Walls and Tacos

Deer Caught in the Headlights

I am not one for road rage or even one to cause road rage, but that is mainly because I am still learning how to drive.

While crossing an intersection at Emory Village that looks more like the top of Carrot Top's head, I was strolling along from one sidewalk to the other. But in my retarded cockiness, I pretended to be an intellectual with head down reading the times and pretended to be a New Yorker by jaywalking. Then, I remembered how much of the South has actually had an influence on me.

I heard a sound, a dead animal, an annoying child, and it was foreign to me. I saw too large lights beaming at my face, a four-wheel vehicle slowing down in front of me, and the worse part was the honk. A few thoughts came to mind. I'm a New Yorker, how dare you? Hit me, jackass. Why am I still here? Give him the finger. What does that sound mean? Do I know this person and I am supposed to wave?

I waved.

But then, I realized I do not know anyone who is 40, white, bald, and wears a leather jacket. So instead, I did the run, or rather the jog to let the driver know that I am using almost two per cent of my energy to lift one foot past the other. I think I was actually slower than if I had just walked.

When I reached the other side, I was somewhat proud of myself to piss someone off. There is something masculine about that, something very "Stone Cold Steve Austin" about that. But the bigger part of me was more confused, shocked, and disappointed. I have become a Southerner who is afraid of horns. I feel like a boy from the rural country. You might as well stick me in Canton, Kansas and let me ride the tricycle through the brown pastures. I no longer deserve to be labelled a New Yorker or a man.

Why did Yih cross the road?
Trick question. He never did. He is too busai bein' stracted by de big ol' seeti n' its big ol' noises, yessum he was.

Writing at 4am will never make any sense

Sometimes, I think that my best thoughts come to me when the room is dark enough to ignore the street lights and when the music is low enough to hear the clash of the tick tock tick tocks of the proverbial hyphen reaching its end. And in these moments of day-dreaming through the night, my mind goes off on several tangents till I drift off into the obscurity of the darkness. But once in a while, I get an "ah hah" moment that may not be one for you, but it satisfies me enough to rather sleep on it or write a blog entry about it.

The tangents can probably be tracked back much further, but my memory is limited. I believe I was thinking about different projects I want to accomplish and people I want to grow closer to as this semester comes to an end, but realizing that I do not really have time, I began to wonder what would happen if I just stuck myself in the library or my room for a good week, working my butt off to no end in my projects, papers, exams, articles, etc. The part that excites me is not so much that I will be making great progress in my academics. On the other hand, the part that begins to make me giddy is the idea that people will be wondering to themselves, "Where is Yih? I haven't seen him in a while."

So that idea begs the question: Why would be exciting about something so inconsequential as that? Because at the end of the day, my expectations of this world and of each other is so low that all I really want from my friends, my enemies, my strangers, and my family is for them to acknowledge my existence, that I am neither another number or another member, but a person that is remembered for being alive. May it is just me, but I often rather hear "Yih! I haven't seen you in a while" than the monotonous "hey" I've been getting.

I spend most of my nights with three to ten people on my mind, wondering how their day went or what they were doing right now, but do not attempt to ask as to not to pose a persona of loneliness, horniness, or a breach of privacy. Yet, there is a whole other population of people who if they began to act differently, I do think about, care about, or even really acknowledge their life or their existence. And I think it shows. I think it shows in the way I greet them, and in the way I treat them.

Sometimes, the commandment of "loving one another" seems so daunting a task that I neither believe in its capabilit or want to believe in its possibilities. But luckily enough for our ipod and laptop driven culture, where Times Square and the school cafeteria may be the two loneliest places in the world, people do not need you to buy them lunch, do not need you to ask them penetrating questions about their relationwhip with their father, wash their feet, or die for them. Instead, sacrificial acts of love in today's world can be as simple as simply acknowledge their existence, so that we may know that my soul's hot breath are connecting with another soul's cold breath. Through this orgy of oxygen and hydrogen, we may begin to realize that life is not limited to my limbs or even my heart, but life explodes when connected with another.

