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.

Overpaid and Unapologetic

I’m confused: Can someone tell me who the most important university system stakeholders are? Students, right?
Wrong.

According to the Sept. 4 Atlanta Journal-Constitution article “No recession in college pay,” the number of staff members in the University System of Georgia that make six-figure salaries increased 30 percent between 2007 and 2010, and employees who make at least $200,000 rose 46 percent.

As students, we constantly hear the sad violin stories about USG budget cuts, but for what?

The USG has increased its spending from $5.4 billion in 2007 to a projected $7 billion for 2011 — according to the article — and found that the solution to their spending issue is to jack up tuition and fees. This is not working for me — no — this isn’t working for us.

Why in the hell are we supporting the USG’s compulsive spending habit? Of course, colleges and universities want the cream of the crop in administrators and professors, but the fear of losing them to schools that may pay more should not be resolved by increased salaries — there are other options.

Lower the tenure eligibility age for well-qualified professors. Make a shorter probationary period before an employee is offered a permanent job contract. Offer sound insurance benefits to complement their current salaries.

Why isn’t the USG breaking its neck to keep the best and brightest students in the system? Let's not forget that UGA tuition is on the rise and has increased by 50 percent since 2008, as the article points out.

If it wasn’t for us, there would not be a need for a university system in the state of Georgia. Along with taxpayers, we help pay university employee salaries.

What bothers me the most is how these administrators and professors seem to take the pay raises without any consideration for the increased costs it has for the students who make their jobs relevant. They can sleep well at night while we’re up late scrambling to fit in homework and papers after working minimum wage job shifts to offset the unfair charges posted to our student accounts every semester.

You have to be as pissed as I am. I’m listening.

The mistakes are coming! The mistakes are coming!

I don't understand why politicians have such a difficult time admitting that they are wrong. They are not gods among men; they are still human and as such, they are just as capable of making mistakes and saying something that isn't quite factual. It's one thing to be wrong; it's a completely different matter to refuse to admit it.

Take Sarah Palin and her Paul Revere gaffe a couple of months ago. Getting one's history mixed up can be a bit embarrassing, but it's not unheard of. If Palin had just admitted her mistake and said what she actually meant, it probably would have been something for liberals to mock for a little while, but at least she would be able to show that she was willing to confront her errors and fix them. Instead she decided to stand by her obviously wrong statement, which unfortunately makes her appear stubborn.

Palin's unwillingness to admit that she was wrong also makes her look extremely arrogant, especially when historians began correcting her mistake. Despite the input of many scholars to the contrary, Palin refused to back off her statement, instead suggesting that these academics, who have dedicated their lives to the study of history, didn't know Paul Revere quite as well as old Mama Grizzly.

Members from all over the political spectrum are guilty of this behavior, and quite honestly, I am fed up with it. People learn from their mistakes, and by refusing to admit that they make them, politicians are essentially saying that they have nothing left to learn. In this era, when we are learning new things about ourselves and the world around us every day, it seems rather foolish to pretend that one is perfect and incapable of error. Am I right?

As the Chicken Fries...

“My pleasure.”

If you’ve ever been inside a Chick-Fil-A restaurant or thanked me for holding doors open as you entered a room, you’ve heard these words countless times. “It’s my pleasure” has been my mantra for the past five years of my life. Two weeks ago, however, I ended my time as a Chick-Fi-Lady. Upon reflection of my waffle fry days, I realized CFA has taught me two invaluable life lessons.

Firstly, word choice matters.

Management had a right, as dictated in my contract, to dock my pay if someone reported I failed to respond to a “thank you” with “my pleasure.”  I hated replacing “Can I get you a refill?” with “May I refresh your beverage?” You should’ve seen the look management threw at me when I unthinkingly responded to a refill request with, “Can you take your top off, please?”

Though the differences may seem subtle or silly at times, the response in a guest’s face was not to be denied. They beamed at every unconventional phrase.

Secondly, never judge a customer by his car.

My fellow team members and I would play a game to see if we could guess a guest’s appearance and order based on the vehicle we saw pull up to the drive-thru speaker box. Mini-vans that showed up on the car cam were immediate cues for groans and exasperated sighs. We’d begin mentally preparing ourselves for an overly complicated order we wouldn’t be able to hear over screaming children. They’ll need ketchup. Lots of ketchup.

