Farewell Food Stamps

Critical Status:

"My name's Ace and I'm homeless/ I spit raps 'cuz I'm so sick/ I'm iller than shit, more badass than Jesus, yo/ I flirted with death, told Satan to quit/ Took candy from your baby then gave it to a babe, baby/ Like a drug dealer I make deals go crazy/ Eating scraps in the back I get stacks of cash..."

Everyone, as far as I could tell, hated Ace. He loitered like a cockroach by the cities best coffee bar, The Breeze. It was Ace's personal vendetta to get into the face of the customers- to force them to smell his grimy stench and gasp at his disintegrating yellow teeth. Ace would stand near the entrance to The Breeze and attempt to start freestyle battles with the male passersby, or creepily eye the figures of the females. Spontaneity and flamboyant attitude were in excess to the point of normality- Ace was so ignored he would attempt anything for attention- but no matter what he did, he dwelled in bitter solitude. Ironic to the fact that he slept on the streets of a populated metropolis.

But few people knew he had a golden heart.

It was early morning and I was sitting in The Breeze. I didn't want to go to work- I wanted to pause the sun and live forever in my taste-buds, as they inhaled the handsome aroma of coffee beans. Time, though, waits for no man. Looking through the tall, pristine windows at the bustling street, I could see Ace. He was dancing in front of an elderly couple- his baggy, stained jackets flailing around his body like a second shadow. Laughing to myself, I returned to my mug, taking a long sip as I stared at the endless blue ocean of a wall in front of me.

I was late, but could care less. Peace was in my veins, and I was trying to extend its duration. I ordered an exciting breakfast sandwich, and drool was lurking in the anticipation. A woman, very beautiful, just paid her bill. I thought about waltzing through the tables and introducing myself (in a charming way, of course). But my stomach won the battle over my hormones, as a plate of toasted bread, fried eggs, and honey ham appeared by my side.

The woman brushed her auburn hair behind her gentle shoulders, and pressed her leather purse against the smooth fabric of her dress. Her eyes sparkled in the dim light of the coffee shop, and the not-so-innocent smirk on her face perked me up in my seat. If she would've winked at me as she walked out the door, I (without a doubt) would've collapsed out of my chair.

Halfway across the giant glass windows in front of The Breeze,
the woman was accosted by Ace. Her body language switched from confident to defensive, and she took a step back, probably because of his breath. I guess Ace was more motivated than me, because he was turning on his moves. Popping, dancing, rapping- if I didn't see Ace sleeping on the streets at night I would've thought he was a professional performer.

In the distance, I noticed a truck screaming down the asphalt. It ran a red light, and was still accelerating. Its coal black malevolence struck a chord in me- and I realized the vehicle didn't plan to stop- let alone slow down. It was locked on. Throwing down my fork, I realized it was time to move. I ordered everyone in The Breeze behind the counter-top. From the cover, I watched the scene play out in front of me as the truck came crashing toward the shop.

Ace was deeply into his failing courtship when he stole a glance to his right. The truck was close, near maximum speed. The woman looked too- and froze, terrified. But some feral instinct switched on inside of Ace. As the truck prepared to mount the curb and launch into the glass, Ace became super human. The hulking mass of his clothes blasted into the woman next to him as he shoved her with brute strength. Surprise appeared on her face, as she stumbled backward, flat on the concrete a good distance away.

I couldn't peel my eyes away. I couldn't believe it. Ace was relaxed, standing straight ahead. The woman was on the ground. The dark truck at full throttle. With one final roar, it thundered through the obstructions.

The sound resembled nothing I had ever heard. It was as if lighting punched a gaping hole into the glass, providing an opening for a flood of raining shrapnel. The engine of the truck pounded ferociously with evil, crushing wooden tables and busting ceramic tiles. The force of the impact threw me, as well as the other customers, back against the wall and into delirium. Seconds, minutes, hours passed- I don't know. I took a chance, and peered over the counter-top. The driver was out of his vehicle, white dust from his airbag covering his shirt, cuts across his arms. He wasn't real, he was a ghost, a shred of my imagination. A revolver was in his hand. My eyes slammed shut as he brought it to his head.

Bang.

Sirens blared in the distance. I walked out from behind the shelter, glass crumbling beneath my boots. Through the broken window, I noticed the woman. She was standing, obviously in shock. Our eyes met with understanding, and our lives changed. We had met and survived catastrophe. We had met, known, and witnessed a hero.

Everyone, as far as I could tell, knew Ace. But no one (not anymore at least), hated him. Ace's body was never found. Some speculated that he was an angel in disguise, a messenger of the gods, a saint in human form. Others stretched the boundaries claiming he was a mirage of protection. In honor of his bravery, The Breeze designed and mounted a memorial plaque above their front door. It read, "In memory of Ace's supreme kindness and solid spirit: ? - April 26th, 2010."

Ace, in his last moments really did flirt with death. But he was a true hero- sacrificing his life for a woman he never knew. When I sit at that counter, sipping coffee, I remember Ace. May his brief memory extend towards forever.

