Sex and the Sixth Grader

LOS ANGELES -- An Orange middle school teacher accused of having sexual contact with two 13-year-old boys who were former students is scheduled to be arraigned Thursday.

Sarah Suzanne Bench-Salorio, 28, of Orange, is charged with "multiple" counts of lewd acts with a child, according to Orange police Sgt. Dave Hill....

URL Source: http://www.nbcsandiego.com/news/4055460/detail.html

NBCSanDiego.com January 6, 2005

In 1997 the arrest of elementary school teacher Mary Kay Letourneau for the statutory rape of her 13-year-old, sixth grade student shocked the nation. By 2005 incidents such as the one listed above had become all too common. It seems that a problem once believed to occur only with male teachers, was happening with women as well. No longer can society assume that the pedophile hiding in the teaching profession is a man. Add to that concern, the age of the students involved seem to be getting younger even as these situations become more publically known.

The problem has been around for years. Rumors often abound in high schools of romantic involvements with senior girls and a teacher or coach. It isn’t totally uncommon for a first year teacher to be linked to a recently graduated student with only a three or four year age difference between them. The predicament with this situation isn't so much the sexual or romantic relationship but the position of the teacher. Teachers are people in authority over students and this sort of involvement is a violation of boundaries. Just as a police officer shouldn't have a relationship an accused criminal, a doctor with someone in his care, or a psychiatrist with his patient, teachers shouldn't become involved with students because of the required boundaries of the position.

But this "trend" that the media is noting in the above article is unsettling at the very least. Students who haven’t even started high school now sexually involved with adults in their 30s – has this always gone on? It seems to be getting so much press because these cases are female teachers involved with 13-year-old boys. Surely the pattern has been there with male teachers also but, as society we are quick to jump in and label the man a pervert, quiet up the case and throw him in jail. Comments can often be heard such as "did you see the girl, there is no way she LOOKED thirteen." Implying that somehow gives a reason and/or justification to the situation. But with women and boys there is a question, a hesitation, a consideration of the sexual interest of the boy involved. Men often tell stories of a sexual romp with an older woman while still a teenager. Many an inexperienced, eager 16-year-old has managed a summer of sneaking off to see an older woman for a personal education of the sexual style. But the students in these cases are 13-year-old children. They are the same kids that should be spending hours in front of video games, worrying if they will be the one to pitch in their next little league game and stuffing cheeseburgers and Pepsi. Instead they are having sex with women in their 30s. And then you must consider the crazy woman - and yes, any thirty-something woman who desires sex with a pimple-faced, voice-cracking, pubescent 13-year-old is crazy – and you have a really sick situation!

What is wrong with these women? The attraction is too confusing to comprehend. Think about it, 13-year-old girls have a hard time liking the obnoxious, name calling, spitting and crude boys of their own age. Why would an adult woman even consider it? Truth is, these women are sick, just as sick as their male counterparts who commit crimes such as these. It just seems as a society we are slower to accept a woman as a sexual predator. But from the looks of the stories coming out, we need to accept this concept, and do it quickly. We also need to remember to teach our children, both female and male, the principles of boundaries with their bodies.

One only has to look at the mothers that saw these boundaries broken, not with their 18-year-old sons, but with their 13-year-old innocent children, to imagine the pain they must feel. Forget therapy with these women, put them where they deserve to be, where they would go if they were a man in the same position, in jail. Jail is the only place to keep children safe from predators.

Stephen Colbert: The Last American Hero

Stephen Colbert is more American than Mark Twain, apple pie and baseball. He is a beacon of light and truth in contrast to today’s ego-filled news anchors, talk hosts, and correspondents trying to make a name for themselves. Such self-serving degenerate ego maniacs include Lou Dobbs, Bill O’Reilly, Chris Mathews and Nancy Grace. These are the enemies to American dignity, but Stephen Colbert is a crusader in truth- or truthiness more appropriately.

Colbert plays a caricature of the many political pundits seen on CNN and Fox News. These people are usually full of themselves and make sweeping statements such as Lou Dobbs and his unending hatred of illegal immigrants. Colbert captures these pundits' idiocy but infuses his own naive charm and his audience loves him for that. He plays the right wing conservative to a T and never believes in moderation or caution.

In an age where news content has come to cover celebrity drinking binges, shopping trends, natural disasters and other trivial interests, Colbert tackles the real issues. These issues include who’s trying to ride on his coattails, the top five things in the Threatdown, which typically has bears topping the list. Why bears? Because bears as Colbert says are “godless, soulless, rampaging killing machines.” Colbert warns that polar bears although cute are still hate filled monsters.

Colbert’s personality is the focus and “star” of the show The Colbert Report. He often interviews someone by asking first asking, “Explain evolution in 30 seconds or less” or more appropriately asking Tim Robbins, “How are you such a good actor and why do you hate America so much?” He doesn’t have time for proper protocol and etiquette because he gets to the heart of issues like a piercing knife. In fact he doesn’t believe in truth because that is just a bunch of facts but rather he believes in truthiness. What is truthiness? “It is the truth that is felt deep down, in the gut. It can't be found in books, which are all facts and no heart.” (Wikiality) Such users of truthiness include George W. Bush, who Colbert affectionately describes as a “gut thinker, not a head thinker.” Truthiness shows that intuition and instinct are more important than statistics and factual jibbery joo.

Colbert often states that “anyone who disagrees with the President is guilty of treason.” And his unending loyalty to the President shows in interviews as well. Often when talking about current politics and situations with guests that coincide with the President’s view he tells them, “thank you for supporting our President.” This throws them off and makes him win the conversation from his liberal counterparts. Colbert often asks the audience as well, “George W. Bush, great President or the greatest President?” I think we all know the answer to that one.

The list of accomplishments that Colbert has accomplished are unending. Besides saving the country 30 minutes a night with his justice which comes “hot and hard,” he also has a Ben and Jerry’s Ice Cream that is named after him appropriately titled, “Americone Dream.” Nothing could sum of Colbert’s flavor other than American justice itself and the ice cream does this. He is available in three flavors, red white and blue. Stephen Colbert is America and so can you!

Works Cited

Wikiality.com

Another world

Music washes away from the soul the dust of everyday life.
~Berthold Auerbach

Music is passion. It represents the emotions that a person has kept inside himself but can finally let out-in a song. Music can make you cry, laugh, scream, love, or even hate. Every emotion that a person has ever felt can be found in a song. When we allow music to relate to our inner self then we are transported to another world. In that world, you can say whatever you want, you can feel however you feel, you can be whoever you want to be. Music sets you free.

Think about it- when someone has a bad day, what do they do? They get in their car and turn up the radio. If they want to calm down and relax, then the soothing sound of Josh Groban’s tenor voice fills the car with his mellow lyrics. However, if they want to vent out frustrations, then heavy metal or rock will come blasting from the radio and them belting out the lyrics will soon follow. Music is your release.

Walking down the street with the light blue sky and scattered fluffy clouds, the lyrics from It’s a beautiful day by U2 can not possibly leave your mind. The happiness and amazement of life that people feel can’t be expressed in our own thoughts and words. We use music to complete our feelings. When we connect with a song then our bodies start to move. Either your head bobs or you’re just dancing away. For those three minutes that you are grooving to your favorite song, you are content. Problems, stress, and frustration has disappeared at least for that one moment. Nothing matters and nothing exists. It’s just you and the music.

It takes lyrics and music for us to fully describe our sensations even our painful ones. People sometimes are too hurt or depressed to try to explain or talk to someone about their feelings. Music is like an invisible band-aid for the heart. It can soothe your wounds in a way that nothing else can. Lyrics or sometimes just the music relate to personal experiences and give you the feeling that you are not alone. When you need to cry then hearing someone else’s’ pain can release your own tears.

Not everyone connects with music and feels the passion. But for those who do then music is life. One day does not go by where music has not been heard. It’s everywhere- On the radio, inside stores, blasting from stereos on the side of the street, and even from the lips of pedestrians humming as they cross the road. You can’t escape from music. It is here to transport you. It is here to heal you. Why don’t you let it?

