But I’m White!

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Tonight was the third time in about a month I have been “pulled over” while walking. Little did I know that something as innocuous as putting one foot in front of the other as a means of transportation makes you an international terrorist. Here’s the scenario…

It was about nine thirty this evening, and I was walking along the stretch of sidewalk that leads from 16^th St. to campus. It literally takes maybe five minutes to get to my house to campus, quick enough to stay out of the Johnny Law’s long reach around. The neighborhood consists of college kids, young families, and me, Rob, the guy who spits a loogey in the law’s all-seeing, all-knowing face with his deviant behavior. I had just passed 15^th st. when a cop speeds past me. I didn’t think anything of it until he dramatically screeches to a halt and doughnuts his way back around. Going around the block or turning around in somebody’s driveway would have given me too much time to make my daring escape. Yeah, maybe if I was riding on the back of Usain Bolt. So the cop makes a big Cops-esque scene to chase me down. Once he catches back up (I was ten feet away), he shined his Mcmassive light in my eyes. This was to kill me in case I was a vampire (vampyre for the 19^th century readers). With light still on me, he opens his car door and hikes up his pants.

Out of the car comes a five foot five tall man of super douche with small-man syndrome. He asks me for some identification. I reach for my wallet and hand it over with compliance. He looks at it and asks me where I was headed. I tell him, again, compliantly. As he starts to hand me back my id, I ask “I did nothing wrong, why did you ‘pull me over’?” (I used sarcasm quotes for real). “This is the third time this has happened in the past month, and I’m starting to think it’s arbitrary, targeted towards people who walk, and a violation of my civil liberties.” He sighed and pulled back his reach, along with my id. “Why I pulled you over is none of your concern, and I don’t appreciate being disrespected.” I bit back, “but it is my business! If I was in a car, you wouldn’t randomly pull me over without telling me. Do you have any idea how many upset drivers there would be? It’s nine thirty on a Wednesday night, and I am clearly headed towards campus. If I was driving to campus, it wouldn’t be a problem. And it’s a problem because you haven’t told me why we’re even in this situation, and you just asked for my identification. If I’ve given you probable cause to search me, you are more than welcome to take me ‘down town’ (sarcasm quotes) so you would have to submit to habeas corpus , but otherwise, I’d really appreciate it if you’d give me back my wallet.” The officer handed me back my wallet. “Sir, the only reason I’m not going to do anything about this is because I am in a hurry, but next time you need to be more respectful of an officer, and things will go more smoothly.” He walked off.

I acted inappropriately, maybe, but police officers have no right to have free reign like that. I did nothing wrong; it wasn’t even past the midnight curfew intended for the under-eighteen crowd. I would have been given back my wallet originally had I just kept my mouth shut, but it was the principle of having unwarranted searches and questions. The whole scenario was ludicrous. He both spoke politely to one another, and neither of our voices were raised. Allowing emotions to interfere with my words would have been a very bad idea.

I walked over the BSU to tell the tale of racially profiled white male…and watch U2’s ZooTv concert.

P.S. Hoped this helped, Tiffany.

Proper sidewalk etiquette

This is a repost from 2006, but with the new crop of students coming up, it’s important to constantly remind people of how consequential sidewalk etiquette is…

All ECU veterans are well aware that the sidewalks of campus are mean and unforgiving. All it could take is one gesture or look that’s interpreted as hostile and you could end up sidewalk fodder for the custodian to clean up. That is why it is necessary to have an official document explaining proper sidewalk etiquette to all new students. We want to ensure safety as you walk from building to building. Keep these rules in mind as you walk past people on the busy sidewalks.

Stare past/around/at feet: I do not know you, and do not want to appear creepy. Alternate: I know you, but you have hurt my feelings in the past. Alternate: I know you, but we’ve done something that would make us feel awkward (e.g. make out). Alternate: I know you too vaguely to make eye contact.

Eye contact: I recognize you.

Upward jerk of chin: I took a class with you, or have met you once in some other capacity, but that’s as far as our connection goes.

Downward nod of the head: We are on speaking terms, but I don’t have time to stop and speak with you right now.

One wave of hand, waist level: Same as downward nod. Alternate: Same as double wave of hand, chest level on a busy day.

