Lunch

I always feel guilty as I move through the Chick-fil-a line. I wonder if the workers at the eco-friendly and healthy restaurant beside the fast food establishment are sad as people stream by them, making the wrong choice, diving for processed chicken nuggets and trans-fat filled waffle fries, while a few students with dread locks and packs of organic cigarettes select from their varied colors of healthy, locally grown mush.

My guilt deepens as I think about the politics of Chick-fil-a; I think about how they donate to causes I consider abhorrent. They hate homosexuality; they ask potential employees if they're Christian in their interviews; they're closed on Sundays. But the dining hall line is long, and I only have time to breeze through the Chick-fil-a line, give my money to causes that repress, eat the food that slowly clogs my arteries, so I can get to classes on time that are supposed to teach me critical thinking so I don't make bad choices.

It's hard to find a seat. I think about how many more people could sit here if people sat together instead of alone, each facing a computer screen instead of a human face. But nobody talks without a friend to mutually introduce them, or a shared interest discovered through happenstance. You don't meet people while you eat your chicken; you can only eat with people you know. So I am forced to squash myself into an uncomfortable corner while a person and his computer sit at a table for four. Hypocritically, I turn my ipod up louder to drown out the crowd.

Together We Are Carolina

I felt so many emotions Wednesday night: anxiety, nausea, anticipation, pride, shock, anger, frustration, helplessness.

Many say it's dramatic that such emotions are channeled into a basketball game--a completely arbitrary competition on which nothing intrinsically valuable depends.

But a lot does depend on it. Many of the sad faces in the crowd at the end of the game were wearing shirts emblazoned with the basketball team's motto: "Together We Are Carolina." We hate Duke together; we win together; we lose together. Right now, a huge group of students just passed the library window, making quite the racket protesting tuition hikes. Together, we make a difference.

The UNC Duke rivalry is often set in stereotypical terms, but I think the underlying value systems of the universities are really at odds, giving the competition a personal, emotional edge. UNC, lovingly dubbed "public ivy," is about accessible, affordable, quality education. You can come from nothing and come to UNC: cost is never a deterrent. It's about inclusion, not exclusivity. People are easy-going. Carolina blue embodies a campus that values social change, progressive ideas (except when it comes to Gender Neutral Housing *grumble grumble*), and diversity.

Duke is an expensive, private school. It's for the privileged, people who like calling themselves the elite. As a result, they're whitewashed. The privileged portions of society don't have any interest in changing the status quo. Duke's in a different paradigm completely.

Then take these two clashing ideologies about education and privilege, stick them within eight miles of on another, then make them compete for some of the best and brightest minds and athletes and professors in the world, and you get one hell of a rivalry, all culminating in those basketball games.

So winning is not about comparing Austin Rivers and Tyler Zeller. Winning is not about free throw percentages or three point plays. It's about loving your school and believing in it so much that you want it to be the best at absolutely everything. It's about passion.

That five minutes of stunned silence permeating Chapel Hill at the end of the game? Even though it was one of the worst feelings in the world, I wouldn't trade it. I love being part of this place. All of that emotion makes me okay with shouting at the end of the fight song, every time we sing it:

GO TO HELL DUKE!

The Problem with Everything...

This article makes me so mad.

After watching a documentary containing the startling statistic that only 17% of television protagonists are women, I was happy to watch this week's Parks and Rec. That, coupled with 30 Rock, is a solid hour of female leading ladies (actually, the unfortunately unfunny show Whitney is at least about a woman, so good going NBC). I think Parks and Rec does more for the feminist cause than 30 Rock, even though Tina's always my favorite, because 30 Rock's constantly harping on Liz Lemon's affinity for food, bad fashion sense, and all the other things that are stereotypical of "working women" who give up their personal lives and femininity to be more masculine, more "feminist," is not what I think feminism should be about.

Leslie Knope is a put-together, passionate career woman. She loves her job, and she is well-respected and competent. That's why this article is so infuriating. The author clearly thinks that being a feminist means you can't be a person. Independent women are allowed to get help from their friends (and boyfriends!) occasionally. You're allowed to fall in love and you're allowed to make sacrifices for the person you love if you want to.

Isn't the most empowering option for Leslie to stay with her man AND run her own campaign? She is far from a damsel in distress. She is allowed to have character flaws, too. The example of her behavior in the bowling alley just exhibited one of Leslie's weaknesses--she fixates on details and wants people to like her. That just shows how Ben is good for her, what women should look for in a partner: someone who evens them out, who makes them better. What's anti-feminist about a healthy, balanced relationship? Pretending that Leslie has to be a perfect role model without any flaws is silly and destructive. Media images of women being perfect is what is wrong with our society; making the ideal working woman is just as bad as the ideal photo-shopped model. The unattainability of it is the problem. Leslie's supportive friends and good attitude help her deal with her flaws in positive and constructive ways. THAT is a good role model.

In case the writer of this article didn't notice, Leslie is currently maintaining her job in the Parks Department with her usual competence, running her City Council campaign, AND successfully dating Ben. Where is she getting the notion that the show is making Leslie choose between work and love? I thought the writers handled that plot beautifully.