But too often, we forget that connections require more than one, so instead, we perform a sort of social masturbation that leaves us more alone than before.

Rejected

My article got rejected today. Apparently, I write really well, but the stuff that I write is really more for blogs than for newspapers. I guess all this blog writing has finally taken a negative effect on me. Nonetheless, I will fight the ever good fight to write like a true newspaper reporter and editorialist, while freeing my mind in these more introspective, self-reflection pieces. And so, who wins out? My blog readers. Here's an attempted editorial that fell on its face because it was in essence, not an editorial. Enjoy.

Uncertainties of a Novice Editorialist

I walk through this campus as if I’m some angry lone-ranger pre-teen, wearing a wife beater and listening to Limp Bizkit's "Break Stuff," when in actuality, my heart beats to the rhythm of Celine Dion's “All by Myself," in dire need of acceptance. I hope that if I lather, rinse, and repeat pop culture references next to halfway profound thoughts, I might be able to find audiences who will respect this gift of writing, creating words of affirmation that become the Red Bull to my insecurities. So I run a microfilm in my mind with all the great editorials from the Times and the Wheel, imagining what topics I can tackle in order to tickle the fancies of liberals and expose a level of my brute sensitivity to women. Maybe I should start with a political piece that ends with an impractical solution, but enough big words and intelligent concepts that I plagiarized from Michelle Malkin and Jack Cafferty. Or maybe I can hit one of the Emory hot topics that need at least one editorial per semester: DUC food, the extinction of dating, or a lack of school pride.

But sometime between trying to please one mob and the next, I began to question why I only saw the same regurgitated topics from issue to issue. And after thorough soul searching of my own journalistic spirit, I am quickly learning that it is easier to write an opinionated article when I can already hear the response of approving loud claps and snaps reverberating off the walls from my classmates. Everyone knows that DUC food is no Fogo de Chao and everyone knows that Emory students are not painting our faces blue and gold for athletic games. Even with a political piece, I can expect half the student body to disagree with me, but more importantly, the other half to agree with me. But in that same journalistic spirit, I am quickly becoming dissatisfied with forfeiting the potential to write something meaningful so that I can be congratulated by explaining the obvious and the mundane.

I am going to muster enough courage and just say it. I'm afraid. Let me clarify, though, that I am a man of convictions that range from the superficial (I believe Ben Mckenzie in the The OC is a good-looking man) to the controversial (I believe that this dude, Jesus actually rose from the dead two thousand years ago). But it has somehow become uncool to believe what you're talking about? You know? At least that is like, what I've heard? I do not know what has happened to our conviction, but will you just join me in my uncertainty or like, whatever? Totally, right? We just may have become the most inarticulate generation in years, I think? Unless we are talking about the soup in the DUC. Or until we know that with Bush's approval ratings are down, we can yell "Bush sucks!" with more confidence than when we whisper "I love myself."

My deepest fear may be coming alive for this campus as I am beginning to hear the chorus of unsure voices looking over shoulders to see who is responding with an "Amen!" but in our fear, we sound like one monotone, raspy voice like a radio station that only features Creed, Nickelback, The Calling, and Staind. So I implore you and I beg you to jump off the proverbial bandwagon, no longer be stuck in the facebook boxes of "liberal" or "conservative.” Instead, I yearn to hear the harmonies of many self-assured voices that proclaim: we are one and we are many.

My mother and the civil rights movement taught me an important lesson: question authority. But after these scribbles in this article have taken me on a journey from a fear to what my editor thinks to a place of empowerment and confidence, I realized they were only partially correct. It was not, is not, and will never be enough to question authority. We must speak with it too!

Bad Joke

I sometimes feel like Carrot Top without the props. At least with him, he assumes that people are laughing with him rather than the truth that they are laughing at him.