"My name's Ace, dog and my game is the pace/ of these bars, lyrics, licks and grace, yo/ I'm like a T-Rex man/ so ferocious/ I rip you to shreds with these lines,/ You know it!/ Don't mess with Ace, 'cuz/ My blows are infinite/ like space- blow sand in ya face/ You might be blind 'cuz you ain't one of a kind/ Only Ace got control of his mind!"

What I'm Doing: Just sitting here… watching the wheels go round and round. I really love to watch them roll.

212:

Each day around 1:00pm I receive an email called the Daily Ray of Hope. It's like an inspirational quote- sometimes great, sometimes bland. Today, it hit me spot on about how I picture many aspects of life. Therefore, I'm replicating it.

"If the world were merely seductive, that would be easy. If it were merely challenging, that would be no problem. But I arise in the morning torn between a desire to improve (or save) the world and a desire to enjoy (or savor) the world. This makes it hard to plan the day." ~ E.B White

E.B White hits it perfectly. I want to help the world, improve it, cure it of its imperfections… yet at the same time, I want to relax on a beach, and savor the earth in the sunlight. I believe it is the balance of these two ideals that makes for a fitting life.

This past week has been hectic. It's the close of April- and everyone knows the end of the fourth month signals wild insanity. In my case, it signifies preparation for a fashion show that has become one of grand scale- which will be performed tomorrow, April 29^th. It should be nothing less than perfection, thanks to my team leader Nadirah and teammate Misty.

Monday and Tuesday of this week signified the Baby Oil Debacle. Students thought it was a great idea to run down to the second floor of the school with giant bottles of baby oil, and spray them all over the slick, tiled floors of the hallways. This (as you would expect) made them more slippery than an ice cube drenched in butter. Personally, I thought it was fantastic, and quite clever. No kids would dare run in the halls with that slick oil on the floor!

Sleep is incredible. Each minuscule second of dreamland is a valuable to me, and I make sure as to sleep in as much as possible in the mornings. This means that I get ready like a hurricane on speed. I give myself fifteen minutes to get ready, and then bolt out of the house. And I bolt. I slam the door shut behind me and sprint a side street towards the closest bus stop. I know that if I don't sprint, I'll miss the bus- causing me to walk an extra four blocks and risk being late. A couple days ago I was really pushing my time. I'm booking it down the side street staring directly at my watch, and the bus zips by as I cut the corner. Shit. I slowed out of warp speed and into a slightly depressed walk, watching the bus accelerate out of the stop sign… only to stop in the middle of the intersection! Stunned, I shake off my feelings of utmost gratitude and heave my tired legs into lightning action. Out of breath, I crawl inside, and thank my bus driver a million times. He's the same one every day, and I love him. He's the best bus driver in this entire world.

Ever wondering who the LeBron James of mascots is? You guessed it: Banjo the Man-Deer. [Banjo]

Speaking of the NBA… let's talk nicknames. The Durantuala. Hands down, #1.

Something many of my students say is, "It's not my problem, why should I deal with it?" This usually occurs over trash issues. Even if the trash belongs to the student, they'll still decline to pick it up.

The last item I would like to mention would be the situation of the truancy misfire. To enter my school, students have to get through a metal detector and then swipe their ID. When the machine reads the code on a student's ID, it registers that student as present for the day. There are two of these machines, one on each side of the school. Each student's record is sent to the truancy for review of their attendance. Now, here's the problem.

A machine has been malfunctioning.

On one side of the school the machine has been marking every student absent. When their records are sent to truancy, they are reviewed, and then marked as truant (for too many absences). Because of that, these students (most of which are the first to arrive in their first period classes) are given a court session to meet with a judge. I talked with a student in my first period class. He was marked absent by the machine the day I was talking to him, and showed me a printed out form of his attendance (from the machine). It said he had 18 absences recently. As far as I can remember, he has been in first period every one of those days. The hardest part for him is, the judge doesn't believe him. The judge has so many truancy cases that I'm sure he's heard it all. He thinks my student's story is just another lie- not a needle in a haystack.

Next week, I plan to kick off my first post of May (also known as Pre-June) with a review of my stay in Mr. P's math class. For the moment, review the quote by E.B White. Find that balance between saving the world and cherishing the seconds of your life. That's all I've got for tonight.

-TWO-12

End of Earth Day

What I'm Doing:
Listening to "Some Postman" by The Presidents of the United States of America and watching the NFL draft

212:

Today is the day after Earth Day.

That means it's time for you to watch what you throw in the recycle bin. It's time to plant that tree you've wanted to buy from Home Depot. It's time to see if you can last an entire day without flicking a lights switch. It's time to ride your bike to work (Earth Day is in the April for a reason!).

Earth Day doesn't just stick to its specific date- it spreads and grows. It's a continuation process, the first episode in a TV series, a habit-builder that encourages the citizens of this planet to treat it like it is their home.

Personally, I didn't do anything too Earth-conscious on Thursday. I powered through work at my school, and then rushed home to grab a quick dinner and try to write. But I have been plagued with a subconscious writer's block since Wednesday- and my measly attempt turned into a wash. Once my teammate Josh got me hooked on a couple games of Desktop Dungeons, well, my ability to write crumbled into a pile of compost. Currently, I am proud to say that my never-ending vigor has prevailed. The dark evils of writer's block have been banished to the wild plains of Siberia, and once again all is well in the world.

