Inspiration

UGA Flash Mob

April 2011

"More" by Usher

Remembering an American Tragedy

I was sitting in my seventh grade social studies class. I thought having substitute teachers in all of my classes that day was unusual, but my social studies teacher returned midway through--about a half hour before school was over. She brought news of the earth-shattering variety.

How could we be attacked? Who would do that?

I didn't understand it until I returned home to see both my parents watching the news. They weren't usually home until dinner time. Seeing the replay of planes crashing into the Twin Towers with my own virgin eyes made it real but it still didn't make sense.

I thought we were safe. America is the greatest country in the world. We're invincible right?

Fear grew each time the towers crumbled on ensuing news replays. Not only were both towers attacked, the Pentagon was also hit by a hijacked plane, and yet another hijacked plane crash landed in a field in Shanksville, Pa.

Thousands of innocent lives were lost that day. A nation fancying itself invincible was riddled with fear and smarting from the harsh blow of reality. Though our country is great, we are not invincible. Nobody is guaranteed tomorrow.

News reports for the following months heavily focused on renewing the sense of security we--as Americans--had grown accustomed to. There were reports about what to do in case warfare escalated to the point of nuclear warfare. Computer models illustrated how to turn a household bathroom into a safe-house by covering the edges of the doors with plastic and duct tape, and sealing off vents completely to prevent extensive radiation exposure.

I made sure my parents paid attention to these reports by quizzing whether we'd be prepared to stick out the fallout. I wasn't sure I'd be around to get my driver's license, or even have a girlfriend. For all I knew, Smitha Middle school could be the next target.

Ten years later, I'm still around. I'm about to graduate from college and partake in real life. Many things have changed since 9/11. Some good, some bad. I can't imagine the heartache of those who lost loved ones that day. Thoughts and prayers of countless people including myself have been with them and I sincerely hope that they will be united with those they lost in paradise.

For those of us who remember Sept. 11, 2001, we remember where we were. We remember the onset of fear, gripped by the notion that we could be next.

However, we were united as citizens of the United States of America, the greatest country on earth. Nobody can take that from us.

They see me trollin'

On campus and around town, I've noticed the return of everyone's favorite fire-and-brimstone preachers. You know, the ones who kindly inform you that you're going to Hell as you try to enjoy your Chic-Fil-A or cram for the upcoming chemistry test.

I'm often temped to confront these people, to challenge them for shouting such a distorted version of my faith, and I've seen many other people do just that. However, I've come to realize that the best solution here is to do the opposite.

This epiphany came from an unexpected place. Like most people my age, I spend way too much time on the internet. Instead of Facbook stalking, I lurk around favorite sites, read news and play crappy Flash clones of Pac Man.

I've learned a lot of important lessons from my time online. I know that doing a Google image search for Disney princesses can destroy a childhood. I know that there's not a Nigerian prince that wants to send me millions of dollars.

A Tate Preacher, sans mask.

But the most valuable lesson I learned is applicable to real life as well: Don't feed the trolls.

Online, trolls are people who post in forums, blogs, or elsewhere with the intent of harassing and riling others up. A troll is successful when it gets lots of counter posts and comments, causing people to devote time and energy towards a fruitless task.

These trolls don't just haunt online message boards--they're real, and they're all around us.

There's something to be said for standing up for what you believe in and openly criticizing those who take on ridiculous and dangerous agendas. Even if you don't convince them to change their minds, you can at least deter others from following them.

But when those people are beyond convincing, and no one takes them seriously anyway, you're just adding fuel to their fire. I think this is the case for most of the infamous ""Tate Preachers." Confronting them just draws attention and gives them an audience, which is exactly what they want. Even if your logic prevails and you out-argue them, they've already won.

As the oldest of four boys, I know a thing or two about real life trolling. Growing up, my brothers would harass me and I'd go complain to my mother.

She would always respond, "Just ignore them, and they'll go away." Sure enough, it usually worked.

Without the satisfaction of my annoyance and attention, my brothers would get bored and go elsewhere. Maybe if we just ignored the Tate Preachers, they'd go away, too.

The Officials Are All White

When President Obama was sworn into Office, the term "post-racial" was batted around — the idea that America had overcome a considerable history of racial barriers.

But seldom is anything so simple. And voting one non-white person into a high ranking office does not discount decades of bad cultural programming.

Take Georgia’s new Immigration Enforcement Review Board, for instance.

The board was created after House Bill 87 and is comprised of seven white male members. Governor Deal's communication director Brian Robinson implied that the members’ varied occupational backgrounds serve as diversity enough for the board's purpose. He also pointed out that appointees were chosen by three (Republican, white male) people – curtailing the chance of bias.

But Robinson is missing the point.

Race, class, sex, sexual orientation and other life factors do affect your experiences. More to the point, they affect your privileges.

Though I'm sure these white men have worked very hard to get where they are, they also had a higher starting point — birth in a first world country, less chance of racial stereotyping and access to higher pay and better education, to name a few. Different occupations does not count as diversity.

When governments fail to represent the people by including them, the priorities of many are overlooked in favor of the people in the room. We've seen this with slavery, suffrage, Japanese internment, Native American rights and gay rights.

We're not beyond our history. We're repeating it. It's not an accident that only the needs of white upper class men were served in our nation's founding and it won't be an accident when the Immigration Enforcement Review Board's decisions chiefly serve the needs and desires of these white, upper class men.