Instead, I've been finding myself in too many positions where I attempt a joke, but it ends with a disappionting sigh, a semi-chuckle, and my favorite, when the joke gets so long that in the middle, people slowly turning the other way till you realize you aren't talking to anyone.

XM radio recap

One of the many delicious things about Air Tran Airlines is that they have added in XM radio, but because I am a man that loves familiarity, I only listen to stations 20 to 23, which play all the billboard hits.

So I turn on to 20, and it has this monotone, raspy voice that I despise. I think to myself it is rather Staind, Nickelback, Creed, or The Calling. Sure enough, it is Nickelback. So I turn to 21. Same voice again. You have got to be kidding me. Staind. So I turn to 22. No freaking way. Creed makes its way into my life. I pray to god that 23 isn't The Calling or Puddle of Mudd or anything of that sort, vowing to listen to anything, as long as they weren't in the genre of "imitator rock crap." So I turn to 23.

It isn't, but what I begin to hear are the screeches of a Canadian woman. So there I am on the plane, right of two black women who cannot stop talking about Pitbull and left of a crying baby, staring straight at the pretzels and half-empty cup of apple juice, and listening to All By Myself by Celine Dion.

Jackie Robinson, Where Art Thou?

In faded green sweatpants and worn out sneakers, he stuttered every four words like a 1989 Hyundai engine trying to start up. But sometime between slobbering over tacos and repeatedly stroking his gray goatee, I realized he is everything I want to be.

Michael Vaccaro, a New York Mets columnist, wakes up a little after noon to his two kids, wife, and a table of eggs and bacon with a sprinkle of the morning Times on the side. On his more strenuous days, he may read up on some statistics and histories of great baseball players and games. As the sun sets, he heads over to the ballpark with a laptop and a Diet Coke. Getting the best seats in the house, he watches the foul balls caught by grandmothers in the stands and the shade of dirt changing with each spit ball from the players. When three hours of "work" ends, he runs down to the clubhouse, talking and hanging out with the 150 million dollar team, eventually returning to his laptop in the press box or his car, writing a page long summary of what he just saw. He arrives back shortly after midnight and gets ready to start the whole day all over again.

Time out, Mr. Babe Ruth of all Candy Bars. So you get paid to give a book report on games that kids and adults are paying heavy dollars for? Living in every kid's dream, I run away like a giddy school girl in a suit as I imagine have a future like that, pretending to blend into the rest of the city's playground of jocks and jills in jackets and ties. But sometime between pretending to read the Wall Street Journal and looking at my own reflection in the window of the 2 train, I wondered if it was time to grow up.

I used to tell people I would be a part-time police officer, part-time professional basketball player, and a part-time stay-at-home dad all at the same time. But soon, I was exposed to the teaching that not only must one be committed to one profession, but it must be one of respect that has the ability to change the world - a doctor, a lawyer, a teacher, etc. And even as a journalist, I can be like Edward Murrow, Oprah Winfrey, Walter Konkrite, or if I am fortunate enough, Jon Stewart. I should uncover the depths and gravity of issues like homelessness, racial relations, immigration, the war on terrorism, and the persidential elections. And yet, the little kid inside of me is shouting out what every other kid just wants to shout out: I just want to play!

And in my context, I just want to watch live games for free and get paid to write about it! And now, I'm searching for justification or at least a median between life changing hardcore view of society and play. I am no Jackie Robinson, Liu Xiang, or Lance Armstrong, who will bring countries to its feet or on its knees by the symbolic fulfillment of my enjoyment. But amidst these resumes, interviews, cover letters, references, and networking lunches where the end result is a bucket full of business cards, I am beginning to wonder, "Who cares?"