As a member of City Year, I work in my school Monday-Thursday, then join up with the rest of the 200 or so Corps Members for usually a random assortment of service on Friday (sometimes Saturdays too). 60 hour weeks are not uncommon, and during the winter I was used to never seeing sunlight (leaving before the sun rises, home after to sets). Today, Friday April 23^rd, was filled with work. After beginning the day at Manna, I travelled across the distance of Philadelphia to the high Northwest reaches (near LaSalle College). It was to be my first time visiting and working at Awbury Arboretum, and when I hopped off the 18 bus, I stared in amazement.

Green. The leaves of trees, the grass stretching over rolling hills- my eyes devoured the sight I saw from the driveway into Awbury's acreage. Beautiful, stunning colors of spring met together in harmony to build tree lines and soft petals of buttercup flowers. I followed a small pathway, my head rolling around at the nature around me like I'd never been outdoors.

It was incredible to me to think that something so stellar and perfect lay hidden in the inner-city area of Olney in Philadelphia.

Since I was early for my assigned task, I pulled out a sandwich I packed that morning and sat in the gentle soil and shade beneath a large tree. With big eyes and a hungry stomach, I quickly finished my lunch, and then filled my lungs with the fresh air. I could feel the pores on my skin calm down and even my clothes seemed to release a sigh of relief. A book in my hands, I soaked up my remaining leisure in absolute tranquility.

Roughly six other people and I trekked through the arboretum for about seven minutes, arriving on the other side of the park where the workers had established a couple of small farms. The sky was pure aqua; a breeze was in the air, the temperature pristine. We were surrounded by nature- and if we had clothes from the pre-civil war era, I would've believed we were just casual farmers. It was a nice pace-breaker to the industrial mechanics of the city.

The two guys leading us, Clay (a mid-sized man with glasses and a flannel shirt) and Pete (slightly over six foot, heavy side burns, a fierce goatee, black reflective shades), showed us the location we would be working in and handed us gloves and tools from their pick-up truck. My job was to help clear a wide area of grass, weeds and roots, then pat and create a solid foundation of soil. Using a random assortment of tools (my favorite being a fantastic pitchfork) we cleared the area in just less than two hours. With sore backs and slightly satisfied smiles, we all knew what was next.

What're foundations for? Building stuff on. In this case, the dudes at Awbury needed help constructing a donated historical shed.

Complete with mossy shingles, rusty nails, and chipped white paint, the historical shed had been sliced into many heavy pieces. Luckily, we received help from an awesome elderly man in a Dodge truck, and after a couple of loads we were able to move all the pieces of the shack near the dirt foundation. We gave a fat thank-you to our savior, and stroked our beards as we imagined how the jigsaw of a tool shed was supposed to be nailed together.

Clay pulled out his phone, and called the guy that donated the shack. As we hacked the system of directions (well, there weren't any directions- this shack was old!) and hoisted up one side of the shack (with the help of five people), Clay waved a confused hand in the air as he pictured what the guy on the other end of the phone was saying. I grabbed a hammer and a handful of nails, and began smiting them into a wooden platform that we had also brought over. It took a while, but we eventually got the first wall up. Things were coming together, but the day was nearing its end.

With the proper way to construct the shack figured out, we quickly put up the opposite side wall. After we finished, we collapsed into a pile of woodchips, exhaled, then stood back up again and put away the tools. I walked over to the garden hose, and filled up my water bottle.

One thing I've learned for sure living in Philadelphia: I'm not a city boy. I love nature, and I could live in a log home in the middle of a forest. There's something about it, the connectivity with the plants and animals, the separation from the world, the peace that is in the palm of your hand and always in eyesight. It's so nice.

There's only a few days left before it turns to June (yes, June). I know its common phrasing to say "April showers bring May flowers", but face the facts- May doesn't really exist. Of all twelve months, May is the ghost month. If the twelve months decided to throw a wild disco party, April would be the guy stressing out in the corner of the room on his Blackberry, trying to organize everything going on in his life. May would be the dude that declined the invitation.

Reasons why May isn't really here and that next month is really June:

1. May is like April's shadow. And April is like a ravenous Bigfoot in the forest. When Bigfoot makes an appearance, do you really care about his shadow?
   
2. Springs old news now. What does "May" carry with it besides supposed rain? AP tests, graduation ceremonies, and the end of the school year. Correct me if I'm wrong, but graduation ceremonies and the end of the school year are their own entities.
   
3. The word "May" is only three letters long. June and July are even longer, and everyone knows that they are both four letters long because of the summer heat. You can't write a word like September when it's 120 degrees outside.
   

But I won't totally give May the cold shoulder. Give that semi-invisible month a little credit as April turns to June- because if you're anything like me, you'll hardly notice it was there.

