What I Think About

This blog is a compilation of some of the things that I think about.

Catching thoughts before they fly out of my head has been somewhat of a challenge, but what appears on this blog is what I've managed to catch and expand on. In a way, this blog is like one of those large bug collections that people spend months trying to create by wandering off in nature with huge nets and swiping around to see if they can catch anything interesting. I've caught a lot of flies, which I've tried to discard. I do feel as if I've caught some other cool insects, though. But then again, beauty is in the eye of the be(e)holder. 

If (and when) you scroll through the posts I've made, you'll notice that most of the topics are rather simplistic. Titles like "Three Seconds", "Race" and "Flip Phones" are meant to give the impression that what I'm writing about will be dull and unimaginative, but what I've tried to do is take boring topics and create an interesting spin on them. For example, flip phones are mostly obsolete, and even those who continue to use them recognize that they are not up to date with the latest trends in technology. In a world of smartphones and Bluetooth devices, flip phones stick out like a sore thumb. But what if you could use this abnormality to your advantage? What if that nostalgic 90's flip phone could be used to make you stand out from the crowd in a good way?

These are the kinds of questions that I ponder and use to create original posts. Sometimes it works, and more often, it doesn't. For all of the posts that appear on this blog, there are about 3x more that have never come out of the drafts or are in the gutters of my discarded compositions. There are many reasons for why some of my thoughts don't translate well into written work. At times, it's because they are too specific, ambiguous, personal, or weird. At other times my thoughts fail to translate because they've spent too much time festering in my brain, and by that time the space for open imagination has severely diminished. 

I tend to have the most success when I make the creative process as short as possible, meaning that when an idea pops into my head, I need to convert that idea into writing as soon as I can. Thoughts, in my opinion, are like milk, and writing about them is like making a bowl of cereal. When your thoughts are in the back of your head and not being used, it's just like having milk in the refrigerator. However, when you take that milk out of the refrigerator, it either needs to be used quickly or placed back in the fridge. If you only take 5 minutes (or less) to make your cereal, things usually turn out well. But if you leave the milk out for more than 15 minutes, or heaven-forbid leave your cereal sitting in the milk for that long, you'll undoubtedly have a bad experience. The milk won't be spoiled, but it won't be cold either, and the taste of lukewarm milk with cereal is not only disappointing, but gross as well. The timetable for writing a good post isn't quite this short, but the conception to creation time ratio is about the same. 

The truth is, even when you pour the milk quickly and keep it fresh, your bowl of cereal is never guaranteed to turn out perfectly. Such is also the case with what I've written on this blog. Like I said, I've caught some flies and I've missed a few, but I've tried to leave what I believe are some of the most interesting things that I think about. Anyway, I'll let you be the one to decide whether I've ruined the cereal or not. 

What I Think About: Life Without Time

Life without our conventional understanding of time would look very different.

Alan Burdick's "The Secret Life of Time" got me thinking about something that I often ponder when I'm procrastinating or stressing about a deadline. In these moments, I entertain myself by attempting to unravel our social construct of time, and usually conclude that the deadline that I'm sweating over doesn't even exist, and it's not worth the effort or stress it takes to meet it. It may be an unhealthy rationalization for turning things in late, but it does allow some space for my mind to run free. My analysis won't be as intelligent as St. Augustine's, but I think we're basically on the same page.

If you think about it (with an open mind), what we call 'time' doesn't really exist at all. Let's start with seconds. You've probably taken around 3 (+/- 1) seconds to read this sentence, which seems very tangible to you (If you're wondering how long three seconds is, check out my first blog post here). But really, what is this thing we call a "second"? Yes, it's a sixtieth of a minute, which is the formal definition (it actually comes from the periodicity of radiation of the cesium-133 atom but forget about that for a second and just go with me here). So a second is one sixtieth of a minute... But what is a minute? Well that's one sixtieth of an hour.. Which is one twenty-fourth of "day", which is one three hundred sixty fifth of a "year" (except when it's not), which is one tenth of a decade... and so on.

So what part of our concept of time is truly concrete? You may argue that our idea of a "day" is our most reliable breakdown of time, based on the Earth's changing position with respect to the Sun. To this, I only partially agree. Yes, our idea of a day successfully takes into account an object outside of our immediate surroundings - the sun. But the "time that it takes to go from daytime to nighttime to daytime" is anything but concrete. In reality, the length of a day changes continuously. The differences are miniscule, but they are there, nevertheless. If you don't believe me, see for yourself here. For now, let's just say that every day is 24 hours exactly, and in that time, the Sun appears to make one complete rotation around the Earth (No this is not what is actually happening, this is why I used the word appears, but try to see the larger picture). Would this justify our creation of a "day"? I don't think so. Why does one day = one sun cycle? Why not two cycles, or three? We could still sleep at "night", but we'd have to sleep three times before we'd reach the next "day". Think about it.