Fearless

Standing out front wondering if they were open, the sign read 1-6 p.m., we were still hesitant. But we urged on and walked through the front doors, I was with my mom. She was down visiting from Pennsylvania for the weekend. I was exceptionally hesitant, I was a little shy, one part because of my recently acquired black eye, another because I was the only guy in a sea of ladies, all there for the same purpose as my self, a pedicure.

Because I had never once before been to a spa, except maybe one time with my mother when I was younger; this made my head begin to feel as if I was perceptually confused, and flustered by all the meticulously placed Asian ornaments. It wasn't long before my state of current aw was disturbed. This was the mood.

"Hello" the soft skinned Asian woman greeted me.

After exchanging the usual pre-pedicure lingo while dodging her forward sales-skills or lack thereof, we made it to my seat.

So far, after I had made it past the shock, I was calm and a little excited. The preparation is the same: a little Asian man walks around the spa placing a spoon-ful of aqua blue solvents into each of our feet's surrounding pods. Then each individual is assigned their "personal" assistant. I got lucky. Mine a mid 20s Japanese knockout, who was not shy and made me feel even more comfortable. We continued through the procedure, some of it was awkward, and I kept asking myself how people make a living rubbing others' feet. Probably, because of her casual attitude I was instantly numb towards any awkward feelings I had before, so I sat and enjoyed and sometimes my heart would race at sight of the state of her steel tools. Overall the experience was certainly enjoyable, and while sitting there no one was looking at me as being out of place-a few obscure ups and downs, nothing unusual.

The chairs were straight out of a massage catalogue and they matched the decor of the entire place. In fact the entire room flowed, nicely; the fake plants didn't even feel tacky. The employees or artists were fearless. To them feet seemed malleable, their hands smoothed out the wrinkles, their files reformed individual nails and the stones leveled out calluses, admirably tackling individual foot mis-perfections, an amiable task itself.

Even though it seemed unusual at first, even after my mother's reassurances that men do these things often, I believe this is necessary practice. I felt care free most of the time All the middle aged women who surrounded me with their Dulce purses containing countless credit along with keys to high-end vehicles, seemed to be at peace with my presence. I must say this was refreshing, I hardly see women like this who are not judgmental, yet I was within feet of them in their most comfortable habitat. Early on I would have had troubled times fathoming such an experience. It was certainly unique.

Before I could realize, I was outside. My experience was over. It all seemed the same, but my feet wouldn't stop tingling.

A Day of "AA"

Every night a group of people come together for help and support through each other for their alcohol addictions. We know this better as “AA” or alcoholics anonymous. They gather together at a place that looks like a narrow house. When you walk in there is a small kitchen where they make coffee and refreshments. Recovering alcoholics drink a lot of coffee! Then you walk through a cased opening and there is a large room where everyone sits and talks about their drunken experiences and how many ignorant things they have done while Intoxicated. The room is not like an interrogation room, but a living room with a lot more couches. There were probably eight or nine couches, a couple love seats, and a few recliners. The room smelled of stale cigarettes and fresh smoke. That would be because by every seat there is a full ashtray. Everyone is really nice and willing to help. You can tell which people are there on free will and which are court ordered. The unwilling usually don’t talk as much nor participate. When they start the meetings the people that have been attending at least thirty days without drinking get a medal type object for sticking with the program. Then the longer they have gone the higher the medal will be. Then they let you introduced yourself which would be your name and you would have to state that you are an alcoholic. If you say that you are not then they think you are in denial. After that you read aloud from a book. In this book are stories of drunk people doing ridiculous things and the outcome of their actions. All the stories are horrible. Most people there unfortunately could relate. They will stop after the reading and ask the group questions. Most participate and tell how their stories relate. Its really sad and depressing, but good to know they are trying to get better. Some people have been to every meeting since the place opened. One gentleman said he has been clean for thirteen years. Once you finish with the group meeting they have something they say. Almost like the sinners prayer, only this one is for alcoholics. Kind of like a chant to stay clean. They also have drug addicts in there. In that case you would say your name and say you were an addict instead of an alcoholic. They give you pamplets as well. Those are to help you cope in real life and actual situations you may encounter. That works for some but not everyone. There were also people who have been to meetings and fell off the wagon. When they come back, if they come back, they just start over with the time that they have been sober and the counselors try to help them again. They do that everyday of their life, with some of the same people. They are more than counselors, recovering alcoholics and addicts. They are more like a family. A sober family at that!

This wasn't a drag!

When I think of men in drag, I picture giggling men in women’s clothing with way too much makeup on trying to sell their bodies. Until this past Friday I had never seen anyone in drag. So when I saw a professional drag show, I was really taken aback.

Upon arriving at Ibiza, the gay venue downtown, the first thing I did was follow my straight friend into the ladies bathroom. She had seen people in drag before and has lots of gay friends, so when we bumped into two “men” in the bathroom she didn't blink an eye. I, however, couldn’t stop staring. The young girls were in men’s clothes that were tight on their large bodies. One had on a backwards hat and smoked a cigarette while trying to keep a masculine expression on her face. The other had one a plaid shirt and a crew cut and talked in a very low voice. They were obviously women, but it looked like they were playing dress-up.

Once we made it to the stage, the crowd was to stand around the dance floor, not on it, so the performers could use it as they pleased. I walked across it to stand on the other side just before the lights went down and was yelled at in a loud voice: “Hey get off the dance floor, they’ll get angry if you’re in their way!”

The lights then went down and music began to play very loud. Everyone was silent and looked on intently. A spotlight shown on the stairs of the stage and a man in drag appeared. He (or, “she,” they prefer to be called) was an overweight middle aged man that looked like he’d spent days doing his makeup and hair. His hair was long, black and curly. He was wearing a leather corset and fishnet tights. Everyone cheered at the ensemble. I was told that most of the performers made their own outfits because they can’t find ones that fit them they way they like. An announcer introduced the performer by his drag name, which were two female names put together. His was Tara Nicole. He moved down the stairs effortlessly in four-inch heels and walked around the dance floor to show off to the crowd.

The entire time, he mouthed the words to Gimme More, by Britney Spears. Everyone cheered and smiled and held out one dollar bills. I had no idea that people gave money to the performers as if they were strippers. Sometimes the crowd held the dollar bill in their mouth or their breasts and had the performers take it out with his mouth. I was handed a few dollar bills from my friend and decided to try it. I held out the money and when the man in drag came my way, he gave me his cheek to kiss. At first I didn’t know what he was doing, but then I did the appropriate air-kiss and he kept dancing. Whenever the chorus of the song came on, he did a split or high kicks in the air. In the middle of the song, his wig flew off on accident, revealing a bold head with duct tape around it, but he kept going and just smiled. This made the crowd love him even more and hands holding dollar bills shot up in the air along with screams of support.

The other performers were all the same body type, each with their own “personality” to match their outfit. One looked like a motorcycle girl, one looked like a housewife. Some even had breast implants. All of them were very good and knew how to please a crowd. They took their work very seriously and didn’t ever let anyone touch them.

After the show, my friend asked me if I had a good time because she said I had a shocked expression on my face the whole time. The show was aimed to please every kind of audience, not just homosexuals. The people that performed in the show were professionals and really acted like it.

The Party Never Stops at Chuck E. Cheese's

The balls smell like urine.

Red. Blue. Green. Yellow. Orange.

Each and every one smells like urine. But the kids don't seem to mind what they smell like so long as they can still chase each other, wrestle, pretend to swim, and hide in the depths of the infamously dirty ball pit. God knows what lay at the bottom of this wretched incubator of disease. Another kid shoots out of the yellow tube slide and takes out his friend. A wrestling match ensues chock full of hair pulling, eye-gouging, and shirt ripping. Hellions.

Welcome to Chuck E. Cheese's.

You go to school, do your chores, eat your veggies. Now, there's a place you do nothing but have fun! Chuck E. Cheese's! Play! Win! Eat! Choose! You can do it all! And do it again! Chuck E. Cheese's! It's awesome! It's incredible! It's practically unstoppable! Chuck E. Cheese's...