A little while ago I read Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter. When I finished it, I just couldn't be quite about how awesome it was. I ended convincing my teammate, Siobhan, that she needed to read the truth about Honest Abe. After she completed it (and of course, she loved it), she decided to bring a book in for me to read: Childhood's End. In a couple weeks, I breezed through it. The plot was stiff and intellectual, providing a vibrant read about a plausible encounter with seemingly all-knowing aliens, one that posed questions about reality and life across the universe. It was great.

The topic I would like to discuss recently is segregation. More than 50 years ago, Brown vs. Board of Education stated that district and states had to stop separating blacks and whites into different schools. Thought of at first as a remainder or last ditch effort of slavery, segregation has always been in the shadows of the education system. On April 13^th, the Walthall County school district in Mississippi was accused and investigated by the Justice Department for purposefully transferring hundreds of white students to other districts, creating classrooms that were predominantly black.

See links: Miss. One | Miss. Two

I'm not at all surprised by this article, and in many ways I feel that districts, as well as neighborhood schools, create the effect of segregation. The school I work at in Philadelphia is 99% Black, 1% Hispanic. There is one white kid that goes to my school. Many days I wonder, is this segregation? Partially, I think it is. But I realize the distribution of race throughout the neighborhoods of Philadelphia. In turn, this creates a defined picture distribution within neighborhood-based public schools with high percentage of specific races in certain locations. For now I'll call it pseudo-segregation.

The bigger question is, in what way (if any) does this subtract from the value of education in Philadelphia?

The obvious answer is cultural learning and development of natural attitude toward social scenarios. When around people from different cultures, people adjust and learn significantly from the actions of their fellows. In my opinion, growing up with people who are very similar hinders the evolution of a personality. It all goes back to the nature vs. nurture theme. Nurture is huge, and without room to adapt or even a will to adapt, one's nurture must be limited.

It's just another problem with certain areas in the country- but definitely a subject to ponder.

"I knew that when the great guiding spirit cleaves humanity into two antagonistic halves, I will be with the people." – Che Guevara

The world seems to already have split into two halves. Or maybe more than just halves, but quarters, fifths, ninths. There are so many different positions, yet all of them are barely more than undefined. In one area of Philadelphia there could be neighborhoods of ghettos and terrors. But right around the block there could be a wonder such as Awbury Arboretum. Can we not mend the underprivileged spaces of the city, the country, the world- and establish a balance? I guess that's the goal, and at the moment all we can do is work for it.

Have a great post-Earth Day year.

-TWO-12

Brains

Some Call Me:

I breathe fire and spit waterfalls.
Some call me the feisty Poseidon.

What I'm Doing:
Paying my taxes and strategizing my finances.

212:

Yes, it's that time of year- time for those stunning, killer athletes from the NCAA to be chosen. They will be the gladiators of the National Football League's turf for the next decades, recording countless brawls and few epic legends. If they're lucky, a journalist equivalent of Homer will write a very, very long poem about them. Or, this year of the draft could be a hoax. Maybe none of the players will enhance their teams, or reach the status of a demi-god. At the moment, Fate holds the cards. For the next week we'll all watch our steamy breath bash against cold air, as our anticipation climbs mountains higher than Mt. Everest. But come next Thursday, we'll be gulping down a glass of water, sweating all over our couches in excitement, watching the St. Louis Rams snag the hottest first pick in the pile.

And, it's the 75^th draft, no less. That has to be some sort of landmark.

As a college-bound student, I've had to go through a sort of "draft" as well. I had to work my brain with these standardized tests and display my GPA in a trophy case (perfectly polished, of course), and proudly exclaim that I was the champion of the extracurricular weight lifting competition. Schools denied me, schools accepted me. Some of these colleges valued me as a fantastic pick but others decided I was subpar. It's mid-April now, and "The Draft" is finally over. I was rejected from my top choice, Stanford, in November. Heartbroken then, I recovered and vowed to power through my combine with enthusiasm. I did, and I have chosen to play varsity Biochemistry for the Arizona Wildcats. You can bet I'll make a mark in Tucson- I've got plans to break the records for most passing and receiving yards. Rushing yards too. Yep, you heard it here first.

So, if you've been checking out this blog for a bit, you've probably noticed that I try and post once a week, usually near a Wednesday. I would've posted last week, but I was vacationing back in the Valley of the Sun. I decided it would be a great idea to fly Continental across the country and surprise my parents, play tennis, and visit my good friends. Turns out, it was. I had a blast catching up and even wrote the title of the next chapter in my life. Thanks to everyone who helped make the trip awesome.

If I had to sum everything up in eight words, it would be:

"It was just another case of the Popov."

Yeah. You guys in the desert-mimic of Narnia know what I'm talking about.

Throughout this past year I've probably traveled more by airplane than I have my entire life. I've learned a good deal from flying and watching others during the process of my inter-airway journeys. When you enter an airport, it's as if the world around you shuts down. The state you live in ceases to exist as the element that defines you curls up into a ball and prepares to be thrown to a new location. All that remains is that airport. LAX, JFK, PHL, PHX. The semi-ash scent fills your nostrils the second you enter the sliding doors of the miniature world, and you instantly gaze the wide expanse of the entryway. Tiled floors, or carpet covered with airplane patterns devour the vast space of floor that your standing on, and at that moment you are completely clueless. It takes you a couple minutes to find your bearings- like coming out into a clearing of a forest, or sticking your head out of the water after holding your breath. Your first thought is almost panicked, because you think you have miniscule amounts of time. To you, your flight takes off in ten seconds, even if you have two hours. Inside your head, you scream:

"Where do I check in my bags?"