Maybe seventy years down the road, I will be seen as the first great Asian-American sports journalist or maybe my grandchildren won't even know my first name. But I'm starting to retract every message that has told me to look for something more meaningful and society changing (pre-med, sociology, etc), or at least look for something that pays well (business school). I have too long been asked to find fun in what I do instead of look for the fun and do it, essentially reserving playtime for after 5pm. But then again, if I become a sports journalist, the game doesn't start till 7pm anyway. So everyone wins.

(Except the Knicks).

Searching for the Bitter Pill

Typing this blog half naked and lying on my bed next to my history textbook with frequent breaks to stare at away messages like "I'm in Florida for a week," I begin to realize that I have become the bitter English professor who gave me my first C in college.

It was the last Wednesday before Thanksgiving break freshman year. At this time, I thought that most people would not shell out 200 dollars to go home for a measly three to four days. Even worse, I thought that most people would go to class the day before break because heck, if they weren't, why would the professor hold class anyway. So I went. 2:00 came and went. 2:05. My English professor, Dr. Vilmar, said "I guess we'll just get started." What followed was an intriguing conversation between a 30-year old Weird Al Yankovic lookalike and an 18-year old boy wondering what he has gotten himself into. The conversation ranged from Marcus Aurelias to Jay Leno, from Christianity to Animism, and from the Buckeyes to the Mets, all over some chocolate chip and peanut butter cookies. We eventually ended the conversation at 3:30 (inadvertently going over time by 40 minutes).

But one thing will stick with me forever. He asked me what I was doing for Thanksgiving break. I told him that I was going to stay at Emory, and shocked, he clenched his eyebrows and motioned his fingers for an explanation. Finding myself breaking the smug, uninterested looks of most professors in Dr. Vilmar, I said in a nervous flutter, "Yeah, you know. I just wanted to get some work done, and with everyone away, I guess it's a good time to study for my finals now." Impressed, he said, "That a boy!!! Take some more cookies." I didn't know why he was more happy for me than sorry for me, but 45 minutes later between a conversation of his engagement and my single life, I found out why. He reminisced on his college days and went off in a semi-lecture: "Back when I was in college, I had 8 close friends my freshman year. They kept telling me to hang out friday and saturday nights and even go to Cancun with them during Spring Break. But you know what I did? I stayed in and did work. And you know where I am now? I'm a professor. And you know where they are? Me neither. All I know is that they never got into grad school. Ha!"

Wow. I felt like I was listening to an overgrown Stewie Griffin who was clinging on to his fleeting dream of trying to conquer the world, but all he had to show for it was a bad haircut and a few pieces of paper on his wall. I walked away from that conversation, ultimately weirded out, feeling like I just found the evil twin brother of Will Farrell's character in Wedding Crashers.

Fast forward two years and this story probably explains why I didn't care that much about my gpa or even what I'll major in (eventually American Studies!). But after a semester of bad grades, broken relationships, and being a little fatty, everything caught up to me and I had the wake up call. You know the wake up call that happens to us sometime in our junior year for some and senior year for others, when we realize, "Holy crap! There's life after college where I have to make money and survive." When that came, out came new words as well: networking, cover letters, connect with you, touch base, etc.

So now I sit, I mean lie in my bed at home, wondering what he is doing and what she is doing in Florida and in Georgia and in China and in California and in Mexico and etc. But the first thoughts that are in my head are: Well, I'm figuring out mjy life. When I land an internship and I make 6 figures in a few years, it will all be worth it. Stupid partiers. I'll see you in a trash bag a few years down the road, begging me for a job. What in the hell just happened to me? I have become everything I've tried running away from during and after Stuyvesant High School.

But spring break is already here and there's nothing I can do about it except do the homework planned before me and the interviews that will hopefully be planned for me in the next 24 hours. But when I return to the collegiate life, mark my words. Let's bust out the cans of cheap alcohol to the ballads of Poison, let's make fun of the fags on MTVU and yell out fag out the window when no one else is listening in our overly politically correct campus, order late night delivery even though we're not even hungry and have cars to pick it up, and go to ridiculously bad parties with awkward group moments while Switchfoot plays in the background. Screw you, Dr. Vilmar, and bring it on, Van Wilder. Let me into your bosom of sweet collegiate life that never ends, where the bitter pill gets stuck where it belongs: in the drinks of Pre-Med students.