Every now and then though, you’d get the college kid who’s rolling in his mom’s mini because he’s already working two jobs to pay for his education. He’s maintaining a 4.0 and managing a girlfriend for whom he’s picking up dinner. He just wanted a number one with a coke.

I’ve learned perspective is everything. I always have a choice in how I view and react to every situation. I can make people feel special and I can appreciate that if I ever feel someone’s not worth a little extra effort, I may be missing part of a larger picture.

So, I’ve decided to employ my Chick-Fil-A cultivated conduct in all areas of my life. At work, I serve guests not customers.  When I dine out, I enjoy quick-service restaurants not fast-food joints. In response to gratitude, I do not answer with “you’re welcome.” 

It’s my pleasure every time.

The Not-So-Laborious Travels of a First Class Passenger

It's a few days after the Labor Day weekend, one of the most traveled holidays, and I'm finding myself stuck on an ethical issue rather than memories of mojitos on the beach.

My best friend, who works for Delta, and I were numbers 16 and 17 on the Labor Day weekend standby list to Miami. As we waited, besides tapping my foot, I passed the eternity-of-minutes by people-watching. Time after time, a business man or well-dressed couple would walk through what was titled the "Sky Priority" line. And every time, despite the length of the economy line, those passengers had priority. "Wait a second...that isn't fair!" I thought. Why can they skip the entire line, which now stretched down to the airport Starbucks? Because they can afford it?

The flight was leaving at 7:35 and it was already 7:25 a.m. At this point, I just wanted to get to Miami, but I'd nearly given up hope. (Though, I would have gladly offered to sit in the middle of the aisle or squeeze into the porta-potty-smelling airplane bathroom, but I'm pretty sure that's against regulations.) Then, I heard it. My name followed by my friend's name. Flustered, we stood together as the attendant hand-wrote our seat assignments on the ticket stub. Seats 4B and 4C...That's right. First class.

It was my first time visiting that forbidden, curtained-off zone except for the occasional walk-by. And it was incredible. The second I sat down, the flight attendant rushed up to ask what I would like to drink, which I'll add wasn't limited to non-alcoholic drinks (but I only know that because the guy behind me had three empty bottles of beer and a very satisfied look on his face by the time we landed). Once we were in the air, the attendant swept across the floor with a basket of free Sun Chips, Biscottis and king-size Snickers telling everyone, "Please take as many as you want. We have too many and will never be able to get rid of everything."

That's odd. In the economy section, where I normally sit, not only are alcoholic beverages pricey, but I only have the option between peanuts or pretzels. And every time I see someone ask for more, they get "the look." Why is that? I thought the days of societal class were over, but it appears they're hiding in plain sight.

While I'll admit I was quite in Heaven up at the front of the plane, something inside of me felt out of place. Do you think it's fair for customers to be treated completely differently simply because they pay more?

Nocturnal Suspicions

“Did you do it for the blood or the banana?”

This was the first thought I had coming into consciousness this morning. It didn’t mean anything; it was merely the afterbirth of my sleeping state, the little last bit of dream placenta slithering out of my subconscious and into the waking world.

I repeated the phrase several times in my head as I came to; reciting it like it was some kind of epic statement.

“Did you do it for the blood or the banana?”

For a brief moment it seemed like it meant so much, as if I were a warrior-poet standing atop the corpses of my vanquished foes, asking myself what motivated me toward my ultimate and bloody goal.

In the waking morning, however, the curtain was pulled back just to reveal how absolutely random and silly it all was, but that’s how my dreams have always been, impossibly epic and uncomfortably silly.

Every night when I sleep I wake up in worlds of wonder and insanity. Worlds populated with robot panda transsexuals and fish Popes. Worlds of beautiful mountain ranges housing philosophical flowers and and ships that ferry humans from one stage of evolution to the next.

I have also seen the heart of darkness. I have wandered endlessly through underground labyrinth laboratories, each corner promising something more terrifying then the next. I have watched bombs fall turning humans into (literal) popsicles. In my dreams, I have seen Eat Pray Love….the horror.

Through it all I have been everybody. I have been standing atop a futuristic tower of Babel as aliens rained down. I have been a man-made robot-god, and a lonely man in a desert. I have been Wolverine, Solid Snake, John Constantine, Superman, a knight, a space warrior, a slut, an opera singer, a cook, both Mario and Luigi at the same time…the list goes on.