I haven't been to Chuck E. Cheese's since the first grade, and I'm making a comeback for my little cousin's birthday party, the big four. Unlike my fellow adult partygoers, I fully intend on partying like a four year old again. Time to rock out.

I stumble from the ball pit and wipe myself clean of the filth, trying to find my dignity. It's pizza time. The staff comes out of the kitchen with several large pizzas. A peppy, babyface twenty-something dude reminiscent of the waiter in the movie Office Space brings us our drinks. His name is Scooter. His energy is brilliant and his chirpy, boyish voice resounds through our private party room in a way that I find annoying. He's persistent about bringing out the birthday cake. No one is happy with him. There goes your hefty gratuity. Whatever, it's video game time.

I strap onto a fake motorcycle and play an incredibly unrealistic racing game. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a little boy absolutely killing it in Skee Ball. When the game ends, his jackpot is hefty. High-roller. He's definitely getting a bunch of miniature paratroopers or Chinese finger traps from the prize counter. Bitchin'. The 25 feet of tickets spewing from the machine attracts much attention from the children surrounding him. In come the sharks. A little toehead sneaks behind him and tries to steal his tickets. The boy catches the thief and throws him to the ground. Here comes mom. She parts the two feuding Chuck E. Cheese gladiators and drags the toehead boy off to their table, spanking him all the way. Bummer, dude.

I tire of the lame video games and venture towards the "stage." On the "stage," where a giant grey mouse, a sad looking dog wearing a fedora, a ditzy sounding duck, a disturbing mutation of a hippo , the popular television character, Barney, and an Italian pizza maker mechanically dance and sing some ridiculous tune. Creepy. A little girl dances to the right of me. She is totally oblivious to the outside world and so caught up in the moment of the creepy singing puppets, resembling a girl at a rave party tripping on ecstasy. Give it ten years. Hands raised in the air, she hops around totally out of synch with the music. I admire her freedom.

The children start to disappear to find various places to fall asleep. Chairs. Floor. Plastic Tubes. Ball pit. Too much sugar and partying. The place begins to clear out until it is just our small party is left. The creepy band continues to play their songs of fun and happiness. Scooter energetically cleans the tables with an ear-to-ear grin. The odd sounds of video games continue to pump through the building like a carnival. Ding. Ding. Bzzzz. Rnnng.

The party never stops.

Who Sucked Out the Feeling

I come from a family that claims to be religious, yet aside from weddings, funerals and the obligatory holiday service here and there I can't remember any of them ever going to church. I personally haven’t been to church in at least 15 years, save the aforementioned scenarios. My family is predominately "Catholic" so this morning I woke hours before I would on any other Sunday morning in order to make the 9:30 a.m. mass at St. Mark Catholic Church.

As I made my way down Eastwood Road, mind, body and soul barely intact from Saturday night's escapades, I fumbled for the ability to keep an open mind about my impending religious experience. But to be honest, I was most excited about the fact that the Catholic mass usually runs a curt 45 minutes and I'd be home in plenty of time for the 1 p.m. slate of football games. I pulled into the parking lot around 9:15, immediately impressed by the sprawling compound that was St Mark's. It didn’t have the historic beauty I've come to expect from most churches I've seen, but it was impressive nonetheless. Whatever beauty the church lacked externally it made up for on the inside. Admiring the architecture could occupy me for the duration if nothing else.

I wish I could say the same for the people. Almost no one looked happy to be there. It was as if they had dragged themselves there strictly out of habit, kind of like going to the dentist. However, the collective morbid demeanor went hand in hand with the ensuing rituals. Not even the power of song was able to permeate the stoic aura that plagued this church. I was under the impression that church was about community and a celebration of faith. This whole process seemed to be more closely related to a funeral march. The pot-bellied gentlemen to my left sang like a monotone ventriloquist, still managing to break a sweat despite his sloth-like movement. Maybe he had the same idea I did for choosing the cheap seats, maybe he was just there getting the job done in anonymity. What ever his reasons I only hope he prayed for a pair of pants that would touch his shoes. As I sat in the most desolate corner of the church I could find, which was far from desolate in a parish filled to the gills with patrons, I felt the overwhelming urge to burst into a song of my own. During periods of stark silence I envisioned myself belting out the late 90's rock anthem "Who Sucked Out the Feeling?" by Superdrag.

Every archaic ritual, though painfully monotonous, was carried out with surgical precision. Call and response...Stand, sit, kneel, stand...Head down, head up...eyes closed, open...All of this subordinate behavior and not once shred of sincerity. I couldn't help but wonder if the guy hanging so selflessly from a cross over the altar would see through this charade. See you at the next wedding or funeral, I think that’s all I can take.

The African Methodist Episcopal Zion Church of Willard

I immediately felt out of place as I parked in the small grassy parking lot of the A.M.E. Zion Church of Willard. I knew one person who attended this church. A black lady I work with is a member there and I told her that I was coming. I parked my truck and walked into the small white cement church. Immediately the pungent smell of mold hit my nostrils. I heard a loud creak as I opened the paint-chipped door. I got there early so I could not feel as uncomfortable as I would if I got there late. I did not know how a black church would react to the young white man sitting in the back of their church. I watched the faces as they walked by my pew, staring towards me in inevitable disbelief of my presence. I felt no awkwardness by the people, because after the initial shock of my white face amongst a crowd of black men and women, they seemed to accept and almost made me feel completely comfortable.

Mrs. B (her name will be disclosed) introduced me to as many people as she could, to tear the tension that she obviously saw on my face. Her sisters were also members there and they hugged me and welcomed me to the church. As I was greeting another one of Mrs. B’s family members, the service abruptly started. I grew up in a Pentecostal Free Will Baptist church that has jaded my views of church. But the music was the first thing that made me really realize it was different. The tall, lanky piano player cracked his fingers in an almost cartoon style before sitting at the upright piano against the wall in the choir loft. He smiled as the pastor asked him to play a song for the opening of the service. After the prayer, the melody of a familiar song graced my ears. I was hearing “Jesus Loves Me” in a way that I had never even dreamed or imagined of hearing. The song not only went on longer than I had remembered it being, but it was sung in a completely different style. The black gospel influence had altered a childhood memory and a song was brought into my memory banks. The women raised their hands in reverence to praise the Lord. The men clapped their hands, while I listened and smiled. The grin on my face was from ear to ear. The choir robes all danced as the members that wore them danced from side to side in the choir loft that was holding, what appeared to be, double its capacity.

Since it is only October, I was not expecting to be too hot inside the church. I had worn my suit just to show respect for the fact that I am going to church. As I stood there, for an extremely long period of time, I noticed a gas heater about ten feet from me. As sweat dripped down my back I laughed to myself as I counted the bricks that were aglow on the heater. Everyone seemed to be sweating. But no one seemed to care. They let the sweat fall from their brows and drip drop down their shirts. Some men wiped their balding heads with handkerchiefs and women fanned themselves with a piece of cardboard inscribed with the name of the church above a picture of a black Jesus. The singing came to an end, and the first of three offerings was taken up. The offering is a time to pay the tithes that the Bible instructs us to pay. I put money in the offering plate as it went by my aisle, but I was not prepared for the final offering ritual. Every single person in the church stood up and row-by-row, aisle by aisle we walked to the front and dropped more money into a golden plate that lay on a table at the front of the church. I followed the short black woman who wore a purple velvet hat, with lace around the edges. She led me back to my seat and the beginning of the service soon began.