After frantically scanning the lobby, you finally lay your pupils on those new electronic kiosks. You stick your credit card in, grumble over the $25 baggage fee, grab your tickets from the slot, and begin running towards the escalators with two backpacks on your back, while simultaneously chugging a lemon-lime Gatorade and engulfing a chocolate-chip granola bar. You, sir or madam, are the cheetah of the airlines.

Sprinting up the escalator can sometimes be tiring- especially when you jammed your two backpacks full of as much as possible so you didn't have to pack a second check-in bag. Your legs start to shake, and your breathing like you just ran a mile in ten years. Then you look at your watch or your cell-phone, and once again two hours doesn't feel like two hours. Your legs are tree trunks again, and your lungs are those of a swordfish. Oxygen? Psshhhh.

Bolting down the aisles that seem oddly empty for how big they are, you glance upward, looking at those awkward black signs on the ceiling for direction. You follow one arrow, only to realize it meant to point the other way. No worries though, you're more focused than Eric Clapton on Adderall.

By this time, approximately fifteen minutes have passed since the sliding doors opened for you at the entrance. You're twitching, shaking, and checking your watch exactly every three seconds, while you wait in line for security clearance. Your foot is tapping, and you're having a conversation with the guy in front of you about how you've never seen a line this long in your entire life, and that you're terrified you're going to miss your flight because you paid over $300 for it. He's saying the same thing, and you two instantly become the best of friends complaining about your common enemy. The airline industry.

Finally, The front of the line. With your laptop out, shoes untied, ID and ticket in hand, you walk up to the security officer with confidence. She waves your ID with a black-light, and then tells you that they have this new protocol. Stunned that more of your time is being stolen by the man, you lend your hand to a dude with rubber gloves on. He swabs it, and tests the sample in this crazy high-tech machine you've never seen before. They say that you don't have any chemical substances on your hands, and with a sigh of relief, you run out of your shoes to the conveyor belt and second level of security.

Everything is in the bins. Your wallet, keys, iPhone, and belt are off of your person. Your laptop is in a separate container, and as you walk through the metal detector, the security officer winks at you with a fantastic thumbs up. As you go to grab your items from the end of the line, the imaging machine waves a red flag. A security officer walks over to you with one of your bags, and pulls out your spare, hidden Fruit Punch Gatorade. With a moan of despair and a condescending glare from the officer, you place your bag back through the imaging machine and watch your delicious beverage fall into the abyss of the trash can.

Freedom! Done with security, the rest is cake. You plow through all the other people as they tie their shoes, and blast through the halls toward your gate (checking your ticket at least seven times along the way). With heavy shoulders, you fork over two dollars for some water, and sip it down as you wipe the sweat from your forehead. A month's worth of stress and running out of the way, you wait the remaining hour for your flight to board. Pat yourself on the back, and prepare for a relaxing sit.

Sometimes I think that if everyone was as productive as they were when they try to catch a flight, we might have invented the time machine by now.

When I'm on an airplane, I feel like the rest of the passengers are a temporary family. Maybe it's because we're all packed like sardines into a flying metal carapace, but I think there's definitely cozy and wide-spread love felt throughout the cabin. I can't help feeling concerned for the guy sitting two rows up looking sick with his head between his knees. I can't help wondering what the woman next to me is reading, and why she is reading it. I think it's the "Lost Syndrome." The plane could crash, and we'd all be stuck on an island and have to get along to survive. For some reason the brain makes these simple relational connections with these unknown people. It's a soft, warm feeling to be surrounded by those who care about you. And in a jammed plane, sometimes that's all you have.

On March 3^rd, 2010 under the post "Analysis of a Lost Man" I discussed my Physical Science class with Mr. M. A couple weeks ago however, Mr. M was let go from my school. That class has been in a stage of No Man's Land, and has actually become worse than it was previously. Every day the teacher is an unknown and the students, rightfully almost, have ceased to care about whatever happens. Substitutes have become normality, and even I am unsure as I enter the classroom during the first period of the day as to who will be there. One of the substitutes though, who goes by the name of Shep has done his best to be consistent. He's a retired teacher and an all-around great guy- but he is almost being pressured into becoming the full-time teacher for the rest of the year. Each time Shep is in class, I watch him as he struggles to try and install a sort of order in a disorganized structure, I watch as he becomes frustrated with the lack of respect and overwhelming rudeness of the students. In many ways I feel sorry for Shep. We are both powerless in the crumbled ruins of a poor leader, and it would seem that we can't begin removing the rumble unless we're issued construction hats. And at this point, we both almost feel like risking something falling on our heads.