Also, if you want something truly anti-feminist, check out the opening line of this wretched article:
"If you’re looking to get into the pants of a feminist, wonkish liberal, make sure to work Parks and Recreation into your sweet nothings."

To get into the pants of a feminist. Really? Really?

Clearly, this writer doesn't know what feminism is, or why Parks and Recreation is and continues to be an important presence on primetime tv. Yes, bitches get stuff done, but they shouldn't have to be bitches to do so. Enter Leslie Knope.

Unironically Enthusiastic

Well, this post is inevitable. I simply have to heap loads of praise on the man that's been taking up all my spare time lately--John Green. However, the beauty and accuracy of all the prestigious book reviews have taken the words from me. They have already captured what I love so much about John Green and his writing.

They've captured how he writes to teenage audiences (and us twenty year old college kids, what can I say?) instead of at them. He doesn't patronize his readers. He recognizes that youth doesn't mean shallow and apathetic toward philosophical musings and that young readers can relate to themes more important than love triangles. He writes books with references to literature, and a lot of his readers understand them. He writes books that speak to problems of any age through the highly malleable lens of teenhood; he often says he feels called to write for teenagers and can't imagine his work geared toward any other audience. However, I think his books are suitable for anybody with eyes in their head and thoughts in their brains. I will continue reading them long after my age no longer fits in the prescribed parameters on the title page.

But even greater than the excellent quality of the books is the community sprung up around them. Admittedly, "nerdfighteria" could exist without John's books, but I don't think it would be as awesome. John's books allow a singular thread tying together most members of the community; I'm sure there are nerdfighters who don't read the books, but I am also sure they are in the vast minority. The books give a vehicle for tours and the community publicity, which gives them more leverage to "decrease worldsuck." Anybody who has read the books knows how smart John is (and consequently, attribute similar qualities to his brother Hank), and that he is an adequate role model for nerds everywhere.

The best thing about being part of the community is the encouragement of unbridled passion. John defines nerd: "Because nerds like us are allowed to be unironically enthusiastic about stuff. We don't have to be like, 'Oh yeah that purse is okay' or like, 'Yeah, I like that band's early stuff.' Nerds are allowed to love stuff, like jump-up-and-down-in-the-chair-can't-control-yourself-love it. Hank, when people call people nerds, mostly what they are saying is, 'You like stuff', which is just not a good insult at all, like 'You are too enthusiastic about the miracle of human consciousness'."

I love that. I love being unironically enthusiastic. I love waiting in obnoxiously long lines for book releases, passionately discussing said books loudly in the dining hall (and on facebook and tumblr and blogger and with strangers in the bathroom and strangers on the sidewalk...), keeping quote books, hanging nerdy posters, wearing nerdy shirts, and just plain loving the things I love out loud and proud.

At the Tour de Nerdfighting event, there was plenty of unironic enthusiasm. People wear enthusiastic homemade shirts, enthusiastically sing Hank's songs, and just plain relish in all the things they love.

The world needs John and Hank Green. The idea that teenagers are supposed to be passive, brooding, and generally unattached from life is ridiculous. The vlogbrothers show teenagers that it is okay to be passionate and make nerdy into a positive moniker.

So, without shame or irony, I tell everyone to simply DFTBA.

The Heart is a Lonely Hunter

I've been having trouble writing lately. I have about ten incomplete and unpublished drafts on here. The truth is when I'm at home, I become a lazy shell of a person who doesn't do anything but watch television and play video games and occasionally crack open a book. I really don't like this person. Which is why I can't stay here in this soul sucking little town.

That might seem like a harsh thing to call it. But I'm reading The Heart is a Lonely Hunter, and it's about people with active, introspective, dreaming minds living in a soul sucking little town. The meager, poor town is completely devoid of opportunity and wreaks of ignorance, racism, and hopelessness. I don't live in the World War 2 era South, but I live in the closet modern day approximation. I can relate to the restless souls roaming the unnamed little town's dusty avenues. They feel totally isolated, alone in their thoughts and pining over unachievable dreams.

But the thing that gives me hope is that I'm not a character in the novel--I do have a future and my dreams are attainable. I get to leave. At home, my mind becomes a wasteland of sitcoms and football stats. At school, it's full of poetry and philosophy and grand pictures of what the future has in store for me. If I stayed home, I would never survive. Like Biff, Mick, Singer, and Dr. Copeland in The Heart is a Lonely Hunter, I am not made for this containment; I am not content with what little this place has to offer me. It stifles me; it kills me.

There are upsides to small town America, and people tend to claim it is only my youth that drives me away; middle age will have me crawling back again with 2.5 kids, a mini-van, and a born again religion. But I know that isn't true. It's more than the slow pace, getting stuck behind tractors, driving hours for entertainment; it's the feel of the people and the despair in the air. There are no possibilities here. People work the same minimum wage jobs from the time they're born to the time they die. There is no room to think, to grow, to evolve. I valued that capacity when I was eight, and I am sure I will still value it when I'm eighty. I can't bear to spend any time more than Christmas vacations and summers here.