I have been to many churches, but I have never started church at 10:45 and had the actual “message” start at 12:07. The message consisted of man or women’s personal struggle to remain good in the eyes of the Lord. I smiled as I heard the men and women around me exclaim “Hallelujah”, “Amen”, “Uh huh”, and “Preach It!”
I am by no means a hypocrite, because I do consider myself a Christian but this church seemed more alien to me than many things that I have done in my life. I finally walked out of the A.M.E. Zion Church of Willard at 1:45. I was soaked from head to toe with sweat, and I was tired and hungry, because it was almost 2 o' clock and I hadn’t eaten breakfast that morning.
As I walked through the moderately high grass of the parking lot, I realized that Christians all worship the same God. We just all worship Him in different ways. I will say that a spectacle of this magnitude is a joy to undertake. So if you have doubts that God is real, take a trip to Willard and sit on the back row of the African Methodist Episcopal Zion Church. I guarantee that you will walk away feeling something.

Start Your Engines

We have been driving for three hours. We drive into what looks like the woods. Then, all of a sudden, campers and tents extend as far as the eye can see. Beer cans and cigarette butts are everywhere. Beer guts and back hair are exposed on almost every man in sight. Flags proclaiming the supremacy of number three or number twenty-four wave proudly from cars, campers, and motorcycles. Teeth are missing and kids are wearing camo.

This is a NASCAR race.

I have never been to one of these resplendent events, and on this excursion I am accompanied by my fiancé, his father, and his sister. I was invited on this trip by my future father-in-law and he loves races. He loves the noise, the crashes, and the excitement of a checkered-flag finish.

I, however, am not excited by eardrum-bursting noises, the crashes that could be ten feet from me, and forty cars going too fast to be able to tell what color they are. We are sitting in a special section that is bleacher-seating and I can stand five feet from a fence on the wall right before turn number three. We are in the section reserved for the members of the Highway Patrol that work traffic for the event and their families. The people that we are sitting with are not your typical race fans. They do not show up three days before the race to camp out, get drunk, and fight people who call their favorite driver a wuss. This section is a safe haven from the rest of the race complex.

If you walk away from the Highway Patrol section to get a pretzel or look at racer paraphernalia, you have stepped into another world. No woman is wearing more than a tank top and jeans. Most are not wearing appropriate lingerie. The men are all spitting Skoal and drinking warm beer from plastic cups. It is not my kind of party.

I am told not to walk around alone, not because these are all bad people, but because if you get enough drunken rednecks together they can forget their manners. I hear some cat-calling and some lewd language, but it is nothing I have not heard walking around downtown Wilmington.

The race is 343 laps. The first ten are exciting, not much after that is. There are eleven cautions throughout the race. You would think that all these cautions would mean some crashes that would really make you hold your breath. No. These cautions are engine failures, debris on the track, or fender benders. The one crash happens on the straightaway right before our seats, but it was over in two seconds and it was not a serious wreck. Both cars are able to continue on in the race. Plus, I am not the type of person to be extremely excited by carnage.

I keep thinking, “Okay, just wait for the finish. There will be a push for the finish and that will be something worth watching.” It isn’t. The race ends under caution, so the rules say that the drivers go two more laps and the race is decided in those two final laps, another chance at a great finale. Nope. Jeff Gordon jumps ahead five car lengths and stays there the last two laps. There is no push for the finish. There is no bumping the lead man to force him out of their way. It is anticlimactic.

On the ride home, my future father-in-law asks me how I enjoyed the race. Curse my wonderful manners. I say that I enjoyed it a lot and thank him profusely for bringing me. His immediate response is that we should come back to the race in March. I cannot believe it but I nodded in agreement.

Now I have resigned myself to making up excuses every time a race comes up or submitting myself to four more hours of torture. We will see when March rolls around.

Walking the Green Mile

“Respect for the law is the first step to wisdom.”

These simple words greet all new inmates of the Columbus County Detention Center. The three million dollar facility stands directly adjacent to the previous holding center. My close friend, a corrections officer, agreed to show me around. The informative staff of law enforcement officials allowed me to take a tour of both complexes and observe inmates of all security levels. After I signed the appropriate paperwork, my friend took me deep within the modern world of our nation’s jails.

Once perpetrators are fingerprinted and have turned in all possessions, they are escorted to a showering station. At this point, the future inmate showers and receives their “county orange” clothing. From there, the officers begin walking the inmate down a long and freshly painted hallway, already dubbed “the green mile.” But unlike the movie, this hallway does not lead to death. Some would argue that it leads to something worse. The walk is fifty yards…fifty yards to do nothing but think. At the end of the green mile are the prisoner wings, or pods. Each of the eight pods contains six stainless steel tables (stools attached), two phones, one TV, two visitation booths, and two floors of cells. One-way windows allow the officers to view the different pods from a control center on the second floor. An escape hatch to the roof is a bitter reminder that despite the technological advancements of the nation’s correctional facilities, one hundred percent security is never guaranteed.

I visited during dinnertime and walked the cellblocks as the prisoners received their meal. They did not hesitate to complain or scream at the guards if there was the slightest issue with the food or anything else. Inmates in the maximum-security wing ate inside their cells while other blocks were allowed out of their cells into the dining area. Some inmates chose to use the time out of their cells by making phone calls or playing cards, while others ate and watched TV. Many inmates were especially curious about my presence, requesting cigarettes or writing utensils from me. As I peaked into one cell, an inmate, who was relieving himself, spotted me and yelled a string of obsentities at me. In all honesty, I felt like I was observing animals at a zoo and for a split second, I felt sorry for all the men who were locked up. I spoke with some inmates called “trustees," those with special privileges, about the differences between the old jail and the new complex. “This place sucks,” one responded. When I asked what the worst aspects were, he told me that the new facility didn’t allow any of the amenities that they had come to know in the previous location. No pens or pencils are allowed for safety issues. Rubber pencils are expected shortly.

In the old jail, as many as 40 prisoners were confined in the same area, allowing them to converse and interact more closely with one another. For obvious security reasons, the new jail allows only minor interaction. This way, it is difficult for the inmates to form cliques and distinguish leaders among the cellblocks. As for smoking…only trustees are allowed to take cigarette breaks so long as they go through the proper channels with the officers to get them. No other inmates are allowed to smoke. I was told that a pack of cigarettes can be sold for upwards of $250. The inmate will then break down 20 cigarettes and make as many as 200 smaller cigarettes from one pack! Thus, the inmate will make a profit in the illegal sale of his cigarettes.

Another complaint I heard about was the new visitation system. In many jails and prisons, visitors are separated from the inmates by safety glass and use phones to communicate. In this detention center, visitation is carried out by a different means. An inmate must sit at one of the visitation booths within the dining area. The small booths have a phone, a video camera, and a TV monitor. The camera and the monitor are secured behind a reinforced protection unit of steel and safety glass. All visitors stay in a special room located at the entrance of the facility and are separated from the prisoners by several computerized doors, corrections officers, and the green mile.

The life is very simple. To describe it as routine would be a gross understatement. This reason may explain why some inmates feel the need to break the rules or draw attention to themselves. One inmate screamed at me about the insanity of staying in a cell for as much as 23 hours a day. I was led up and down every wing of the prison, except for the women’s wing. The officers and I received verbal abuse from every wing. One inmate was screaming at a guard for not supplying him with a pen. “What the hell am I supposed to do in here?” the man screamed. The guard just shook his head; “That’s a good question," he replied.

Follow Up
The day after this essay was written, three inmates escaped from the Columbus County Detention Center. A glitch in the computer system has been blamed for the escape. One inmate is still at large.

Hookah Fun

The Marrakesh Café, located on Hillsborough Street in Raleigh, is a place I had not heard about until recently. One of my good friends who is Egyptian has always ranted on about how cool and fun it is, but I never gave it much thought. Last weekend I decided to check it out for myself.

The small, festive looking building sitting on the corner of the street caught my attention before I even stepped inside. Windows panes decorated with brightly colored hookahs, a few tables arranged outside, and a roof that was oddly shaped makes it stand out from the adjacent Chinese restaurant and pizzeria. From the outside it appeared fairly small . I was a little nervous going without my friend who was a regular, but I quickly opened the door that was covered with fliers.

“Friday night – Belly Dancer – No Cover Charge!”