Hey..............................SHUT UP

I've heard complaints that my blog posts are too long. And because of that, few people read them because of the intimidation factor. I don't really care.

But I am trying to vary the content (christian, funny, memoir, etc) and occasionally, the length or style. So in light of that, it would be nice to start a conversation.

Check out this website:
http://www.whas11.com/sharedcontent/VideoPlayer/videoPlayer.php?vidId=49293&catId=49

I think it is sad, serious, and pretty laugh out loud funny at certain points.
Reply with some feedback and I'll post a response after this.

Right Side of the Bed

In follow up to the last post, the reason why I'm probably sick of this place is that I'm constantly consumed by by the same responsibilities, reputation, and expectations. The worse is when someone calls me up to remind me to get to a meeting or a question about school work, or something of that matter. But today was different. I got the call from her. The love of my life. When she called, something inside my stomach made some kind of Olympic flip and the muscles that made my smile could not move. I giggled just because I considered myself the luckiest man to hear her voice and maybe these phones are different, but I couuld smell her fragrance through the phone lines. Even when she cut it short and said she had to go, I was not mad neither was I eager to hang up. But I simply felt...lucky to have talked to her.

And so I hung up the phone rolled off the bed, stared at the calendar and said, "See ya in a week, mama."

Rush

There is really nothing against my friends, my classes, my roomates, my professors, my jobs, my organizations, my campus, or anything else semi-related to that. And I do not know how this had come about so quickly in the past 6-12 months or so, but I have switched from being completely in love with this campus, and even looking into jobs after college in the area to stay in this environemnt. I have now turned a complete 180 degrees, and it's not like I hate the school, but I am ready to leave. Maybe three years is my limit for being at any once place for too long, but it has been too long doing this deal, hanging out with the same crowds, and studying the same material. So no disrespect to anyone or any place, but here it is...

I'M READY TO GET OUT OF HERE.

Situation no win
Rush for a change of atmosphere
I cover the walls so I give in
Gotta get myself right out of here

A Few Current Thoughts on Being a Christian Large Group Leader This Year and How It Hurts

With internships and a career in the near future, I began to start looking at my past 2 and a half years, wondering if I simply wasted my time or actually made a significant difference in the organizations and lives of the people around me. The importance of this reflection is that I still have a good ten months of school before I graduate, and I do not want to continue wasting my time for a lost cause, whether that be an organization, a part time job, a major, or certain people. I want to make every minute and every second count, but I'm beginning to second guess the road that I've already chosen. I know that this is cliche, but one of my biggest strengths is also one of my biggest weaknesses. I am incredibly goal-driven with everything that I do. If I want to lose weight, I will lose weight. If I want to write five papers in 48 hours, I will do that too. The hard part comes when my goal becomes more important than people or worse, the goal is a person. No one wants to be viewed as a goal or a project, but sadly, that is exactly what I do.

Many of my readers know that I am involved with this thing called Intervarsity Christian Fellowship in Emory, and I lead these weekly meetings with a large group of people that vary from anywhere from 40 to 80 people on any given week, where we have praise music, guest speakers, testimonies, and general fellowship stuff. Being the most visible part of one of the larger organizations on campus, it definitely felt empowering to be put in a position of such tremendous influence. When setting out my goals early on, it was clear what I had wanted. It was a little bit different, but I believed in them. My desire for these meetings was threefold:

1) Numbers were not everything. At many times, I had said, "I'd rather have 10 radical people who were committed to making the true story of Jesus, and not 'Christianity' or 'Passion music' or anything else famous. I'd rather have that than 500 people who merely come to a weekly meeting to be entertained."
2) I wanted it to be a sending place for college students, not a meeting place for college students. My goal was that these weekly meetings would be taken over because we are so busy doing service or loving on others or meeting on a regular basis with each other anyway.
3) If people were to come, I was hoping that people would continually bring new people to the meeting every week to just hear what we have to say in a safe space environment.