When I'm seeking to relieve myself from stress and rationalize my procrastination, I find comfort in the idea that hours, minutes, and seconds don't really exist. There is no such thing as a December 1st deadline - it's just a convenient little box we put things in to help us stay organized. That's all time is. I'm not talking about time as a universal force or dimension, but mankind's creation. It's been forced on us and we've taken it in, materialized it, and worked it into the fabric of our existence. We use it to categorize, separate, and document periods and instances for our supposed personal benefit, but most of the time it acts as a constant reminder that our life ticks closer to its end with every second. Earth, the solar system, the universe - these elements of our environment don't need clocks, calendars or stopwatches to function properly. They run on real, organic time, which in my opinion we know very little about. What if true time isn't linear, and is circular instead? Maybe our understanding of this complex force has blinded us from reality. Maybe we should abandon time altogether. Maybe that's the key to true peace and happiness.

I hope you've enjoyed this ride on my train of thought, but unfortunately our excursion must end here. If you're reading this, you're likely dealing with this oppressive force called time in one of two ways. You are either 1) Dealing with the post-traumatic stress that came from trying to finish your college applications and/or your blog post before midnight on December 1st, or 2) rushing to finish your 6 comments before the end of the night on Sunday, December 3rd. Whatever your personal situation may be, remember this when you begin to panic over that deadline, appointment time, or morning alarm - the time that you're stressing over doesn't really exist. You are free. You have the choice to follow the guidelines that society has laid out for you, or not. Real time is controlled by you, and you alone. You are late if you decide you are late, not because a clock tells you so. Life without time is bliss. Take some time and enjoy that ignorance.

What I Think About: Eating in Class

Eating in class is a terrifying, embarrassing, and infuriating experience.

I'm going to do my best to paint a picture of a scenario that I think everyone can relate to. Let's say that you're in a room full of unfamiliar faces, listening to a lecture in a classroom. It's almost noon, so your stomach is telling you that it needs food, but you ignore it's message since no one else is eating. You know that students are allowed to eat in this classroom, and you've already watched one student eat his lunch, but you're nervous because you packed a spicy Chicken Tikka Masala for lunch and you know its smell will encapsulate the classroom, and you're also aware of your slightly underdeveloped eating skills which you're extremely self-conscious about. Unfortunately, your stomach doesn't appreciate your nervousness, and it begins to complain, audibly. All the sudden, the tranquility of the classroom is disrupted by a deep and angry "ggggggrrrrRRRRRRrrrrr", and you look around the classroom to make sure no one is judging you. Thankfully, nobody appears to be disturbed, so you relax a bit and lean back in your chair. Your stomach has now changed positions, however, and shows its displeasure by letting out a viscous growl, which you try to cover up by faking a cough and sneezing a few times. This time, the peer sitting across from you notices, and you catch a glance from him just as he turns his head back to the front of the classroom. Hoping to avoid further embarrassment, you decide to check in your backpack for a snack. The "zzzzzrrrruupp" of your backpack's zipper has once again ruptured the silence, but you tolerate the noise, knowing that relief lies ahead. Tucked away in the secret snack compartment of your bookbag is a sandwich bag full of saltine crackers, your favorite. You slowly pull them out of your bag, open the bag, and bring the first cracker to your mouth, before pausing. The room has fallen silent again, and the lecturer's monotonous voice has put almost to sleep. You know that if you bite into this cracker, you will instantly regret it, because not only will the majority of the cracker turn to crumbles - you will also make a powerful crunch due to your slightly oversized front teeth. Sweat begins to trickle down your arms, your stomach begins to warn of a growl, and your hands begin to shake. You know that this is a pivotal moment. You close your eyes, say a quick prayer, and bite into the cracker, slowly. Crumbs fly, landing on your peer's notebook, but he isn't taking notes anyway. The crackers were stale and didn't break with a loud noise. You almost laugh out loud at your luck, but your joy is interrupted by a realization: The salty cracker has made you thirsty, and now you need to take a drink of water. This is a whole new task, and one that requires a completely separate set of skills. Not only must you open your water bottle quietly, but you must also drink and swallow without blowing your cover. You look around again - Isabelle, the A+ student in the front row, is dead asleep - the coast is clear. Swiftly, you grab the stainless steel water bottle in front of you and take a swig, carefully replacing the lid and placing it back on the table. Almost there. But the most difficult task remains; you must swallow. The good news is that the water is cold, and refreshing. The bad news is that you've waited too long to swallow, and now you're only option is to take a 'gulp' because you didn't drink and swallow in short succession. You know this, and try to hold the water in your mouth for a few moments, but it soon becomes lukewarm and mixes with your saliva, which you think is gross, so you swallow. It is a loud one, but once again, nobody seems to notice. You can't believe your luck - but unfortunately it is about to change. The water in your system has alarmed your stomach, and it once again reminds you that it has not been satisfied, making an embarrassing "SSSCCrrrreeeeEEEEET" noise this time. The classmate to your right finds this funny. Amused, she asks, "You hungry?", and all you can do is nod in shame. You tell your stomach "SHUTUP" in your head, and it responds with two more thunderous groans. You've had it - the teacher has pointed you out, and Isabelle has turned around just so she can laugh at you. You decide that it's time to go for it; you grab the Tupperware container with the tikka masala and plop it down in front of you. You open the lid with a "brrrraap" and place it on the side. Everyone is awake now, and the smell is overwhelming. You try to mask it by replacing the lid, but the scent has already been unleashed - everyone knows you're eating, and now you're petrified and want to throw up. Your stomach is a whiney little brat, though, and you know you have to feed it. So, with great courage, you sit up straight, pick up your fork, and begin your meal. You start by mixing the food, which turns out to be a grave mistake. You packed the food in too tight, so as soon as you begin to mix in the chicken, some of the rice and gravy spills out. You freeze but keep from panicking, and look for a napkin. You don't have any. There's a box of tissues nearby, but it's in the second row next to Patrick who has a bad cold and has infected the entire tissue box with his grubby, snot-covered fingers. You decide that going for the tissues is not a viable option, and settle with leaving the spilled food on the table like a poorly trained toddler at dinner. Having abandoned your attempts at mixing in the food, you now proceed to eating the rice. You think it will be easy, since there's no sauce and it doesn't have a strong smell. Ignorantly, you bring the rice up to your mouth too quickly, and when you close your mouth to secure the food, the rice jumps off your fork and lands in the drool of your classmate who has now fallen asleep again. About 35% of the rice has made it into your mouth - the rest has dispersed itself across your upper lip, chin, and across the table. You look up, still holding the fork in your mouth, praying that nobody notices. You scan the room and find no other than a giggling Snoopy Susan, looking back at you from the 3rd row with her annoying face, peering into your business once again. You're mad now, and decide to take it out on the spicy chicken. You inhale it, and the class gets the impression that there's a rabid dog in the back of the classroom. They turn around to discover that it's just you, which they meet with a disgusted face. But you don't care; you've had your meal, and you've calmed your stomach. Or have you?
"FRRRRAAAPP" "SKIYYYYAP" "ShrreeeeeIIIYAA" "BrrrrIDOOObrrrAPP"
Your stomach has begun to speak again, but it's message is quite different this time around. Your Indian lunch has not pleased your stomach - and it is letting its displeasure be known. You now face a new set of challenges, but I will spare the details - I'm sure that you can imagine the rest.