I have only seen belly dancers on TV usually at a party or club. While entering I was greeted with the sounds of loud music which I didn’t quickly recognize. Drums and fast rhymes crammed the place with a sense of exhilaration and excitement. I looked around for the closest seat. No chairs. Against the wall were couch-like seats, with the wall as back support. Each individual cushion was unique with different colors and designs. Small octagon-shaped tables were placed wherever they were needed. On the floor in the corners were actual pillows to sit on. They looked comfortable, but I wasn’t going to move.

As I quietly sat against the wall, I looked up and around studying the wall decor. There were various pictures of Moroccan places, pyramids, and people. Moroccan paintings of symbolic places, people, and objects gave culture to the cafe. I then noticed a Moroccan man making his way from the register over to my table. He was one of the most polite, kind, and friendly people I had ever talked to. I think he sensed I had never been before, and made sure I understood all the different hookah flavors and all their drink specials. I found it impressive that he came to me; even though you were suppose to go to the front to order. I decided to try the melon along with a tropical tea. I am not much of a smoker, but I will have to admit, this hookah was quite tasty.

Halfway into my hookah a small group of Moroccan men jumped up and formed a circle in the middle of the floor. I wasn’t sure what was going on; this obviously wasn’t an actual dance floor. They were dancing around in their own world, having a great time. I quickly realized this was a dance in their culture; they all knew the steps by heart. As I glanced around, I saw a mix of faces. There was a mixture of people from white and black to Asian and Hispanic. Of course there were numerous amounts of Moroccan and Egyptian customers, but they were not grouped together. Some were sitting in corners, others were dancing, and the rest were near me playing a game of cards. I found myself laughing while watching their game. They were speaking Arabic, and I couldn’t help but notice the sarcasm and humor they were expressing. A few caught me watching the dance and insisted on me joining. I timidly sat back and replied, “Oh, no thank you!”

Clapping and cheering suddenly erupted in the room as the belly dancer entered from the back door. Everyone fixated their eyes on this glamorous, graceful woman. She was dressed in what I assumed to be traditional Moroccan attire – a stunning mixture of colors, beads, and scarves decorating her body. It was amazing to see how her body just flowed with the beats of the music. She was focused yet kept the crowd engaged in the dance. A few men placed dollar bills in her skirt, but there was no sexual innuendo like at strip clubs.

By the end of the night, I became much more comfortable. Although I didn’t know anyone there, I had conversations with six people, most of which were regulars at the café. I had never interacted with Moroccan or Arabic people before. I learned how polite, genuine, friendly, and fun they are. The place was laid back and welcoming place. You don’t have to smoke a hookah to sit and enjoy the music, people, and television (which was displayed with Arabic closed captioning). I will be going back, and next time I might even join in on a dance.

Depression. Sympathy. Anger. Repeat: Phew…I guess I’m Normal

Sex Addicts Anonymous was founded in 1977 by sex-addicted therapists, who modeled their meetings after the Alcoholics Anonymous program. The twelve steps and twelve traditions of SAA are virtually synonymous with those of AA, except that SAA has replaced the word alcohol with sex. Also, like AA, it is a spiritual based program and comprises a handful of foxhole Christians.

The meeting starts with a moment of silence for sex addicts who are still suffering, and then the serenity prayer. After readings from texts on sex addiction, the members go around the circle and check in. Their check-ins include their current mood, what they have accomplished recently, and what they are still working on. During check-in members are not to interrupt, ask questions, or give advice; the purpose is for the addict to vent frustrations and for the fellow addicts to listen and relate.

However, members are supposed to interject if anyone discloses names, locations, or websites because that would break anonymity. They are supposed to avoid using the tense “you” and “we” because they are not supposed to talk about others and should take full responsibility for their own actions. Obviously they cannot use profanities or provocative language that could be a "trigger", but most importantly, they are not to speak of felonious behavior in group.

After check-ins they geared the discussion towards me and the other newcomer. They informed us that there are few female members, and warned us not to meet people at SAA for sex. They explained that SAA is not necessarily against homosexuals or fetishes, and the only sex or masturbation they are concerned with is the unhealthy kind. Sex addiction is a toxic thought pattern involving manipulative behaviors, fear, an inferiority complex and abandonment issues. It is often a symptom of greater problems such as obsessive compulsive disorder, mania or coaddictions with drugs and alcohol.

Unhealthy sexual behavior is that which is emotionally destructive and causes guilt, shame, and a feeling of self loathing which only further fuels the compulsion. The “inner circle” of compulsion consists of the activities which are most destructive and must be abstained from. For some members this includes excessive masturbation, extramarital sex, or prostitution, while other’s inner circles range across the entire spectrum of morally reprehensible behavior including erotic torture, nonconsensual sex and pedophilia. The “middle circle” activities and thought processes are not as destructive, but could lead to inner circle activities if not kept in check. The “outer circle” consists of healthy alternatives, which includes productive hobbies, exercise, praying, SAA meetings, or even sex within marriage as long as one is healthy enough to do so.

Newcomers are encouraged to abstain from all sexual behavior for at least ninety days before resuming sex within a healthy relationship. SAA suggests going to least 6 meetings before beginning treatment so that actual level of addiction can be ascertained. Sex addicts go through emotional withdrawals which can last for weeks, and manifest physically. Rather than seeking other modes of medication during treatment, they are supposed to define all three circles and be especially honest with their middle circle activities; the key is to always push for moderation and structure with a conscious awareness of their triggers and capabilities.

Some activities must be completely avoided because they are triggers: driving with no location, having large amounts of cash, surfing the internet. One thing I noticed is that pornography seems to be the gateway drug. At some point they are led to harder and bigger quantities of pornography. Eventually the porn itself is not enough, and they begin to act out on these fantasies which become more and more inappropriate in reality. It is here that sex addicts lose control and are in danger of committing felonious action. Ted Bundy himself said in an interview before his execution that his addiction to hardcore pornography was what led him to murder.

I do not deny my immature and naïve sensibilities: I was afraid I would be wincing every five seconds to hide laughter. I also had an intricate alibi because I was afraid of being exposed as a sex starved amateur desperately trying to absorb their manipulation skills and dirty stories for my own entertainment. But they did not ask any direct questions or talk as if they glorified their own lifestyles. Surprisingly I felt comfortable given the situation; there was a healthy boundary between us, and I did not feel pressured. They just wanted to let me know how the program works so that if I was a sex addict I would know where to find help.

I said “pass” but when the other newcomer shared his story for about fifteen minutes, his legs shook seemingly uncontrollably and his facial expressions fluctuated. I was filled with an intricate and depressing mixture of almost every negative emotion I have ever experienced. As he described horrible things that “tore [his] soul apart, and killed [him] inside” he would tap his fingers and make a petty joke only to fight back tears seconds later. It was at this point that I decided not to disclose personal stories, because I feel it would be unethical, disrespectful and distasteful.

This paper has so much potential for comedic relief its taking will power to be so bland, but I do not doubt the effectiveness of 12 step programs and have seen the benefits of alcoholics anonymous first hand. Somewhere in between the lords prayer and the ending motto “keep coming back – it works if you work it,” I decided that I would be stricken with guilt if I portrayed this institution in terms of Quagmire-style puns, cheapening it into a lighthearted potty joke. There are people there who are recovering, who have years of sobriety, who are trying to help others, and it is not funny to me.

While disturbed and perplexed by some of its members, I respect the program itself. I practiced the 7th tradition of a self supporting group and donated 5 dollars before skating off in a hurry. I can't define how I felt, overwhelmed maybe, I only know I didn't want to be at that church anymore and I could not ever stomach another meeting. Sexual deviance is one of the most difficult behaviors to modify and rehabilitate, and sex addiction is a serious issue. These people are in pain, they are causing pain for others, and they really need help.

Mass

If I was going to somehow wrap this black tie around my neck I needed to fasten the very top button of my shirt. It had been some time since that button had known the closeness and intimacy of its rightful home, but my neck had not quite grown fat enough to prevent the reunion, though it should receive some recognition for the effort. I typed the words “how to tie a tie,” which has become a semiannual Google search, and eventually managed a fairly tight knot.