Double wave of hand, chest level: You’re a friend of a friend who I enjoy hanging out with in a group of friends.

More than two waves, chest level: Notice me! I know you well or I at least want to know you well. Alternate: I’m socially retarded.

Verbal exchange, short: I feel the need to be polite with you. No need to offend you by ignoring. Alternate: We’ve met in the last couple of days, but during that time we’ve hung out for at least a moderate length of time. Alternate: We’re in a class together, and I’m making small talk as we walk to different classes. Alternate: We’re in a class together, and I’m making small talk as we walk to different classes; I would like to ask you on a date but don’t know you well enough yet to do so. Alternate: We’re in a class together, and I’m making small talk as we walk to different classes; I think that I’d like to be your friend.

Verbal exchange, long: You are my friend. Alternate: You’ve pissed me off. Alternate: We’re reconciling. Alternate: We’re in a class group together, and we need to coordinate something.

Hug: meaningless; ambiguous; females use it in any and all contexts.

Kiss, short: We’re dating or will soon be. Alternate: We’re close friends with a lot of history behind us.

Kiss, long (with or without tongue): We’re dating or will soon be. Alternate: We’re close friends with a lot of history behind us. A lot. Alternate: We’re more or less acting out our immature fantasy of what college should be, full of meaningless making out.

Standing side by side, holding hands, on a grassy area, under the shade of the trees, surrounded by smiling friends: I want to spend the rest of my life with you.

Kill righty!

For too long have Southpaws been subject to the mercy of the right-handed world. In our attempt to be true to ourselves, we take on such burdens as being more likely to develop cancer, live with the knowledge of a lower lifespan than our right-handed counterparts, and have a higher rate of schizophrenia. What do we get in return? Smudged paper when trying to use ballpoint pens.

Throughout history, left-handedness has been associated with the devil, the vile, sinister, evil, unclean, maladroit. We are subject to constant discrimination, from scissors and desks to hygiene. What hand is considered dirty in India and used for…dirty deeds, the LEFTovers? Even the etymology of the word “left” has depressing roots. “Left” comes from the Anglo-Saxon “lyft” which means weak, broken, defective, crippled, awkward, clumsy, inept, maladroit; the latter one borrowed from the French, literally means “bad right”. Listen, I may trip over myself and run into things, but I’d like to attribute that to my chronic vertigo, not my handedness. Ever heard of being born on the left side of the bed? This is a term to describe children born out of wedlock. What about a left-handed marriage? Another term created and perpetrated by the biased, right-handed media for an adulterous act. When we are young, teachers whack our hands to tell us “no, left is ugly and smelly, just like you!” while all the right-handed kids get praised with presents and cookies for being perfect, robotic at angels. “But I was born this way!” is never an acceptable answer. “No, you chose to be left-handed, and you can choose to be free from bondage by choosing to be right.” Right? Right makes might in this world. No more!

I think it’s time for left-handed people to organize into a single, paramount unit to advance our left-handed agenda. Southpaws consist of roughly 10% of the population. If we were to form a country, The Republic of Left-Handastan, we would be outnumbered only by China and India. In America we could form one of the bigger political voting blocks to usurp the right supremacist. Strength through unity, brothers and sisters. One nation under a strong hand, a strong left hand. Over the course of a 1,000-year reign, we will create a people, a super race of superior left-handed individuals. We will achieve this, not just through legitimate political process, but by force if necessary. Our weapon of choice? The fencer’s foil. It is well-known that lefties are excellent fencers due to their unorthodox fighting technique. The British-Scott Kerr family from the twelfth century through fifteenth century is a fine example of this. They are not only known for their excellent skill with a sword but also their skills with left-handed scissors. They were a family of southpaws; in fact, Thomas Kerr built a castle with a left-handed staircase. This made it more difficult for right-handed invaders to draw their swords and fight without being awkwardly cramped. Yes, it will be through our God-given fencing skills that we will take this country over from the right devil.

Here is a first draft of our declaration of independence:

When in the course of left-handed events, it becomes necessary for left-handed people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another, and to assume among the powers of the left-handed supremacy, the separate and equal station to which the Laws of Nature and of Nature’s God entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the separation. We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all left-handed men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Lefts, that among these are Life, liberty, and the pursuit of Happiness.