This scenario is more common than not, unfortunately. Eating in public is a scary, scary thing. Many will never master this art, given the fact that it is practically impossible to do it without embarrassing yourself. Someday, however, I hope that I will get to the point where I may lose my fear of eating in public, and never have to experience a story like this one.

What I Think About: My Pet Peeve

 At the beginning of the school year in nonfiction writing, we were prompted to write about something we loved, and something we hated (or something like that). I typically have a hard time identifying the things that I hate because they're usually specific scenarios rather than everyday objects or common events. For example, I don't get flustered when I get honked at, yell at bikers who ride in the middle of the street, or lose my temper when I'm stuck in traffic. I did get upset, however, when the lady who directs the crosswalk on Springfield near Edison intentionally hit my car with her stop sign when I sped through the intersection last year.

After failing to find something to write about for the love/hate prompt, I decided that I needed to find what gets under my skin and I've been working to identify which events irritate me regularly. After a lot of searching, I recently found what I think I can call my pet peeve.

Two weeks (or maybe it was a week) ago, me and my dad were driving home after a long school day where my energy and patience had been depleted and where on particularly low levels. It was unbearably hot outside, and for some reason, my dad had the heat on in the car. I was burning up, but of course he was doing just fine. So at one point on our trek back home, I decided to lower the temperature.

The great thing about my car is that the right and left sides of the car have separate air conditioning systems. This means, to throw out a random example, that if I were to lower the temperate on my side, my father would maintain the same temperature on his side. It's quite a luxury; two people can simultaneously operate in polar opposite conditions without being affected by one another. We've had the car for almost seven years now, but miraculously, my father still doesn't understand how the AC works.

So, when I turned down the heat (on my side of the car), my dad swiftly turned it back up without saying word, or even looking in my direction. I don't even think he looked at the dial. He did it so calmly, as if the temperate knob had rotated by itself and he was simply bringing it back to its correct position. It seemed like it was a natural reaction, like he had a sensor in his eyes that monitored the dial and anytime this sensor detected a change, nerves fired in his brain and caused his right arm to reach out and fix the error. It was so emotionless, so heartless, so inconsiderate, so rude, and so many other upsetting things, and it really made me mad.

I had to use all of my reserve energy and patience to keep from blowing up in that moment. I kept silent, but there was a formidable rage brewing inside of me that could've been recognized had my father taken his eyes off the road for only a second. I was at that point of frustration to where you don't want to explain how mad you are, you just want people to notice you and feel your rage through your burning eyes. It's like you're Superman (or Kanye West) and at any moment you could laser somebody with alien eyes and make their head explode. I was heated, which surprised me a bit, because I don't usually get that angry. I figured that if this one event made me this upset, it must be the thing that I hate. I've had some time to prove this hypothesis, and I think it's generally true.

What I've discovered about myself is this: I hate it when someone reverses an action that I've performed without addressing it. It's not the reversal or rejection that irks me, it's the disregard for how I might feel about it. For example, if I were to open a window on a beautiful day to enjoy the sunshine and someone immediately closed it after me, but explained why they hated the sun, I wouldn't be upset at all. But if they closed it and didn't even think to turn and look at me, I would lose my mind. If you have the nerve to cuss me out and tell me why I'm wrong, I can respect that. To act as if I'm invisible, however, is just unacceptable. And a word of advice to anyone who rides in the car with me; if I turn down the heat in the car, don't do what my dad did unless you want to get out and walk home by yourself.