And even within the first few weeks, people came up to me and they would say things like, "Man Yih, I can't wait till this place reaches its full potential. We want to fill up this room of 150 people, that we can move into another venue, and soon it will be so jam packed with people. You will not believe it." And I would usually smile without saying many words, convinced that the numbers were not my goal. But within a few weeks, I began to see that with the things that we were integrating, the numbers were growing and people were loving these meetings. And believe it or not, we could really reach a number that surpassed anything that we have ever seen before. And it was awesome to see that and have such a direct microwaved reaping of benefits from my hard work. Soon, I forgot my original goals for this thing I was in charge of, and bought into the lie of numbers. Not because numbers were or are evil, but simply because it felt good. In a deep spiritual sense, I am probably trying to hijack God's glory for my own benefit, but in layman's terms, I just needed affirmation that I was doing a good job.

Whether you are Christian or not, we are all human and have been in various leadership positions, whether it be over an organization, a group project, a relationship, or a younger sibling. And no matter the circumstance, it's all the same. We are incredibly insecure beings who need someone or something to tell us, "hey, you're doing a great job." There is nothing better than a parent telling me that they are proud of me, or a teacher declaring to the class how hard I have worked. But often within the hustle and bustle of individual success of hard work and competition, people are not quick to compliment, so we must look towards other avenues. In my case, words of affirmation were unecessary and misplaced in good times, but were few and far between when I needed it the most. Therefore, the best way of affirmation for me was through numbers. Not people or faces, but simply numbers.

And now with half of the spring semester already over, I stand here with 7 more meetings to plan, and with each one it seems, we have dropped from the peaks of 80-90 people last year and have even dropped off from the steady 60s, but now we have a steady 30, and 15 of them have to be there. I'm going to say it right now. YEAH, IT HURTS. But I've only told a few people because of one reason. I didn't want to tell people and then really place this invisible, imaginary burden over someone to come to the meetings because that is the last thing I want. But after the hard work and the dreams and the promise, you're left with not much to show for it. At least initially.

I resorted my mind that was all convoluted with probably too many diet drinks and listening to Free Bird for over 3 hours straight. And what I remembered were those three goals that I set out for myself at the beginning of the semester. 1) Numbers were not everything. It's not about numbers. 2) As long as people are out there doing stuff to further this revolutionary love, it's worth it. 3) When you do have these meetings, have new people come who are in all walks of life just to figure out junk together. And I looked at where these meetings have gone, and numbers isn't everything to me or for them. People are skipping these meetings because they're getting involved with trips to New Orleans, East Asia, small group hangouts, and various bible studies that they are participating in or leading in. And I look at every week since I started this deal, and there has been someone new just checking things out, and liking what they see and hear.

So I now face a position that I have rarely found myself in. I have accomplished all my goals and yet, it hurts. And I owe that to the fact that I bought into the lie of numbers. And the great thing about numbers is that I know there is a quick visible that I can see. But now, I'm clinging to the hope and the promise that what I am doing is worthwhile, though the benefits may not be seen for many years down the road. And that's where I am at. I have no big conclusion with an application at the end and I do not have a big altar call or a request on my knees for people to pray for me. But there is the mess of the ministry. There is the unchartered roads that I trudge through. And here I am, another living example of a simple, normal, driven, failing, insecure, and confused dude that has been given opportunities like this to lead anyway.