The nation state of The United States of America is henceforth called The Republic of Left-Handastan. We are one people with one cause, the advancement of mighty Left. We take from our left hand and give to the powerful left hand through the use of our left hand. Through strength by unity we resolve to create Permanent Revolution, extending beyond our borders, cleansing the the world of the right devil.

Our official book? Left Behind.

Gotta lay off the Heinlein before bed

I had one of the most memorable, vivid dreams I have had in a while last night.

A man who was not a man but an androgynous man was seen in a beautiful, albeit small room with leaves blowing all around him. He had the features of a withered woman who had put all of her confidence if her beauty in her younger days. Now that her beauty had faded she was left neglected and no longer loved. This left her with sardonic, jaded features. Silver hair that lost its shine, eyes that were once a deep blue, flash-bulb violet even, now losing their luster as they become dimmer. The leaves were not blowing in the wind or even within the wind but through the wind, outward in all directions from the man, almost orchestrated but without looking so. He danced a pulchritudinous dance in three-four time—a waltz. The room was a life-like portrait of a single, dead tree blowing in a non-existent wind, forcing it to the left from my point-of-view. The scenery of the room was interactive but not material in the material sense. It was a projected idea, from whom?—I do not know. I saw myself from a ubiquitous third-person perspective, detached and in deep concentration in observation. My third-person was aware of the first, but not the other way around. This dichotomy impacted the rest of the dream, causing me to see all things from two people who were still one in essence.

We asked the beautiful man, “who are you?” Once aware of our presence, his dance slowed, stopped. From his face he produced a wry smile of incredulousness and skepticism. His facial features disappeared and were replaced with a talking piece in the form of a ventriloquist dummy upon his shoulder—a sad dummy with no means of love, who himself was only a means of another, who himself was an object of sempiternal abuse. Instead of giving us a definition, the shouldered dummy responded callously,

“Time, plural, verb- The most selfish of all the gods.” The dummy did not speak audible words but spoke in subtitles from his mouth in Jokerman font, an ironic, playful font considering the melancholy tone of his inaudible voice. This was not Father Time, Brother Time, or Out of Time; this was time. The dummy’s dummy skin became visibly crisp and focused into my eyes, showing cuts and scratches on ever exposed pieces of skin. We thought it was from self-mutilation. It began to bleed slowly from these wounds, wrestling and sparring with the pain while at the same time accepting it. Veins protruded from the dummy as the moments intensified, confirming to us that it was not a doll, but a humanoid warped by Time. He had become smaller and smaller, features more plastic, less real by Time. His body was contorted, especially his face. His thin, watery blood thickened to the point of normal blood, and then thickened to black ink. As the inky blood hit the leaves on the ground, the veins within the leaves pulsed with life and then quickly decayed and died. The whimsical, dancing leaves aged two seasons in two seconds. The blood stopped pouring. The warped man began the process of cutting large chunks of flesh out of his already-defeated body. With each chunk of flesh, a passing of time; Moses and the prophets from his tongue, Siddhartha Gautama and his followers from both ears, Christ and the apostles from his right hand.

The contort continued his self-mutilation at a robotic speed, faster and with louder groans. The epochs of time became faster, quickly becoming the present, and even faster becoming the future until Time gave him the signal to slow. The epochs of decayed flesh became years, and then days, and then seconds of regeneration until even the seconds slowed to seem like days and then years and then epochs, until seconds became an approach to infinity, and the approach to infinity became infinity. We were not stopped in time, but were trapped inside of single second. Each second became divided. A second divided by two, divided by two, divided by two, ad infinitum until we were on a single point on a three dimensional line, only the third dimension was not depth, as depth was no longer necessary; the third dimension became what is typically thought of as the fourth dimension, Time: before and after. We tried moving along this point, before and after, with no impact. Though we were infinitely farther away from where we were, we were no closer or distant to any other place in Time. My first-person, third-person dichotomy became wedged by Time, though everything was equally the same from any point on the line. After what seemed like either years or seconds, it didn’t matter, our point became a drop of ink on another leaf.

And then I woke up, five minutes after I remember falling asleep.