What I Think About: Gaze Perception

Our ability to detect when someone is looking at us is strong enough to make strong that it seems like a sixth sense. 

I think this scenario proves to be relatable to almost everyone: You're in a public area (a classroom, a large building, a public street, etc.), and you're minding your business. You might be actively doing something, like using your phone, or you may be doing nothing at all. At some point, you begin to feel a tingle on the back of your neck, and you stop what you're doing. You get the idea that someone is looking at you, and you begin to look around to find your secret observer. You search for a few seconds without finding any clues, but at the last second, you spot somebody quickly turning their head away, trying to avoid eye contact. From these limited symbols, you have come to the definite conclusion that this was the person staring at you. 

Or maybe this is more accessible: You're in a public space, working, reading, or performing a task. You get this tingling sensation again, and you look around and find someone who seems to be looking in your direction. With closer inspection, however, you find that they're actually looking directly above you, and so you decide that they did not mean to attract your attention. But before you turn your head away, they suddenly begin to smile, and then they wave. You're still unsure about whether they're looking at you or not, but you don't want to be rude, so you smile and wave back. Unfortunately, someone else walks in front of you and greets this person, and you realize that you not only look stupid, but have also misunderstood this person's signals. 

These types of events happen so often that it seems as if we have a sixth sense that's devoted to detecting when others are staring at us. We sense that some is looking at us even when they're outside of our visible perception, and we often end up being correct, leading some of us to believe that we have superpowers or psychic abilities. It's almost as if we have a second eye that's controlled by our mind. There's are term for this ability, called ESP or extrasensory perception, which was developed in 1930 by Joseph Banks Rhine. He conducted several experiments in an attempt to prove the existence of psychic abilities such as precognition (the ability to see events in the future), psychokinesis (the ability to move or influence physical objects using the mind), and clairvoyance, which is what I've been discussing. While the concept was intriguing, skeptics concluded that the evidence supporting it was unconvincing. 

Scientists have effectively debunked this theory, and it's hard to find an article that supports the idea that ESP is used instead of natural biological functions of the brain. This article from Psychology Daily is frequently cited by authors answering the question, "How do we know when someone is looking at us?". In the article, Ilan Shrira and points out that this ability is attributed to a special "gaze detection" system in our brains. Specific brain cells fire when someone's eyes are pointed in a certain direction, allowing us to recognize subtle signals in space and determine where people are looking. The fact that we have dark pupils and white sclera makes it fairly easy for these brain cells to detect where we are looking, a characteristic not shared by other animals whose eyes don't have such a sharp contrast in color. 

Although this sounds logical, there's still some room for ESP to exist within the framework. Shrira's explanation only applies when our observer is within our peripheral vision system - what about when our observer is behind us? How is it that we can feel this, even when we can't see it? A scientist would likely argue that this would only happen if we had recently seen this person, and that if we did feel as if someone was watching us from behind, we were probably misconstruing signals coming from other people in our peripheral vision. Regardless, our gaze perception, whether it's due to clairvoyance or extremely powerful peripheral vision, really is extraordinary. 

What I Think About: Music

I have always been interested in how we listen to music.

This is likely due to the fact that I come from a family of musicians. Everyone in my immediate family sings and plays at least one instrument. My brother, mother, and father each have experience with teaching music, which leads to a wide exposure to various forms of music. I think we all have a rather diverse musical taste; at any time (at night), you may find one of us listening to Kirk Franklin, another listening to Edith Paif, someone else listening to Billy Joel, and the last listening to traditional Chinese Erhu music. During the day, however, all you would hear would be classical Opera from my mother's students (which is what I'm sitting through while writing this).

Despite the fact that all of us dabble in a bit of everything, each one of us have a certain genre or song that speaks to us in a way that nothing else in this world can do. I'd argue that this thing - a special connection with a certain type of music - is something every human being in this world shares, and it's what makes music amazing. Music can be so powerful that even those who know nothing about how music is made can be touched by it. Even my dog was in love with music; when someone sat down to the piano or began to sing, he would always sprint towards them and lay down next to their feet, and he wouldn't get up and leave until they were finished (or until he realized they couldn't sing).

I think music's magical power lies in its ability to make us recall memories, and appeal to our thoughts. For example, I know that I can listen to almost any genre and find something that I like about it, regardless of how familiar or foreign it is to me. Recently, I've been listening to a lot of Spanish salsa, which I'll admit is strange, but it's fun to listen to even though I understand little to nothing that is being said. Unfortunately, I have very little connection to this kind of music; I don't have many ties or much exposure to the culture it comes from, I can't understand the language, and it doesn't conjure up any memories for me. If you play the right hymn or an old-fashioned gospel music, however, I'll be forced to pay attention. That music, culture, and experience is so ingrained into who I am that it always tugs on something in my core, drawing out a pleasant feeling that comes from a clear or vague image or memory.