The parking lot was packed with clean sleek cars. I locked my doors out of habit and habit alone. The man at the entrance was shaking hands with the men and nodding his head at the women. His bushy eyebrows seemed acquainted with most everyone. I walked up the steps and he said, “Hello, young man. Welcome.” He leaned on a cane and wore beige orthopedic shoes. He will count the days until he can do this again, I thought.

I slid into a pew. The little pencil and book holders in front of me made me think of my grandparents. They took my brother and me to church when we were young. It was the last time I had been.

I always hoped we would sit behind the lady with candy in her purse. I would draw on scraps of paper and wonder why there was no eraser on the small pencils. During the songs I would stand, and my grandfather’s voice would boom, deep and penetrating. My grandmother’s falsetto was soft, and I would stare down the line of shoes and purses and hands holding hymn books, singing so no one could hear me.

Everyone was seated and quiet – even the bushy eyebrow doorman, who was with his wife in the second row. A group of young pony-tailed girls walked slowly and purposefully down the aisle carrying crosses and other artifacts. They wore soccer shoes under their white robes. A tiny man in an over-sized colorful draping sash followed along. He wore a headset microphone like Madonna singing "Like a Virgin" in ’86 to a crowd of shrieking look-alikes.

The small man took a seat in an exaggerated throne of a wooden chair. Its back stood two feet above his head and each of its arms could have supported another chair on its own. But instead they just supported his little arms, peeking out from the robe.

After an introductory reading from a man in a gray suit, the priest rose from his chair, took his place at the center of the stage and began. He spoke in a chunky Spanish accent. Certain words seemed rehearsed. But it wasn’t a struggle, he was smart and witty. His people laughed at his jokes. He was self deprecating and sweet, sincere. “Peace be with you,” he said. “And also with you,” his people said.

Everyone knew the routine, the ritual. They stood at the same time, knelt at the same time, recited mantras at the same time. It was a collective mind, a collective body.

Some of the men had hair growing from their ears, and a good bit. The young ones had an urgent look, waiting to become their fathers and uncles. The children squirmed in their mothers’ laps until communion time. The prospect of a snack kept them from a complete loss of control.

Row by row, everyone was asked to stand and approach the altar. I stayed in my seat. A few men and woman stood placing little crackers or wafers inside the mouths of everyone in line. They were a symbol of Jesus Christ’s body, the priest explained. The priest had an over-sized goblet filled presumably with wine or grape juice. This was a symbol of Jesus Christ’s blood, said the priest. They took a sip and handed the goblet back to the priest. He would then wipe the rim of the glass and hand it to the next person. After everyone had their turn, the priest cleaned up, drinking the rest of the contents of the goblet. This was my first communion.

Twenty more minutes of kneeling and praying, and the service was over. The priest stood at the front gate that led out to the street wishing his people well. They seemed pleased to see him close up, one last time. I walked around the back of the church to see the view. Walking through a small winding path, I made my way to a gate that led to the beach. There was a small lookout tower with two flights of steps. I climbed them and watched the waves roll in.

I thought about my grandparents' church. Its yard was not sand and beach; it was grass, and my grandfather had the key to the lawnmower on his keychain. Every Saturday, my brother and I would take turns sitting on his lap, steering the machine. We worked our way in progressively smaller squares.

Here there was no lawn to mow, no candy-woman, no booming voices. I drove home and imagined fast slicing blades below by car. I had my own set of keys now.

A View From The Other Side of Your Tortellini Carbonara

"Clemente, I need silverware," one of the waitresses calls across the kitchen. Her voice is raised in high pitch. He does not respond. His eyes remain fixed on his hands that scrape food off pasta-covered plates into the trashcan. "I need it now," the girl repeats. At her words, he lifts his plump face and manages a small nod. Sweat soaks his forehead and bright red t-shirt. The large circles of moisture could be dishwater but it's unlikely--the humidity in the back left corner of the kitchen is almost tangible.

I lean my back up against the tile lining the wall that was cold at the beginning of the night but now sweats like the other fifteen men surrounding me. The silver dish rack sits to my left, and plates and cocktail glasses are placed on and pulled off with the traffic that glides constantly across the wet floor. "Hey, silverware's ready," Clemente calls out to whoever will listen. Within moments the blue plastic container is drawn from the dryer and out to the bar to be rolled into black-cloth sticks. Without receiving a simple "thanks!" Clemente returns his attention and already-pruney fingers to the stainless-steel sink of scalding, soapy water.

Girls zoom in and out of doors on the far left and far right of the small, cramped room. If entering from the left, they rush past Jose the salad man with his bowls of crisp green leaves and endless compartments of toppings. "Crap! I forgot a side-Caesar," a girl with short brown hair shrieks. Returning just moments later, she is handed a glass plate and whisks it out to the hungry customer. There is no time to revel in his quick handedness--he tears off another yellow slip from the printer and begins building his next small creation.

"Lia, my lover," a soft voice calls, bringing my eyes to John's blue, mesh Hawaiian shirt. "How are you today?" he asks, his voice making a clear distinction at the stop and start of each word. With his left hand, he flips small pieces of chicken in a skillet and simultaneously checks on the boiling pot of tortellini. I smile at him, wishing I could sink deeper into the walls and watch the goings-on without disrupting their work--without being a distraction.

But that's just the thing--I don't belong here. I am still wearing my work-clothes from the lunch shift. My black outfit strongly contrasts the vibrant colors of the cooks and kitchen staff. My pale skin, badly needing sunlight, sticks out amongst their softly tanned bodies and rhythmic Hispanic accents. John yells something in Spanish to Dino on the other side of the kitchen, where the pasta is prepared and soon after clumps of meat are produced from the meat grinder.

"You ready for lasagna?" Dino says, catching another waitress's arm as she hurries by. "Yeah, um, yeah sure," she replies, pausing to adjust the bowl of soup she already carries. And just as she makes her way through the wooden swing-doors she swings her blond head back around to face him. "Thanks!" she calls out.

His face is swollen in a smile as he returns to fill bowls with slimy spaghetti noodles and rigatoni. It calls me to think about their place in this Italian restaurant--how nothing we wouldn't exist without them. How the tips, sometimes pushing $150 on weekend nights, would evaporate without their speed, their expertise. I am so thankful for their diligence, for all the little things like 30-second salads and dishes prepared just the right way for the pickiest of palates.

Keep Your Shirt On...

I walk into the dimly lit arena of scantily clad women draped in glowing neon debauchery. We make eye contact as they brush their nearly naked bodies against the torsos of men, their eyes glazed over and tired. I am told this is one of Wilmington's finest adult establishments. Judging by the crowd, I can only assume that others must agree. I, unfortunately, do not have any other basis for comparison.

After talking to several people about strip clubs and learning what to expect, I grabbed a couple friends and headed into the blacklights, set for a raucous night of fun. While my friends and I sipped expensive, but thankfully strong, vodka cocktails I settled into my surroundings, focusing first on the numerous men occupying the small tables around us.

The men looked buzzed and comfortable, sitting back in their chairs with expressions of content and disassociation. Even as the women rubbed their bare breasts inches from the men's faces, the men sat with blank expressions and eyes set straight ahead, unmoving in their chairs. I began to wonder what led them here. Which ones had wives and children at home?

In addition to the several tables of lone men, there were a couple groups of young guys, including a bachelor party. After pounding several shots, the groom-to-be was eventually led onto the stage, whereupon he was surrounded by several of the strippers. After getting whipped, grinded and nearly suffocated by a pair of double D's, he stumbled off, red-faced, back into the cheers and claps of his fellow bachelors. One dollar bills were crumpled up and thrown onto the stage and the strippers picked them up with various body parts.

I turned my attention to another group of men. They sat in a small circle watching a stripper tease her way into their wallets. She was rocking her hips back and forth and trying to get out of her small white dress. She couldn't have weighed more than 80 pounds soaking wet, and her harsh make-up glowed under the blacklights. The men were laughing hysterically as she continued to struggle with her dress, getting caught in the straps and nearly falling in her clear platform stilettos. I could feel her embarrassment radiating off of her.