So I was riding home with my man Eugene and my teammate Samantha today on the EL. We were having a nice, intellectual discussion about choices, and it eventually led to the idea of helplessness. Eugene, being the genius that he is, pulled out a case study that these scientists did on dogs and decided to detail it for us. Here it is below to the best of my memory:

There are three dogs. Let's call them Fred, Alex, and Kyle. Fred, the control, is placed inside a defined area. Alex is placed in a defined area, except he is shocked by electricity (which he can stop by pushing a lever). Kyle, the final dog, is linked with Alex. When Alex is shocked, so is Kyle. Except Kyle can't stop the electricity by pushing the lever and has no idea when or how long each shock will last. Kyle then, is rightfully clueless to his surroundings and their actions upon him.

The three dogs are then moved to a new experiment. Fred, Alex, and Kyle are now all placed in similar spaces. There is a small fence on one side of the perimeter, and each dog is shocked in the space. If the dog decides to escape the space by jumping over the small fence (which all are more than capable of), then it will stop being shocked. Fred and Alex, after a short period of time, jump the fence to escape the electric shock. Kyle however, does not. Kyle lies down and whimpers, without a second thought to escaping by jumping over the fence.

Why is this? Well, Fred was the control. He hadn't been shocked before, and when he registered the pain knew he could get out of it by leaving the space. Alex had been shocked before, but knew that he could turn off the shock with a lever. He knew there was a way to overcome it, and solved the problem. Kyle was shocked before, but at random. He had no idea where or why or how he was being shocked, and so when he was in a place where he could easily avoid the situation, he didn't know any better than to lie down and take the pain.

This experiment was done multiple times with different dogs. Almost every time, the Fred and Alex dog jumped the fence, and the Kyle dog stayed. However, some of the Kyle variations decided to jump the fence as well, but very, very few. The reason?

Human studies of a very similar course traced the purpose behind the Kyle variations that actually avoided electrocution. It literally comes down to optimism vs. pessimism. If the dog was a pessimist, it wouldn't leave the space. There would be no thought process through its head claiming there was another way, and it would just accept the pain. But if it was an optimist, there was a miniscule chance that it would still search for a solution, even if it was trained to be helpless.

I think that this study is incredibly relevant to many things we deal with in our day to day lives. For one, it teaches us that optimism can help us escape or find solutions for situations that we may immediately think impenetrable. But it has a mega-importance for people like me, who work in under-privileged schools. Many of my students are the Kyle breed. They have been trained to be helpless throughout their life, and even when presented with a way out, they cannot recognize it. This is a sad truth that we, as people, must learn to both overcome and teach others to overcome.

Che Guevara has been quoted for saying, "If you tremble with indignation at every injustice, then you are a comrade of mine."

I think when we, as citizens of the Earth, look out onto the world we see many things that trouble us. Why don't we let those things make us tremble with indignation? Why don't we think of ways to solve these problems, talk to our friends about genocide, about hunger, about poverty, about education, about healthcare? Let us all become bouncing boards for ideas, for everyone can think of something great! The worst thing we can do is to sit down and calm the tremors of anger that we feel toward injustice. We must step up and find solutions.

You'll probably find me quoting Che Guevara and Bruce Lee in the future. These are two of my idols. I idol them for their strong spirit and what they stand for. If you are not familiar with these people and their philosophies, I suggest you look them up or grab a book on either one. I highly recommend it.

I hope you enjoyed this post, and I apologize for missing last week. But I was on vacation, after all! Expect weekly posts on this blog around every Wednesday. I'm also updating the Creative Works section (updated 4/14/2010) with past and current writings, ranging from poems to shreds of stories. Oh, and I would love to hear your opinions on some of the scenarios I present, so feel free to comment!

-TWO-12

Vaudeville

Hatching a Raven with Wings:
Intricate white lights spit fireflies on a stage bathed in yellow. Infantile wooden bricks stack high, making a backdrop of discolored crimson. Plastic trees preach, rooted deep into concrete, and plump, pink flowers sprout from rubber. A pearly picket fence defends the audience- or perhaps, keeps the audience at bay.

On the set actors stand and gurgle lines with perfect timing- like their imagination represents their real lives.With chubby cheeks and googly eyes they gaze at the romanticism of fake babies, and assault two-dimensional grass with a roll-able John Deer. Door bells signify the transition between scenes, as chefs appear to replicate meals, such as orange-strawberry soup.

The audience can't help but gawk in disbelief as these off-spring create drama they hardly can believe. They gasp, "No, not the potato!" and "Don't fall down the steps!" The words, "Slow down!" turn into a background rumble as the fast-paced comedic-romance initiates its twist. As an actress screams off the soundboards, "I forgot my baby!" an audible awe stretches en-mass, and silence engulfs the auditorium.

With the play coming to a close, action rattles the state like a giant wave. One of the main actors is crushed under a ton of rubber bricks, and tears fall from the crowd in response. Spotlights swirl and the cacophony resumes. A sword-fight lasts fifteen minutes as the main protagonist encounters his mortal enemy. The sound of metal on metal is replaced with "oohs" and "ahhs" - and then, the villain has his blade at the throat of the hero.

Is it all over?