Switch Foot Up the A**

Let me preface what I am about to say with the fact that I absolutely love Switchfoot. I don't love them in the "I want to have their babies" way neither do I mean the "I will actually pay for your album instead of taking it off the ourtunes" way. But I love them in that I actually enjoyed their concert and I think their music is both good, catchy, and sometimes, even inspirational. I like the fact that they are a Christian band who has made it into the mainstream, and aren't afraid to be called out as being Christian. I am proud that they are not the typical Christian artists who seem like they have a quota of "Christian words" they must fulfill in order to make the release like "grace (which has to rhyme with face), holy (it comes in three), love (did you really think I'd leave this out), mercy (only when grace is used up too much), tenderness (three syllable words make me sound intelligent), lift up (we need action verbs in there somewhere), God almighty (can't really sing about God without mentioning God), great (because it's simple), and cross (just in case they missed the sign)." And just for the sole reason of Switchfoot staying away from these words in every single song they sing makes me a little bit partial to them, to the point where I will actually sport their T-shirt around on a regular basis.

That having been said, there is one time when I cannot bear to hear Switchfoot any more. It is every time there is a Christian movie, promotional video, ambience music for Christian events, or anything of that sort. And believe me, it is rampant. And when I hear Switchfoot in there, I do not hear their lyrics or their music, but I simply hear a message that if fully summarized is this: "We are Christians and honestly, we do not listen anything outside our little subculture bubble, but we want to sound cool and outreach to people who do not listen to our music, so let's meet halfway and hopefully we will pass for cool by playing this billboard hit that has been overplayed anyway over the radio and call ourselves one of the 'sexier' Christian phrases these days: RELEVANT." It jars me in such a way that it reminds me of the days when "My Heart Will Go On" will come on the radio 10 times an hour per radio station over 50 radio stations in a small suburb in 1997. Worse than the scraping of nails on the blackboard or the "one annoying friend that every group of friends has just for the sake of making fun of" is when I hear Switchfoot as the most overplayed relevant Christian band. Like Erwin McManus says, I too am really just so sick of being relevant all the time. "Instead of being so worried about being countercultural all the time within the context of culture, shouldn't we have a much better, stronger culture that is not in relation to everything and everyone else?"

College Brochure

When I read the college brochures and especially the Emory one, this is not the existence that I had imagined. When I was watching Road Trip and American Pie and Saved by the Bell: the College Years, this was not how college was supposed to be. But finally, I got what I signed up for. No more gloomy looks from Long Islanders in Gucci bags and Juicy pants on casual Friday and no more Southerners who are pissed off at the Long Islanders, where these conversations make up the time of an Emory existence. No more bad Emory announcements about subpar events and meetings around campus that consist of no more than 10-15 students meeting in a room, discussing something of utmost importance in non-passionate voices. It's like high school clubs without the incentive of building up the resume for college. They are simply there just to past the time into oblivion, but before we realize this, we are heading to another meeting. But no more forcing freshmen students to watch an old president spewing points about a country he could not run himself, no more skeleton mascots who take 30 minutes to make a boring speech, and no more complaints about the DUC, Dobbs, or Dr. Adame. NO MORE!

Amidst the 70 degree weather in the last day of February, a new spirit came alive on Emory's campus. The pamphlets came to life as I looked to my left and on the benches was laughter from a community of students that were black, hispanic, native american, gay, white, asian, and handicapped. To my left, there was a hippie kid trying to play guitar under a tree, but no music was coming out. He looked like he was thinking of lyrics to sing, or pondering how long he could pass off as someone who knew how to play guitar. I look straight ahead and there were boyfriend and girlfriend frolicking along past the childish high school phase. When I opened my ears, I heard noise, and when I opened my eyes, I actually saw smiles. I don't know what was happening, but considering it is a week before hell week, people were actually, can I say it? Happy.

Call me crazy, but it was moments like those today that made me sign up for this college thing in the first place. And chances are, I won't see many of those again, but maybe tomorrow, I will see a Jewish Long Island and a Southern Christian actually communicate with one another instead of being a whining bitch. And don't even let me get started on the Long Islanders.