To suggest these board members can speak for and review the situations of people — people whose ideas and cultural ideals they may not even have access to — is absurd.

And they will be reviewing people, no matter how many times Robinson insists the board will only be reviewing local governments. If they aren't reviewing the people and community making up that government, then what are they reviewing — the buildings?

Including people as tokens is problematic. And members of different races and sexes on this board would not guarantee just rulings. But it would be a start. It would at least introduce the chance of objections.

Government is meant to be for and by the people. But when government creates homogeneous organizations, the only people that government stands for is themselves.

Let's Talk About It

Guys, you won’t believe what I saw yesterday. I totally saw a magician in the student center. He wasn’t wearing a cape or anything, because he was a modern magician. Instead, he had what I could only assume was a utility belt for his craft. Each pocket had Wiccan-like symbols on it, which only added to the enigma surrounding his being. I was intrigued, to say the least.

See, I actually work at the student center doling out bits of information to any lost patron. “Why, yes I do know where the bathrooms are!” “Of course I’m a student here (you clearly just interrupted my homework).” “Believe it or not, I have a map right here.” Our goal is to make everyone feel welcome to approach the desk with any question, and written in the manual is a rule to help achieve this: Every person that comes within 5 feet of me, I must acknowledge verbally.

I love it. It’s not answering questions that I love, but talking to the people that are comfortable enough to carry on long conversations with an info desk employee. I’m like the sober man’s bartender.

You can imagine the characters that wander through on any given day. People who mistake me for being fluent in Spanish, people who have never been to Georgia before, people who are looking for the airport and somehow wound up at the student center but “that’s okay because I would like to show you a few tricks”—they’re all there. And the magician.

He’s what made me appreciate it the most, I think. He just wanted some coffee, and I just wanted his life story. He never told it to me, but that’s okay. I’m persistent and I work a lot. I’ll get it out of him.

Besides, I have the 5-foot rule on my side.

PDA: Public Displays of Annoyance

Congratulations, you just ruined my lunch. And I have no idea who you are.

I’m simply trying to enjoy a euphoric moment with my Chick- Fil-A sandwich and you’re practically fornicating in the Tate Grand Hall.

Okay, fine, I over exaggerate.

But sharing iPod earbuds and feeding one another in blatant view of students is the public equivalent of foreplay. And I have no interest in joining in some kind of voyeuristic ménage trois.

Perhaps it’s the warm weather that has heightened coed’s libidos this season, but I have never seen such overtly expressive displays of public affection. From being practically welded together in the SLC, holding a kiss before a lecture starts in a three hundred-person class, or even getting a nice handful at the Tate Plaza bus stop, PDA is everywhere. Are you actually aware of how many people are around?

Then there’s what I have dubbed the “couple shuffle”. For some reason this is generally specific to one type of couple: the athlete-esque jock with swollen arms and “shorts” grazing his calves, entwined around a petite, box-highlighted pixie. He’s all but pushing her forward with his arm cuffed around her waist. She’s not a balloon. She won’t float away. And I assure you, she can’t run in them little high heels.

Even worse is when a couple looks like they could be related. Two toe-head blondes of similar height, and god forbid, in matching clothing, macking on each other is just plain creepy.

Don’t get me wrong; I’m by no means a cold-hearted person. When I’m in a committed relationship, I have no problem with a soft kiss on the cheek or tender hand on my leg while we’re out with a group. But I’m not about give you a lap dance in a student learning center.

Let us not forget the most crucial thing of all: we are in college. Preparing ourselves for careers and the “real world”. This is no longer high school where it was adorable to paint your crush’s football number on your cheek and skip down to the end zone after he scored the winning touchdown, only to leap into his arms. We are surrounded by professors and professionals that could potentially further or impede our hopeful careers.

Unfortunately, the public displays of affection (annoyance) have diffused into a rampant epidemic. And the fine line between endearing and obnoxious has been violated.

Hush that Fuss

Everybody move to the back of the bus. “But really, we need to get more people on here.” That’s a common thing to hear on the UGA buses. It’s never accompanied by a “please,” either. Instead the more common adverb “now” is attached, along with a pissy attitude quite characteristic of most bus drivers on campus.

They’ve got road rage and I’ve been noticing it a lot lately. The bus drivers have very little patience for people on the sidewalks. Or crossing the street. Or driving in the lane next to them. Or doing anything that contributes to traffic at all.

I get it. I mean, if it were me behind the wheel, the horn would go off like "Little Miss Sunshine" and every bright-eyed bushy-tailed student that rode would hear a string of curse words that slowly faded only with their exit of the bus.

Which is why I’m not employed by Campus Transit. My road rage really squashes any chance I might have had (as does my driving record). In fact, I’m that passenger that endures the yelling and fist shaking of the driver at 9 a.m.

Slamming your foot on the gas to get a 40-foot bus through the yellow light does not start the day off on a high note. Neither does coming inches from hitting a group of girls crossing the street, all the while yelling obscenities at them for walking too slowly. And every time I start to think my doctor should be on speed dial, the bus comes to a graceless break-squealing stop, and wide-eyed students are lost in a sea of flailing arms and airborne legs.

I suspect countless students have escaped their daily bus ride only to find a new bruise or two, and I’m willing to bet that most of the bruises could have easily been prevented with a little patience from the driver. Please tell me I’m not the only one who feels this way.