I always enjoy hearing people say, "OOOH that's my song!" because their face always lights up with smile, and obviously something has been sparked inside them. I haven't yet heard someone say "OOOH that's my genre!", but I believe that different types of music speak to individuals. It may be the soft, classical instrumental music that your parents made you play as a child, or maybe it's the smooth jazz that you watched your father listen to while growing up. Then, when that one song begins to play that embodies anything and everything you've ever loved, it blows your mind. In some cases, it makes people feel as if a song belongs to them - as if it was made for them and nobody else. All of us have likely seen someone get upset when one of their songs get popular and everyone else starts singing it. I've personally heard plenty of heated arguments centered around whether someone heard a song first or not. If people have the audacity to start fights around this issue, there can be no doubt that there's something special about music.


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On a related but separate note:

Someone who has caught my attention recently has been Xxxtentacion, even though I can't say I'm a follower of his music, or a fan of any of the problematic aspects of his lifestyle. His personality and style is unique to say the least, which can be inferred from his name. What's even more interesting in my opinion is the message he sends through his music, and the nature of his fan base. I can't fully comprehend it, but I've come to realize that my inability to understand his music doesn't mean his music is impossible to understand. It simply means that I don't understand it. I was talking to one of my friends about Xxxtentacion earlier this year, and I told her that I thought his music was extremely confusing (at that time I had only heard "Look at me!" and in all honesty I feel like I had the right to be confused). She agreed that the message doesn't always reach everyone, but that his music spoke to her because she had gone through anxiety and depression herself, which is something he speaks to through his music. My friend's connection to his music was surprising to hear, although I understood that we had different life experiences which caused me to interpret his music differently (although I kept thinking, how is "Can't keep my d*ck in my pants" relatable?). Regardless, I appreciated her telling me that, because it gave me a new understanding that allowed me to hear his music in a new way, thus giving me the opportunity to be more musically diverse. That's another great thing about music - what's ugly to one person can be beautiful to someone else.

I don't think I'll be playing "Look at me!" around the house while my parents are home, though.

What I Think About: Race

The concept of race has to be one of the most problematic social constructs that we have in this country.

There's a very good reason for the fact that when applications ask you to describe yourself, they ask about your race and/or your ethnicity. There's an obvious reason for this. If you were only asked to describe your race, you would have to find a way to accurately categorize your skin color. For those of us higher up on the "whiteness to darkness" scale, the word 'white' will be accurate enough. On the other end of the spectrum, black will do. But what about everybody else in the middle? Are you tan, light brown, beige, chestnut, or smokey topaz? Even if you were able to successfully label the color of your skin, it wouldn't tell us much about who you actually are. A person with a light brown skin tone may be Hispanic, African-American, Native American, Indonesian, Indian, or any other ethnicity that brown people belong to. Even if you're white - are you purely American? Or are you Jewish, Swedish, German, or Irish? You're likely a little bit of all of these. Still, we continue to use this construct even though it has proved to be faulty.

Over the years, Americans have tried their best to make this system work, often resulting in some problematic solutions. At some point, we decided that 'we' (white Americans) would try to give every ethnic group a color code. This obviously didn't work very well - Native Americans are not 'red' and Asians are not 'yellow'. In fact, African-Americans are not really black, but I guess brown wasn't "descriptive" enough. Nevertheless, we persisted. At some point, people gave up trying to figure out names for every ethnic group. That brings us to the way we operate today, where the only racial groups we really recognize are whites and blacks (and ever so often, brown people). Of course, the thought process behind this wasn't as benign as I'm making it out to be, but I think we all understand that behind all of this is deep-seated racism and ignorance.

I woke up this morning thinking about how strangely we discuss race in America, probably because it's a topic that my class is discussing in an Introduction to Cultural Anthropology course. I was thinking about the nature of these conversations, and how it often seems to come down to a discussion about whites vs. blacks. Every time race is brought up in the classroom, I always wonder why it takes this turn. I'm often thinking, "What about everyone else in the middle? Why is race treated like a dichotomy?" I realize that I cannot fairly put the blame on others, because the construct of race is faulty, and attempting to discuss it will always be problematic. I also realize my own imperfections in that when the topic of race is brought up, I immediately jump to the conclusion that the conversation will be dominated by a discussion of African-Americans. Furthermore, I understand that when we decide to diverge away from the dichotomy of white vs. black, we're no longer talking about race - we're talking about ethnicity. If we want to have a more inclusive discussion, we have to make ethnicity the topic of discussion rather than race. It's easy to talk about white people and black people, but it's difficult to discuss tan, chestnut, brown and beige people, because at that point we don't really know who we're talking about. When we want to talk about these people, we start to use ethnic descriptors, such as Hispanic, Chicano, Native, Arabic, Asian, Cuban, and Indigenous. When we switch from race to ethnicity, it often leads to a much more productive conversation, because we have now allowed ourselves to use a much wider vocabulary. I think people tend to realize this, and generally we have grouped race and ethnicity together so that we don't have to be restricted to talking about skin color. So when someone says, "Let's talk about race", we often talk about ethnicity as well.