The atmosphere dims and the two-dimensional grass wavers in the wind created by a mechanical fan. The wooden bricks shed a sinister shade of red on the stage. Then- darkness turns bright. The hero headbutts the villain, who is thrown over a cliff by sheer will-power.
The audience applauds.
Inside the kitchen, the main actor slams a cabinet door on a female actress. She cries in agony as her eyes scrunch up and her smile morphs into a frown. Seeking remorse, the actor apologizes under a soft blue light. Then, in truest form- he confesses his love.

"I'm sorry... I love you."

In the audience a women swoons. An elderly man faints. The cast bows, deeply.

Thunderous clapping ensues.
Inspired by the Please Touch Museum's Front Step

What I'm Doing: Hoping my back heals by tomorrow, as I watch Jamie Oliver's Food Revolution.

212:
I'd like to apologize for the tardiness of this post. I originally planned to throw it out last night on the 1st but, I passed out on the couch downstairs after work, and plummeted into oblivion.

I watched Lost on Wednesday night. During the episode, one of the characters, Sun, smashed her head running into a tree branch. She later woke up with some type of aphasia- forgetting how to speak English. Eventually she was given a notepad, and is able to write so that she can express her thoughts. Now, you would think that on an unknown island, notepaper would be a hot commodity. Yet, Sun still decided to fill every paper up with two to three words a page, written with huge handwriting. After that scene, I just couldn't get my mind off all that wasted paper. Man.

It's very nice out here. This week has been averaged a solid 70 degrees. Breezy. Wonderful. It's so colorful here.

This week is Spring Break for the Philadelphia school district (besides Monday/Tuesday, which were make-up snow days). Because we're not in schools, all of the City Year corps members are out doing service, for there are no breaks for the hardy! My team was stationed inside of the Please Touch Museum and our job was to watch, observe, and play with the children- whenever possible.

For kids, the Please Touch Museum is a great place. It allows for a ton of role-playing. One could be anything from a doctor to a McDonald's employee to Alice, having tea with the Mad Hatter. In this museum, Children reign supreme. They run rampant and bulldoze parents, and if you're an adult, there is no saving a sense of dignity. Of all the people that visited, my favorites were the dolled up grow-ups. The ones that are "dressed to impress" with curled hair and heels. Even the beer-brawling-NFL-Sunday-watching crew, better known as the Dads-that-push-strollers-with-visible-agony-on-their-faces put on a hilarious show. First-timers. Newcomers. They don't realize their five-year-old darling is going to drag them around Pluto, then out of the solar system, and finally back home by passing through the Sun. They don't realize that their five-year-old darling doesn't care about a broken heel or a missed Eagle's game- he/she just cares about fun. As a parent, the only way to survive is to relax and enjoy the smiles on each kid's face. Every man and every woman signifies a shred of evidence, stating that all humans lose their minds in vaudeville. And it's true.

The Please Touch Museum isn't as splendid as it sounds- but it still is a good time. It reminds me of life-guarding, rotating station to station. Time creeps by slowly, and a ten-minute span feels like eternity. Toward the end of my shift yesterday, I was hanging with Eugene in a pseudo McDonald's. I had left the medical center (which was bombed with Lysol), to grab some fresh air. Euge and I were joking with the kids, creating lettuce sandwiches and meat goliaths- but somehow, the atmosphere changed. It was as if the children changed into evil versions of Hercules, as adrenaline pumped into their veins. Hard, plastic hamburgers blasted from their hands like cannonballs. I found myself blocking bullets and shielding my face as rubbery buns flew toward me. Euge curled into the fetal position in the corner of the room, and couldn't help but take a beating from three fast-food snipers. The incident was beyond terrifying for there was no hope for fighting back. We were truly outnumbered, and I'm sure we left that day with bruises.

Quotes I've Heard in Philly:
1) "If all the parents get in a circle, we can give each other back rubs."
2) "I need brain surgery because you farted on my head!"

Violence. A term nearly everyone knows or recognizes, a term that carries a negative connotation. When I see this word I think of war, blood, fighting, broken bones, broken families, aggression. It represents a sort of wickedness. As a society, we believe that all problems can be solved without violence. And what good does violence do anyways? It's a turf battle here, death toll there, gun shot wound expression. Yet, our culture revolves around the idea like a war monger, or the Greek god, Ares.

The week of March 22nd to March 26th was non-violence week at my school. At least, it was meant to be. But we all know that just because someone says so, doesn't mean it will happen.

Previously on March 20th, there was a giant outcry over something called "flash mobs" (a term believed to have been coined by Larry Niven). Here's what happened, to the best of my understanding- intertwined with possibly inaccurate news references.

It was late at night on South St. The air was soft and calm, with just the right touch of warmth- creating a cool sensation on one's skin. Kids were shopping, families were eating in local restaurants, and everyone else hit the bars- boozing off spring specials. If people decided to look out the windows, they would've noticed a sudden influx of kids. If they were teachers, they may have recognized some of their students. And if they were kids- their phones may have been vibrating a hole through their jeans.

By means of communication (Facebook, text message, Twitter), kids and students and teens decided to swarm the Center City hot spot of South St. Imagine the horrified looks of citizens, who, after attempting a night of peace, stood shocked at the events taking place. There were rumored to be thousands of people- a small army- roaring through down road.