Fuck it.

When I wake, all of that slowly fades and again I am Zack Taylor. Everything else slides back into the abyss. Most of it is forgotten and what I can remember falls under the category of “just a dream.”

Sometimes, however, in my quieter moments (which are rare) I wonder, if only for a brief instant.

“Did I do it for the blood…or the banana?”

Keep Your Seats Everyone...

The game ain't over yet!

I'm one of those girls who is obsessed with football. I know as much about the sport as a guy (or so I'd like to think), and I wait on pins and needles every year for the season to start.

And this weekend, it happened. The Georgia football season finally started. The Bulldogs traveled to Atlanta to play in annual the Chick-Fil-A Kickoff game against the Boise State Broncos. To say I was excited about this game would be a huge understatement. Boise State, for those of you who don't pay attention to football, has been a powerhouse in the Western Athletic Conference. They went undefeated a couple of seasons in a row, but they were never invited to the BCS Championship game because their schedule wasn't considered as "difficult" as say the schedule for any SEC team.

We had a huge opportunity to prove that the SEC was the best conference in the nation and that the Broncos really weren't as good as everyone thought. Well, we failed to say the least. Honestly, by the scoreboard, I'd say we did pretty well. I mean at least it wasn't a shutout. There were some poor play-calling (ahem, Mike Bobo) and some key errors made on both defense and offense. I, however, was more disappointed by the performance of the Bulldog Nation rather than the team.

I wanted to scream at all of OUR fans who were booing OUR team. Really? You're seriously going to kick your team when they're already down? To boo them in a stadium that was clearly one-sided was embarrassing for our team. The Dawgs worked hard all summer for this game, and hey, no one is perfect.

The one thing that upset me the most was when people left the stadium early. I NEVER leave a game early. I don't care if we are up 50-7 or down 7-50; I never, ever leave a game early. I was there to cheer on my team. To support them no matter what. Whether you believe it or not, the team needs us. They need to know that we are behind them for better or worse, for richer or poorer, for winning or losing. Walking out on your team is like walking out on a friend or a significant other. You're telling that person that you've given up on them.

I will never give up on my Dawgs.

This Saturday is another chance for Georgia to step it up and show the nation that we've still got it. But what I want to see is better sportsmanship from our fans. I agree with Jeremy Dailey and what he said in the Red & Black. I'd rather see Sanford Stadium half-full with true Bulldog fans then have the stadium packed with fair-weather fans who are going to boo my beloved Dawgs and walk out early.

Get Off the Road (Please?)

Excuse me, UGA bus drivers, but can you please stop yelling at pedestrians while you’re speeding down Broad Street with an over-packed bus? That’d be awesome.

Lately it seems that 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.

And 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 smile 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 bright-eyed bushy-tailed smile that endures the yelling and fist shaking of the driver at 9 in the morning, and it’s a little unsettling.

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 many a bruise has been contracted on the UGA buses, and I’m willing to bet that most of them 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.

Oh thank doG

When the Super Bowl ended early in the year, I hardly thought twice about it. I’d had half a year of football to sate my hunger. Surely, I’d had my fill.

How wrong I was. I barely lasted through March Madness before I started getting the shakes. By the time summer rolled around, I was on full-out football withdrawl.

I don’t know what happened--I wasn’t always this way. Once, I was a reasonable, sane football fan who’d casually follow a few teams and enjoy watching most games when it was convenient.

Sometime within the past two years, something snapped deep inside me. I went from observing the sport to obsessing, from casually commenting to making lewd remarks about the referee’s mother.

I don’t like what I’ve become, but I’m not sure that I can change it. I feel like the Hulk. Normally I’m an easygoing, fairly timid and, I like to think. reasonable person.

But when Mark watch football, Mark SMASH!

I’m so desperate, I’ve lowered myself to watching preseason NFL games, like an addict licking coke residue off a toilet seat. This is truly the lowest of the low.

Luckily, my salvation is closing in fast. Saturday, I head for Atlanta for the UGA season opener against Boise State. We’re going to stomp them into the ground.

I’m going to be like a kid in a candy store. Or like the Hulk on crack in an antique china shop.

I’m going to scare small children, make a scene, get my fix, and probably drool a little. The nice thing is, that’s all I ever really do in Atlanta anyway. I can’t wait.

Suck it Broncos, and GO DAWGS!