Regardless, we continue to attempt to discuss issues in the context of race, not ethnicity, as if that will lead to some profound revelation that we haven't discovered before, knowing that when we talk about race, it will come down to a very constricted conversation. I'm not sure why we do this; it may have to do with the constant reinforcement of a racial dichotomy that the media (social and commercial) provides. I think all of us can agree to some extent that society seems to be painted by the media as whites vs. everybody else (brown people), if not whites vs. blacks. All of us are exposed to some form of media, which is extremely influential. Perhaps if this construct was abandoned in popular media, and we were able to look past skin color in initial evaluations, it wouldn't be such a problem in our everyday lives.

*****

Before starting this post, I tried to find a solid definition of race that I could use to discuss and breakdown its meaning. I was surprised to find that there is no official definition of the word 'race' that pertains to the physical descriptor we use. There is a definition for 'racial', however, which is "of, relating to, or based on a race", according to Merriam-Webster. I found it funny that they felt the need to provide some sort of definition even though they had to define 'racial' by using an undefined word. It shows how irrational our use of this construct is, but also how ingrained it is into our society. It's because race is so entrenched in our culture that I believe will still need to discuss it, even with its many issues, misconceptions and various definitions. We don't need to have a destructive discussion on 'the battle of the races', or limit ourselves to talking about whites vs. blacks, or whites vs. the colored world. But a discussion about why we discuss race this way can be productive. Why do we emphasize a characteristic that is so basic, but so significant? How did we come to categorize people this way? What does the word 'race' mean to different people? Should we continue to use it?
I see these discussions popping up frequently today, and they always feature a multitude of opinions and attitudes, and rarely ever end up in a single conclusion. But I do believe that these discussions can be productive, because they're challenging this problematic construct rather than operating beneath it.

Ultimately, I'm promoting the use of ethnicity over race, even though ethnicity is another poorly-defined social construct with its own set of difficulties and problematic elements. We'll have to spend time breaking down the meaning and use of ethnicity in the same way, but I won't do it here. I also won't evaluate nationality, heritage, gender, sexual orientation or culture, which are all shifting entities that make up our messy and unique individual and group identities. All that I'm saying here is that race doesn't mean nearly as much as we are trained to think it does, and we need to search for other descriptors that get to the core of who we really are.

To the Boy Across the Street

*Not from my voice or personal experience*

Dear Matthew,

I am not family, nor am I a neighbor. I am simply an observer, and I hope that you do not waste your time struggling to discover my identity. If you would look past my foreignness for only a minute, I can assure you that you will find what I have to say to be of great personal interest.  

Many years ago, I met your mother, Josephine,  at a local fundraising event. I was there promoting my new business, and she happened to come across my section. She was a beautiful woman, charming, electric, and passionate, and she instantly caught my attention. I immediately introduced myself, hoping to make a strong first impression. She was too polite to turn me away, but the slight frown on her face told me that I had failed to woo her. We had a pleasantly inconsequential conversation, and soon enough we went our separate ways.

A few months later she appeared again, this time at my work, and not alone. She was accompanied by a tall, dark man with an intimidating figure. I quickly stood up from where I sat and approached your mother to greet her, but to my surprise I was met with a strong, large hand, rough with calluses and bruises that come from working in the factory or construction. I turned to see a stern face, one that did not seek to provide much comfort. Embarrassed, your mother introduced me to the daunting force in front of me. "This is John", she said. They were looking to buy a home in the area, and were in need of a realtor. I agreed to work with them, grudgingly due to John's disposition, but satisfied with the thought of being able to see your mother's sweet face. 

It was a matter of months before the couple finally settled down on a small house on the corner of Turner and Market. I remember filling out the paperwork with them in my office, and the sense of relief that came over me once everything was finalized. John proved to be much more opinionated than expected. Almost every home had an outstanding flaw, and for that reason it was "utterly unacceptable". Your mother was not hard to please, and found nearly every house beautiful. There was one house she was particularly fond of - a quaint cottage on the outskirts of town, with a small lake nearby and a picket fence surrounding the perimeter. One evening, she came in to my office alone, and shared with me some of her fantasies and dreams that she had about the house. The daughter playing with dolls on the front porch, the son frolicking in the lake, the mother sitting on the rocking chair making a quilt, and the father nearby, tilling the garden. She never spoke of these things when John was with her. She sat quietly by his side as he meticulously mapped out why none of the houses would work - especially the cottage of her dreams. To this she would protest and begin to tap into her wildly colorful imagination, but John would not hear her stories. 

For five years, I lived in a house ten blocks away from John and your mother. I would make frequent visits, but was rarely invited inside unless we had arranged for a dinner beforehand. John never seemed to be pleased that I was there, but your mother consistently showed me kindness and invited me to come again. For some time, I perceived it as a cordial gesture. But over the years it turned into plea, a cry for my company. I also began to notice her increased use of cosmetics. On some nights, I would point out a peculiar bruise on her face, and she would scurry off to the restroom to cover the mark. These observations earned me a frightening glare from John, and soon I stopped commenting on her appearance. These scars began to appear in places that she could not conceal with make-up; her forearm, chest, and shoulder to name a few. At times, her eyes would be swollen, and her lips so bruised that she could no longer converse with me at the table. She provided whimsical excuses for a short time, but abandoned them once she realized they were of no use. Eventually, I stopped visiting your mother's home. I admit that I did not seek out or think about the potential causes of her appearance. The thought of her pain was unbearable, and so I blocked her from my conscience. It was not uncommon for me to return home from work and find the telephone ringing off and on for the rest of the evening,  knowing it was her phoning me, but declining to pick up the telephone. 