"It was a tsunami of kids." (New York Times)

After the fact, it was noted that kids were fighting in the streets. They were dragging people out of their BMW Z4 roadsters and Nissan Sentras in a Grand Theft Auto 5 Brotherly Love sort of way. Homeless men and women were attacked, stores were broken in to. Even a shop owner was assaulted on his property.

That, and at least 18 kids were arrested.

Rumors of a new, 10:00PM curfew rose during the outrage. Of a crackdown by cops, of an investigation of social media by the FBI. Mayor Nutter himself issued a statement of anger and disbelief. As the Philadelphia media exaggerated the situation, it gained prominence and soon became a national story. People blamed parents and schools for misbehaving children. They put fathers on trial and criticized them for leaving families, for not punishing their sons when they acted out. The community screamed at the sky as if to ask why they couldn't control the youth.

The School District of Philadelphia wanted to reclaim some respect. So, they countered late Sunday night by highlighting the next week an impromptu stand against violence. They advertised, made it mandatory: Non-Violence week.

And thus, here we are.

The brunt of tasks and chores during that week were laid on the back of the Physics teacher, whose class I help out in during the last period of the day. Ms. C is a second year Teach for America member who is incredibly passionate about her students. Before getting this fresh mountain of tasks handed down by district, Ms. C was already stressed out. So she reached out to me for extra assistance- if nothing less to use me as a bouncing board for ideas.

Her job was to organize projects and events based off non-violence. To give her some much deserved credit, she pulled it off. Smoothly too.

The first initiative she pressed was a poster contest. It was to be completed in a week and she received many unique submissions. My favorite was a painted drawing of a black and Asian kid fighting, with a white kid in-between, blocking punches.

Ms. C's other task to tackle was a school-to-district Webinar. It carried the goal of allowing students to share their minds and opinions about the "flash mobs" and other violence issues. It was predicted to be a big event- even televised by some news channels.

Now, this week was ironic. Ironic in a 6'6", 270 lb wrestler named "Tiny" kind of way. Non-violence? My students scoffed and spat at its face (not that they would do this to Tiny, however..). In the beginning of the week, students jumped the sergeant of JROTC, an adult. On that same day, a student was attacked on the third floor. He was knocked to the ground, then repeatedly kicked for a solid fifteen minutes. This isn't to mention all the other assortments of fights, or even the scheduled after-school brawls, or the systematic targeting of kids from a nearby charter school. At least non-violence week was living up to the second word in its creed.

That Thursday, around 11:00AM, my buddy Law and I strolled to a classroom on the fourth floor to help with the Webinar. The best and brightest kids from 9th-12th grade were there, sitting with good posture and excitement in their eyes. Law and I casually chatted outside the door as we watched big name reporters like Vernon Odom and suave news crews roll in, wearing broken shields of confidence on their shoulders. They seemed put off by the environment of the school- yet their determination prevailed, for they had a job to do.

Lights. The principal was in the room and she flicked the switches off. The projector blared a visible spectrum of images across the white board.

Camera. Cameramen powered up their shoulder-pads and unleashed their aluminum tripods. They wielded the pinnacle of technology.

Action. Emboldened by purpose, reporters crawled into nostalgia as they reclined in desks to interview students.

Think of the reporters like generals. They were commanders. Masters of the strategic placement of their units. Napoleon or Robert E. Lee class. Finger signs and hand sweeps orchestrated intricate maneuvers as cameramen readied their optical bazookas. Extreme beams of sun blasted like laser sights from their visual guns. Some ducked for cover or found ways to perfect a sniper shot between the legs of a rival's tripod.

Microphones were set up at the front of the room. When a question was asked, a student would be chosen from the 30 person audience to sit down and state their opinion or answer. Many students said that they didn't mean to cause a disruption- that on a weekend there realistically wasn't anything to do. When asked if they used Twitter to communicate or organize meetings, the students chuckled in disbelief. Their answer- a blunt, "No way."

Overall, the Webinar was fantastic. I thought it was a great experience for the students, one that really expressed their opinions and shed a new light on the issue. As the news teams left the building, a fight broke out on the other side of the school. It's a good thing that NBC, CBS and FOX missed it- otherwise it may have been a different story.

Articles to Examine:
"Flash Mobs" ABC 6
"Flash Mobs" New York Times

So far there hasn't been a sequel to the "flash mob" saga. But I wouldn't count it out. This weekend is going to hit somewhere near 80 degrees. Who knows if that heat will cause steam to erupt the suppressed anger volcano of teens?

It has been a wild week and a half. I survived a stampede of girls during an anti-male Taylor Swift concert, encountered the first person I've ever seen wearing Kansas State apparel, watched my NCAA bracket turn to ash at the hands of Butler's flamethrower, and worked three days in a five-year-old's wonderland. I love wild weeks like this. So many things stand out, and it feels like I've learned so much in such little time.

Shakespeare once said, "All the world's a stage/ And all the men and women merely players/ They have their exits and their entrances/ And one man in his time plays many parts."

What parts have you played recently? In this world, this vaudeville, what role do you play?

-TWO-12