I love my parents and brother, and I cherish spending time with them. But outside of my family, I am completely lonely here. There is nothing, no one here for me. I exist in a different space now, and I can't fit in here anymore.

My heart is a lonely hunter, and there's nothing to be hunted in this desolate place.

The Heart of Ram's Head

Joseph Conrad's Heart of Darkness is a novel about the evil that lurks inside of all of humanity; when pushed close enough to the breaking points, primal actions emerge in primal situations. Conrad alludes to Nietzche's quote: "when you stare into the abyss, the abyss stares back at you."

I have found a modern setting for this novel to replace the African Congo: my university's dining hall during finals week.

Every student is on campus; there is no going home during finals. Every student also emerges from their studying cocoons composed of flash cards, crumpled notes, highlighters, and tears at the same time to eat from communal vats of cheap food.

Just as the characters in Heart of Darkness fight for survival in a world with no rules, students fight for an empty table. The idlers stare at their stacks of plates adorned with used napkins and empty glasses with melting ice as they complain to one another about this test and that. Those without tables stalk the lucky few, pacing around and around, stomachs growling and minds imagining the moment they forcefully swipe the dirty dishes from the tables and throw a jacket onto the chair, like the Belgians taking the Congo, claiming the table for their own.

After twenty minutes of stalking the tables and a few minutes before cannibalization seems viable, finally one opens up! One of your pack approaches the table, but a swifter student seizes with a maniacal victory laugh. Death glares ensue as your group returns to pacing in circles in the increasingly frustrated throng.

Eventually, you ecstatically seize a table for your very own with just enough seats to accommodate your numbers. Heading out into the abyss, you seek to win yourself a plate of warm nourishment. But alas! all the stations are out of food and the lines waiting for the disgruntled workers to replenish their stocks extend agonizingly far. From a distance, you spot a pizza about to be removed from its fiery shelf and thrown to the masses for consumption. You elbow your way to the front of the crowd to ensure a good spot to pounce upon the fresh, cheesy goodness.

Ducking and spinning and fighting all the way, you manage to claim a slice for yourself. Still riding the high from your victory, you go for a glass to obtain a drink to augment your recently acquired food. There are none. You seek a fork and knife. There are none.

Frustrated, you stalk back to your table to sit down, prepared to choke down food with your fingers and no liquid accompaniment.

Your chair is gone.

You slam your plate down on the table, causing the grease bubbling in the pizza to splatter into the air. "Where is my chair??" you announce to the patrons eating all around you, silent and ignore your plight.

In your mind, you are ripping the chairs from underneath their smug butts, separating their heads from their bodies and skewering them on sticks around your table to serve as examples for further people who want to steal your chairs. Gathering the chairs from under the decapitated bodies, you stack them up and sit high up in the air, shouting "the horror, the horror!" over the whole scene as people cry in the floor, clutching their plates and murmuring, "I just want a seat...a glass... a fork."

But instead you share a chair with your friend, squashed tightly together as you silently eat and then surrender your table to the next group to set the cycle anew.

As you exit the double doors into the cold world, hardly full and satisfied, you think how when they swiped your card, the dining hall staff also swiped a little piece of your soul. A little of your faith in humanity.

But you have survived. You have stared into the apocalypse and won.

Brevity is Beauty

Usually at a semester's end, I feel nostalgic or at least a little sad that a certain set of experiences, faces, and the overall feeling that things will never be just as they are again. All my life, I've been a self-professed hater of change.

But as the countdown on my dorm room door ticks down to zero and I get closer and closer to home, I don't really feel that ache for each "last" like before. It was very anti-climatic as my professor in my last lecture clicked off his microphone for the very last time. His preceding lecture was oh so relevant to the thoughts already drifting around in my head.

Maybe it's the completely different environment I'm in, or the difficulty of becoming attached to a two hundred person lecture, or a sign of growing into adulthood.

Or maybe it's what my professor was talking about today before he sent us off into the world, having departed a semester's worth of wisdom onto half-comprehending vessels with notebooks and Macbooks. The lecture was about human values--it is natural to think we value what is permanent. Immortality is appealing and death is terrifying. We want to choose the longer lasting everything. Antiques are more valuable than new furniture; older friends are better friends.

My professor challenged this assertion. We also value what is rare, scarce, and unique. What is more scarce than time? It is the ultimate example of something important in limited numbers. And things that are abundant are just not as valuable. We often the cite the shortest, smallest, more unique moments as the best ones: sunsets and rainbows and snow falls, or those moments of uncontrollable laughter, or the agonizingly joyful moments at the top of a rollercoaster. These things are valuable because we cannot experience them whenever we want for however long we want. Their value is derived from their rarity and brevity.

By that logic, I shouldn't grieve for the loss of this snapshot in my life, my first semester in college. I should be glad that it feels so short because if it were eternal, it would also be mundane as breathing and commercials and whatever else is ubiquitous and inconsequential.

I can feel myself shifting from my old point of view, hanging onto to everything and mourning for every small loss, to something new and better. I am grateful for change, for the temporary nature of my existence. Without it, nothing would seem quite so good.