Regardless of how selfish I was, I failed time and time again to block her face from my dreams, to keep her voice from ringing in my ears, and to avoid feeling her pain in my heart. I finally accepted defeat, and began to answer her calls. What she revealed to me in tears was no surprise. I could not bear to be so far away from someone so needy, but my cowardly nature kept me from confronting John. So, as a sort of compromise with myself, I quietly moved into the house across the street from John and your mother. 

I was able to convince your mother to visit me. She was reluctant at first, fretting over the possibility of suspicion from John and the neighbors. We ultimately decided that we would only meet at night while John was away drinking, which pleased her very much, leading me to suspect that she was less worried about John discovering us and more concerned with ensuring I didn't see what he had done to her. She would not allow me to turn on any lamps or even light a candle. We often sat in complete darkness and silence, listening to the hum of vehicles passing by and the palpitation of our hearts. There was no fornication; I respected her marriage, and she was in no condition for love-making. I was tempted to make her stay, however, to lock her inside and protect her from the monster that awaited her the next morning. But we both knew of the danger that presented, and so I watched her hobble away from my home each night, barefoot and broken.

I do believe that the day you were born was the happiest day of your mother's life. I was there when you were born; John was away on an assignment at the time. I remember your mother's smile that day - brighter than the summer sun, blinding to the depressed. She held you as if you were the son of God, and in that moment, you and your mother were independent of the universe. Her frail arms suddenly gained strength as she held you up over her head, admiring each wrinkle that makes infancy pure and perfect. Life reappeared in her eyes for an instant, and then it was gone, passed on to you, her gift to this world. 

Your mother never returned from the hospital. I visited ever so often, but my time was limited due to an increase in workload. By the time John returned home, the news had already come and gone. I insisted that she have a proper funeral, but of course I had no rights over her body. John ultimately decided to have her body cremated, and quickly fled to the northwest with his mistress once he received the ashes, which were left in the house but recovered by me. 

I soon learned of a pair looking for a home and a child to adopt. No later than I heard the news did I contact the young couple, who had already become infatuated with the house on the corner of Turner and Market. I was able to convince them to buy the house, and made a strong suggestion for an adoption: A beautiful young boy named Matthew, who had just been born two months ago. "Matthew?" Said the wife. "Matthew Davidson... Why I think I love that name!" Their joy rivaled your mother's when they brought you home from the hospital, but none could have topped mine. 

Although I was delighted to see your mother's gift being carried into this cruel world in loving arms, the burden of exiting my home and seeing the prison in which your mother suffered for so long forced me to move away. The nightmare of her adult life and the endless regret I hold continues to haunt me. But the beacon of light that you brought into her life eases my pain and allows me to wipe the tears from my eyes, knowing that her spirit lives on within a worthy vessel.

I will not refer to you by John's surname, nor will I allow myself to call him your father, for he is only a shell who lives in the space a true man should occupy. Whether or not you choose to pursue this demented being that I have referred to as 'John' is your decision, but I will only reveal to you his full name, Jonathan Ilmore, in hopes that such ambiguity prevents you from attempting to take his life, which I wished to do for quite a long time. He must die the way a man of his worth should - in sorrow and in solitude. For anyone to take his life would be to end his suffering, which he will surely experience whether it is here on Earth, or in Hell where he belongs. 

As for me, I now live in a small, quaint cottage with a white picket fence and a lake less than a mile away from the house. I have no wife, nor any children. I live contently in the shadow of your mother's memory, and keep a close watch on what is left of her in you. 

I have told you this because it is only right that you know your true identity as you step into your manhood. Maria and Alexander have provided you with the best that they can offer, and have shown nothing but love to you, which you have kindly reciprocated. It is imperative that you continue to show this appreciation to your adopters throughout your life, for they have done more for you than both you or they could ever know. I hope that this information does not sadden you, but rather empowers you by giving your life an enhanced meaning, and answers questions that I am sure you have pondered for your entire life. John was a horrible man, but an example of what you may look to avoid in your life. Know that you come from adversity, from struggle, and that out of imperfection came perfection with you. Your mother was a rich and wonderful woman, and has only left behind gold and silver in her wake. You are a prized possession, a diamond that shone through the rough, and the offspring of one of God's greatest gifts to this planet. Know that you have a guardian in me who is aware of the weight of your existence. Carry that with you as you venture out and find your path in life.  

If my anonymity disturbs you and you wish to visit me, you may ask Maria where I live, and she will respond by providing you with photographs of the house. She has promised not to reveal my location, name, or contact information, so I am afraid that your search will not be easy. If you do manage to find me, however, I'll be glad to know that your mother's imagination still lives on inside of you.