I wanted to talk to them, I wanted to know their stories and why they felt the need to take their clothes off for horny men. I wanted to ask those men why they were there and what they got out of it. It all felt so dirty and demeaning and full of blatant disrespect for women. I can understand the argument that this is for entertainment purposes only and that it's all in fun, but it's still a little disheartening to know that there is a place where women are viewed purely as sexual objects who's sole purpose is male gratification.

I looked around at the other strippers. All of them rough around the edges. Their eyes bloodshot and empty. They portray sex. They wiggle and writhe on the stage and peel their clothes off the beat of "Welcome to the Jungle". Their eyes are void of all emotion as they touch their bodies and climb "seductively" up the pole. With all of this brazen sexuality, I never felt the purpose of it all and it felt akward to watch women objectify themselves so openly. So, after paying my $50 bar tab, I sulked out into the night, with hopes that my baby daddy will support me enough to never have to take my clothes off for money.

All Are One

I enter the room which is stark and somber. No one inside is smiling but rather having discontent smirk on their face. I am one of the few people inside that isn’t black. I scan the room and people are attentive, proud and eyes are glued to the speaker at the podium. He is tall and large. His white beard and bald head is capped on top of his generic looking tuxedo that looked liked it had been picked up at a thrift store. I am just wondering what this man is going to talk about and if I am going to relate to a thing that he says. I look around the room again and figure that I probably will not come remotely close.

The man begins to speak and he carries a thick African accent from a country that I have no clue of the origin. Because this was an African American sponsored meeting I guessed correctly that this man was going to be talking about race and its problems of sorts. What he said was surprising. He said that race in fact is not a biological construct but rather a social construct and that there is no way to classify race. According to him the race we identify with and associate with are socially created in order to belong amongst so many people around us.

The more the speaker talks and goes on about his findings and hypotheses about race the more attentive and engaged the blacks become. I think what the speaker was basically trying to communicate is that because race is socially manufactured and exercised that one has no reason to act as if race predicts or validates anything. While the findings are not that shocking or revealing since it is rather predictable that people would separate themselves according to race, what is predictable is that people keep identifying their place in this world according to race. To me I just figured that people are who they are because of what they accomplish and that’s it. Some people though attach heavy meaning to race because they are treated a certain way because of it.

This lecture was different from others in that this man was much more academic and not trying to be on a soapbox rousing up people’s emotions. He was neutral in attitude and presented his findings in a factual manner. He wasn’t hateful and didn’t blame white people for racism or wasn’t passive aggressive like other lectures I have been to. Many lectures I have been to professors and guest speakers act condescending and full of themselves but this man was humble, soft spoken and knew his material backwards and forward. He presented his facts and while he had his opinion he left enough open for the audience to form their own conclusions and interpretations which I found very respectable.

While race according to the speaker is a social construct there will always be a sort of separation and groups that form because of it. People gravitate towards their own race and background naturally especially if they haven’t had lots of friends growing up that were different than them in background. Today it seems to be changing but outside the college environment I am not sure how this plays out. Some people insist on staying with their own group while others mix into other groups freely. To me diversity is not about different backgrounds and races but at different mindsets and ways of looking at the world.

To Give or Not To Give

“I’m on a tight budget, Howard, and I need to get an IPhone. How am I going to make 600 bucks very quickly?”

“Hmm, well, Gordy, you could get another job, an honest, paying job. We’ll hit up Craigslist.com and find some quick side jobs like landscaping, moving, or painting. We’ll find you a job where you work for good people, people with integrity, people with values, Gordy. Sure, you’ll work hard but it’ll be worth it. Think of it as a life lesson.”

“Uhh, honesty? Integrity? Life lessons? Sounds…lame. I need something fast, quick, and lucrative. Fuck morals. I just need 600 bucks. I’m not out to find a purpose in my life, make lifelong friends, or learn the meaning of hard, honest work. I just need 600 bucks.”

“Gordy, I don’t know what you’re getting at here but…”

“I’m going to scam people! I’m going to trick them into thinking I am homeless! A beggar! A pauper! They’ll have to give me money. No one turns down a homeless guy these days. First, I have to get the look. That means no shaving, no showering, and no brushing. I’ll head to Goodwill and get some sweatpants and flannels. I’ll come up with a heart wrenching story about my parents dying and how I’ve been on the streets since I was 12. Then, I’ll head to the nice part of town and feed off of other people’s integrity, compassion, and warmth. This is the perfect scam! My act, my story, my look will be so tight, there will be no way people will be able to distinguish me from a person who is really in need. Brilliant! They’ll think I live under the docks in a cardboard box and have no job. Little do they know, I’m an accountant that lives with his parents. I’ll give them hope, Howard. I’ll tell them of my desire to turn it all around and how all I need is a couple bucks to get my feet planted, get a job, and start down a better path towards a new life. It’s going to be so easy it’s sad, HAHA. Let’s see, we’ll average, say, two bucks a person every ten minutes, that’s 12 dollars an…”

(Turns to camera, cue melodramatic piano music, background fades to black)

“It is sad, very sad. See, what Gordy thinks is a quick, fun, easy way to make some cash is really a terribly immoral scam that will ultimately send him down a path towards total immorality, a world filled with cheap thrills, empty promises, and quick fixes. In addition to his own demise, he is making money at others’ expense. By feeding off of people’s compassion, warmth, and integrity, he is only adding to the degradation of society as a whole. Way to go, Gord! And it seemed so simple…

By now, your mind is racing. You’re wondering, how do we determine if a homeless person is really homeless or is faking it? You’ve seen the potential ease of the scenario and you’re left confused as to what to do next time someone asks for a handout. How do we decide whether to give money to a homeless person? Is that homeless man a scam artist or a person in need? In a perfect world, this ethical controversy wouldn’t exist. But the world just isn’t full of rainbows, butterflies, and dreams that come true."

You could do one of two things. You could never give money to anyone in fear that they are all scam artists making six-figures as accountants during the weekdays. You could refuse to lend the helping hand to someone in need because you think they might be faking it. And, you could live a very selfish and introverted life wherein what is yours, is yours and no one else’s. But, hey, you’ll never get duped out of money, right?

Or, you could give money to every person that ever asks for a handout knowing that they will use it for a meal or a jacket. You could have so much faith in the human race that you trust each individual person has inside of them very honest qualities. You could be completely free of judgment for a homeless person and what he or she wishes to do with that buck you gave him.

Ultimately, it is your choice. It is your choice what you do for your fellow man or woman. It is your choice where you would like to take this little thing we call, the human race. It is your choice what you will contribute.

But personally, I think Mike Tyson says it perfectly…Stacey McKinley on Mike Tyson: "He sees a guy beggin' in the street and he gives him a hundred dollars. I'll say, 'Man, y'know the guy's just gonna spend it on crack!' But he says, 'I leave it to Allah to judge him.'"

Simple Math

The Declaration of Independence states that we the people are entitled to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. Enforcing helmet laws may or not increase life, but it definitely takes away from liberty. Anyone over the age of 18 should have the legal right to foolishly put his or her own life in danger, as long as it does not endanger anybody else. Helmets are also uncomfortable, a hassle to remember, they look nerdy at times, and they cost approximately 18 dollars that could be spent on something else, like the pursuit of happiness.

Let’s be honest, the value of helmets can be confirmed with elementary math. You’re name is Joe, and you are peddling east at approximately 12 miles an hour, plus rush hour traffic on a small side road off Wrightsville Ave, plus you have to be at work in 3 minutes, squared. Drunken driver bob is traveling south, speeding in his car at approximately 45 miles an hour. He is changing the music on his shuffle Ipod, and cursing because it has no LCD screen, and he could swear he put Little Jon’s “Crunk Juice” on it; but alas, he cannot find it, hence the f bombs, times 6.

