Jagger bomb, then a cold beer and two shots of Tequila. I followed that with 15 minutes on the dance floor and then knocked back a shot of fireball. Now children, some people refer to this state of mind as “Lit,” others might look upon my sloppy drunk self and make the determination that I was “Turnt.” That’s all bunk. I wasn’t any of those things. I was fucked-up-shit-faced-fallin-down hammered. Gone. Wasted. Lights out. I spent that night not in my bed, but praying at the altar of the toilet.

The following morning I was scheduled to be in at 8:30 am, with another shift following that at 11 am. I didn’t wake up until 10:15, which thankfully gave me enough time to get ready for my second shift but did nothing to excuse my absence from the first. I had three missed calls and a really bad case of the spins. I walk into work, sweating profusely and cringing at the thought of how quickly my shit got out of hand. This particular afternoon, our guest of honor was none other than Michigan Governor Rick Snyder. I completely forgot, the disgraced dweeb that occupies the Statehouse was coming to my house that day. The hall filled with movers and shakers. I stood in the wings, still quite drunk. The Governor moved through the room, shaking hands and posing for pictures. He came around my end of the room, and started to make his way to the podium to deliver remarks. I extended my hand and said “Thank you for coming, Governor.” He smiled, said thank you, and kept moving. It was just a few moments afterward that I was summoned to the managing office, and was notified that my employment had been terminated. The symmetry of the whole thing was what I most admired. The Governor, for whatever you might think about him, oversaw the poisoning of an American city and held on to his job despite demonstrating gross incompetency and multilateral failure. Alternatively, I had poisoned my own self just one too many times and was given the boot.

Draw your own conclusions. You may think I am alcoholic that needs Jesus. You may believe I demonstrated poor judgement when I went to the bar instead of my bed. And you may even think that I deserved to be on the street without a job. Here’s what I think: much of my life is going to be in the service of others, so it was good to learn early on that I cannot be a drunkard and act like it’s all good. The kind of jobs I have had require high output with low reward, they need a body on the floor and not a mind at work. Yet, it is clear to see that the people at ‘the top’ have a concept of responsibility that is slim to none. Governor Snyder declared the City of Flint to be an emergency situation nearly two years after the fact. Senator Rubio was running for President so long, that he actually forgot to go to the U.S. Senate and do his job. Secretary Clinton didn’t want to be bothered by federal regulations, set to the tune of multiple investigations and crooked dimensions. Those at the top, which is to say the bourgeoisie capitalist class, require so much of the working poor that we begin to fill with resentment and allow ourselves to be victim to substance. I get drunk because I don’t appreciate being barked at all day. I smoke myself a joint because it is the only thing that keeps me from telling the boss man how I really feel. What’s more, this instills in me a work ethic. That determination of hard work, the one that the almighty capitalist said I could not live without, is now on course to demolish the very notion of such an existence. I will stop showing up late, and I will learn to live without the liquor. I am willing to stand up and take responsibility for what I have done, both good and bad. Why is it hypocrisy to demand the exact same of the people whom call themselves our leaders?

Cheers,

Daniel J. Neebes