With Love, 

                  Your Affectionate Observer

What I Think About: Flip Phones

I'm thinking about buying a flip phone sometime soon.

I'm guessing that, at most, my current phone has about three good months left before it goes to Apple heaven. I'm not buying the new iPhone X, but I just might buy an old Samsung flip phone instead. I'd have to purchase an iPod to handle all the essentials - Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Snapchat etc., or buy a separate iPhone. It would be used for casual conversations with my family and friends, but the Samsung - that would be used strictly for business.

When you think of the quintessential businessman, you see the $2,000 Armani suit, the $22,000 Rolex watch, the $800 Testoni's, and most importantly, the $20 Samsung, the cherry on top, the icing on the cake. In all seriousness, hanging up the phone on a smartphone really doesn't capture the essence of ending an important business call. Picture this: A scruffy man in a brown suit, leaning against the wall of the local convenience store. He's hustling to make a sale, and in a rough, untactful voice says, "That's my final offer, now you can take it or leave it!". He then proceeds to end the call, frustrated and unnerved. What type of phone do you think he's using? That's right, a basic smartphone. He fumbles snatches it away from his sticky, stubbly, sweaty cheek and fumbles around with it until he finds the ever-so-elusive red button that ends the phone call. By that point, the harsh effect is gone, and he knows he has failed.

Now once again, open your imagination and picture this: The perfect businessman in his tailored suit, strutting down the street, beaming, and giving off a hint of Calvin Klein's "Intense Euphoria". He expertly negotiates a deal, and comes to his closer as he gracefully says, "That's all I can offer, call me back if you're serious". Maintaining his composure, he removes the phone from his ear and snaps the phone down with a "pop", placing it into his pocket and continuing down the street without a break in stride. That, in my opinion, is the definition of class.

The smartphone is flashy, hip, current, and youthful, yes. But true beauty and elegance comes along with simplicity. There are times when the iPhone is the appropriate tool to use in social settings, which happens to be most of the time. But there are a select few moments in time when the flip phone is the perfect tool to use. I just want to be prepared for those moments. And if the only time I get to use it is when I'm wearing my suit and walking down a busy street, so be it. At least I'll be prepared.




In all honesty I just want to play that old snake game that had the colored balls you had to eat. I tried finding it on the App Store but I guess people have just forgotten about it. That was my childhood.

What I Think About: Three Seconds

Three seconds is a long time.

If someone beats you in the 100 yard dash by a second or less, you probably ran a good race and finished close to them. You might both be slow but at least one of you isn't that much slower than the other one. On the other hand, if you're beaten by two seconds, you might want to reconsider who you line up with the next time you run. It's not a blowout - but it's clear that you lost, and you don't have a chance at beating them next time. Don't walk side by side with the person who beat you unless you want to hear your name being used at the butt of a joke. If you're beaten by three seconds, however, you've probably just embarrassed yourself. That's not even a competition, to be honest. You probably lined up with your opponent because you didn't have anyone else to pair up with. Definitely do not walk back with this person - have some pride. Either fake an injury or pretend to vomit. At 3 seconds it's okay to make an excuse. 

If you've taken only one second to put your change in your wallet after purchasing an item, you're pretty talented. You can walk away from the cash register with pride, and maybe even give a passing smile to the cashier and the next person waiting in line. This is a difficult skill to master and I have the utmost respect for those who do it well. If you take two seconds, you need to practice at home and try better next time. Nobody wants to watch you fumble around with your wallet and drop change all over the place. Don't say thank you to the cashier, just get your things and go. You're not special and nobody cares if you're sorry. If you really can't get yourself together and it takes you three seconds to put your change away, either consider never using cash again or sticking to using your credit/debit card. Quickly grab your items before the cashier takes them back and says you don't deserve them. Do not try to smile or act cute - this is not a trivial event and you need to seriously consider your actions and whether you're fit to be in service lines. If you're at Walmart or the gas station be prepared to throw hands with the next person in line. 

If you shake someone's hand for just one second, your shaking partner will either conclude that you are 1. weird, 2. are in a hurry, or 3. don't have any social skills. One second is just too fast, unless 123+ people are waiting to shake your hand, which would mean you're either 1. famous, or 2. the president, which you're not, because if you were, you wouldn't be reading this. Two seconds is the ideal time to shake someone's hand. A handy stopwatch is a convenient tool to use in this situation and if you're observant you'll see the more skilled hand-shakers quickly glance down at their left hand (because you always shake with your right) and check their timing. On the other hand (but not really), 3 seconds is just enough time to completely ruin the moment. The first problem comes along with the fact that it's expected to look people in the eye when shaking hands. A 3 second stare says that you are either 1. weird, 2. don't have any social skills, or 3. are infatuated with your shaking partner. Try looking at someone in the eyes without saying a word for three seconds and you'll realize how long that really is. Secondly, squeezing another person's hand for three seconds is just enough time to feel 1. their sweat, 2. moisture from washing one's hands, or 3. an absence of that moisture which means this person is neither clean nor safe, and nobody needs to know all of that information.

Thirdly, and lastly, if you want to see a perfect example of how NOT to shake someone's hand by our current president, click here.