When you cross the road in a hurry, and he doesn’t realize he’s swerving into you, you collide and your helmet protects the top of your head when you fly off the bike and hit the ground with a shattered spine at approximately 28 miles an hour. So after carrying the one, the answer is x equals crap. That’s what helmet’s are worth. But that may be overstating the issue: helmets do make dangerous activities safer, just not safe.

If you want to prevent cyclist deaths, the answer is not in forcing people to protect themselves. It is in making sidwalks in residential neighborhoods, bike crosses, stop signs, bicycle signs, and increase awareness. However I can see a few ups to enforcing a seat belt law, but they are all in favor of the perpetrators. If driver Bob hits Joe, and he’s not wearing a seatbelt and he kills him, and it really was just an unfortunate coincidence that he could not have prevented, than that’s still manslaughter. If he survives the collision, he’ll do less in jail. Also if you happen to be driving around, intoxicated, the helmet laws will keep many cheapskate cyclists, paranoid of a fine, off the street thus reducing your chance of serving a few years in prison for reckless endangerment, manslaughter, etc.

Seatbelt laws are understandable, because by not wearing a seatbelt, you are not only endangering your own life. If you were to get in an accident you would become a human bullet with enough fatal momentum to fling about the car killing others, or propel through the window hitting pedestrians or fellow motorists. However by not wearing a helmet you are only endangering yourself, this is your business only, not your governor’s, not George Bush’s, not Big Brother, not the Illuminati’s, only yours. Who gives a flying cyclist anyways?

Sad end to a sorry episode

As baseball’s acting commissioner in 1994, Bud Selig was welcomed to the job with a 232-day work stoppage and the first cancellation of the World Series since 1904. Little did he know (or maybe he did, but that’s another story) that the strike wouldn’t be the last controversy he’d have to deal with. Now that congress has gotten involved with the steroids investigation, it has raised the controversy of whether pro sports should be able to govern themselves. Based on the recent steroid controversy in baseball, it's become painfully obvious that professional sports leagues may require a bit of monitoring from the government.

One of the first questionable seasons happened in 1996 when Brady Anderson hit 50 home runs. In his previous seven seasons with the Baltimore Orioles, he only had 72 career homers. Though he admitted to using Creatine and protein, which are both legal, it’s awfully hard to attribute such a gigantic number to the use of legal supplements.

In 2002, the steroid controversy in baseball started moving onto sports pages daily. Bob Costas noted on the Dan Patrick Show that there had been nineteen 50-plus home run seasons between 1995-2002. Prior to 1995, only eighteen 50-homer seasons had occurred.

Then came Barry Bonds going for 73 home runs in one season as well as having his four highest home run after his 37th birthday. Where many home run hitters continue their success into their late 30s, it’s rare for a player to peak at that age. On top of the already mounting circumstantial evidence, Bonds came under more scrutiny when he and his personal trainer were linked to the Bay Area Lab Cooperative. BALCO was known to provide clients with Human Growth Hormone, Insulin and Trenbolone -- a hormone generally given to cattle. Bonds admitted to using steroids, but claimed that he was fooled and thought he was using Flaxseed oil for his arthritis.

Jose Canseco alleges in his book Juiced that Selig knew about the growing steroids problem in baseball after the strike but decided to let things go because baseball needed to bring fans back to the ballpark. With Mark McGwire -- who Canseco says he personally injected with steroids, banging out 70 home runs in 1998 -- baseball was beginning to make its comeback. Attendance had been down until Sammy Sosa joined McGwire in the chase for the single-season home run record. Being a business-minded commissioner, Selig avoided addressing the situation because it put more money in the pockets of he and his buddies.

Selig was forced to address the issue after the BALCO scandal and created the original steroid policy in 2005, in which a positive test equaled a 10-game suspension on the first offense. Only on the fifth positive test were players subject to being banned from baseball.

Many people argue that professional sports should be able to govern themselves and what happens on the field should stay there. Very rarely has the law become involved in sports, but in select cases, it has to. Such was the case when Marty McSorely decided to use his hockey stick as a weapon to nearly end Donald Bradshear’s life on the ice. McSorely was banned, as he should have been, but he also had to face the consequences of the law.

Now, people will say that the investigation could blur the lines of just how involved in sports the government can be. What if Congress isn’t pleased with a player going unpunished for breaking the rules, can they then step in to suspend or ban the player?

I highly doubt that any of that will ever become a problem. Though I don’t like the government getting involved with sports, I support the Congressional investigation 100 percent.

Selig has never been too concerned with the well-being of the game whether it be letting an All-Star game end in a tie or enacting his original joke of a steroid policy. This is the same man who considered getting rid the Minnesota Twins, a proud franchise with a history of doing things the right way.

He had ample time to clean up the game and give the fans a true representation of what the game is all about. It’s hard to say at this point if anything we saw recently in baseball was real, such as Roger Clemens being a dominant pitcher into his mid-40s or Barry Bonds’ head swelling to the size of a watermelon while he banged out 70 homers at age 37.

Though baseball has since enacted a tougher policy, none of that would have ever happened without Congress stepping in and telling Selig to clean up the game or they’d clean it up for him.
For the past 15 years, baseball fans have been fooled by what Selig allowed to happen right under his own nose in the pursuit of profits and bringing baseball into the national relevance.
When all the names drop in connection to steroids at the end of this, effectively rendering many players’ careers as irrelevant frauds, Selig’s name should drop too. Congress has to clean up the spilt milk that Selig let sour for too long.

To borrow a statement from one of the great commissioners in baseball history, this is the sad end of a sorry episode.

Thing is, it could have all been avoided.

The Freedom To Speak

In flaming fire taking vengeance on them that know not God, and that obey not the gospel of our Lord Jesus Christ: Who shall be punished with everlasting destruction from the presence of the Lord, and from the glory of his power. 2 Thessalonians 1:8-9

He stands next to the water tower casting perpetual torture to the right and left. To sinners that inhabit this campus. To the heathens and temptresses that scurry about. Accept the Lord Jesus Christ as your one and only savior or be cast into eternity for all damnation.

Then around him stand the shocked onlookers, mouths open in disbelief. A few of the braver students speak up.

“Stop speaking hate,” one yells.

“God is love, you’re a monster,” says another.

They accuse him of bigotry and sexism. They call him a hate monger and a false Christian.

I walk by, head down, hat pulled low. Something catches my attention and my head perks up. I listen in for a second and catch the faint sound of the most annoying thing in the world, the unscheduled public debate. I hear the words "hate", "love", "God", "damnation" and "evil" shouted from different directions. I shake my head and return my gaze to the ground.

The fact is I don’t know which side is right. Maybe God does love all his creatures equally. Maybe he wants to save the righteous and punish the wicked. Maybe neither side is right. The only thing I know is that both sides deserve the right to speak, no matter what outlandish, ludicrous speech they emit.

Even if what they say is hate speech. I don't think hate speech can have any effect on our campus. Depending on the point of view, perhaps what the preacher was saying was hate speech. I just don't believe that hate speech has any power in this environment. Hate speech is only effective in impoverished areas where knowledge is controlled. That’s why the KKK is effective in the deep south, Islamic fundamentalism spreads rapidly in poor Arab countries, and Hitler was able to convince an entire nation and eradicate an entire religion.

This is hardly the environment that we face here on campus. The point of a University is to hear different theories on all topics. In this environment, the views of all should be listened to openly.

Who looks crazier, the man preaching about a lake of fire or the mob that waits on with a look of blood lust stained on their faces? The phrase “God is love” has a less than enlightened ring to it when it is followed with “you bastard.” I look into the crowd and see the angriest looks on people's faces. If they walked twenty feet to the right the “hate speech” would be merely a muffle.

In reality, having the ability to speak freely is a mixed blessing, but it is essential to our society. I don’t agree with the backwards ranting of the clock-tower preacher. He speaks of a creator that needs to be feared rather than worshiped. But as an American he has the right to share his views no matter how slanted they are. Of course he contradicts his own message by judging us. It is our right, as the harlots, blasphemers and sinners, as he calls us, to disagree with his speech. And though the majority disagrees with what he says, he has the right to say whatever he pleases.