Applicants of Color Encouraged to Apply

Since I'm currently unemployed, I was doing my due diligence in the fading hours of Sunday afternoon, perusing the Boston-area education job listings on craigslist.com when I saw the first entry at the top of the page.

"Director - (Cambridge, MA)," I read. So I clicked it.

Now, I'm not necessarily interested in directing any preschool, so the hastily written posting failed to pique my interest much--until I read the final sentence of the description: "Applicants of color encouraged to apply."

Isn't that sort of like saying seven footers are encouraged to play basketball? Shouldn't that be obvious enough? Apparently not, which brings up a couple of questions.

First, why do we need to alert job-seeking minorities that if they possess, among other qualifying qualities, "color," then they should apply? I'm pretty sure any job seeker intends to apply if the position fits his or her requirements, one of which ought to be that a prospective employer follows laws that preclude race from entering the decision-making process (well, at least prohibitively; Affirmative Action contradicts this decree somewhat but we'll leave further discussion of that issue for another day).

Second, does this mean a person of "color" is preferred? If so, thereby a canvass-face (Caucasian--I just made up my own hate term/adjective depending on your point of view) is not encouraged to apply.

Except for brief moments during the summer months, my skin lacks pigmentation. I'm actually half-Jewish, which should, in theory, make me a minority, but since my skin more closely resembles the manila folder lying an arm's length away from me than the brown "wood-grained" desk it sits on, I fall under the category of majority. Green Day feels my pain.

My life is not harder because of this fact; quite the opposite, actually. Light skin has certainly served me well thus far: while abroad for months on end in South America and Spain I was often afforded more respect than I would have received had my skin stood up better to the Sun, and as the resident poor kid in a rich town in "liberal" Massachusetts, you can bet being white paid off in not having to deal with the myriad misunderstandings that my few black contemporaries experienced during their time in the same town. White folks still love to emphasize when a character in a story is black, but neglect such detail when it comes to just about any other race or ethnicity America (read: humanity) has to offer.

Just last night, while I attended a friend's graduation party, a bald white man in a pink polo, whose exposed, salt and pepper chest hair hoped to make up for his shining dome's failures, entertained my sister and me with a thrilling tale of a black fitness instructor. No other person's race befell the poetic pages of his enthralling short story. After mentioning the gym employee's race the first time, he mumbled something about not having a problem with it. Phew. He then proceeded to call her "the black girl" throughout the rest of his narrative.

Now, our protagonist is far from a bad man. In fact, he's mostly enjoyable and down to earth. At the very least we know from his booze-based banter he enjoys a brew or two or a few, so we've got something in common. But, his attitude animates major issues America--and the world--have yet to overcome or even address since the sad summer of '68.

Everyone has racial issues. Everyone. Jesse Jackson once used the epitaph "Hymies" to refer to Jews, but he's no racist. Far from it. Lil Wayne freely says "cracker" but seems more racially (and socially) enlightened than most. At the same time, France almost elected an openly racist candidate just a few years ago. George Bush "hates black people," according to Kanye West. Oh, and that Obama guy, he's a Black Muslim Terrorist right?

We could all use some austere, Benjamin Franklin-like self-improvement in this regard, but, damn, do we really need job postings to alert us that applicants of color are encouraged to apply?

It's 2008, and MLK became a martyr two score ago. Will it be another four score before we learn to use parallel sentence structure and call a white man "white" just the same as we call a black man "black?"

What a god damned waste we've let his death become if we can't raise our language to match King's diction.

Beauty Above All Else

Don't pray this doesn't happen to your daughter, guarantee it doesn't with a little parental attention.

Why are we so afraid of aging?

The answer: sagging self-valuation, similar to the dollar.

"I love being hot," said a good friend of mine, she the owner of an atypical combination of an hourglass body and a sound mind.

So does everyone, but unfortunately, some will never know how it feels, never get to fall in love, never get to feel cool.

You can't love another until you learn to love yourself--perhaps the most difficult lesson of all--and this conundrum taxes the mental makeup of many.

Beautiful girls see strange globular shapes in the mirror when they stare intently at the rise and swell of their every curve. Men resort to chemicals to recreate their bodies, and in turn, self-image--we're not talking Jason Giambi here either, but the unimposing quiet type who wants some goddamn attention. Botox needles may soon take the mantle from the addict's syringe as modernity's most popular pointed object this side of the penis.

Angry culture auditors blame the media, and they have a point. Busty bosoms, bursting biceps, and perfect, poreless profiles assault us daily from the safety of magical flat screens, within which technology reshapes these genetic outliers into the Zeuses and Aphrodites we wish to see in our reflections. But really, are we such simpletons that we can't differentiate between the ideal and reality?

I believe it comes back to parenting and community. Remember how much your words weigh when you assure your daughter she'll always be beautiful to you no matter what she looks like, or choose to stay mum on the couch, beer in hand, watching the very instrument that replaces you as a parent. Without your reassurances, the nasty notes she receives in class on folded, lined paper and the lipstick caricatures and alarming asinine hate she reads on the bathroom wall will win.

No matter how many psychiatrists dote upon her ego for dollars or boys treat her like a rag doll in the bedroom, she'll never reclaim that confidence her parents should have instilled into her impressionable mind before all these negative forces had a clean shot from their high perches.

The Empty Room

His friendship is like a mirror, he simply reflects his words off of you to see how he looks.
One-sided, without further dimension.

Her insecurity is a program.
It's binary, either 1 or 0, and you're the coder.

She shines her harsh light from above, the scorn raining downward.
Powder can't hide your facial faults.

He awaits your hands, eager: Open me, please.
The door sits welcoming, begging for attention.

In the middle you remain.
Flesh, bone, blood and brains.
Centerpiece of this chess game.

Finding a Job Is a Full-Time Job

You write, rewrite, and re-rewrite the same email over and over again. You organize your résumé incessantly, each time to more perfectly fit the job description craigslist says is available (even though it's actually already been filled). You lose a couple hours off your nightly repose, or you lie in sweaty, sun-stained sheets to avoid the world informing you you're not worthy of entering the MTV reality show that's standing outside your bedroom door.

And all this for jobs you don't even want.

Even better, most of these jobs you can't get, you can't even afford. "Salary competetive" the lisitings say--maybe for a middle school student, but for a debt-laden college grad, 20K means an existence that mirrors Oregon Trail's "bare bones" status.

The positive: we're young enough to handle two jobs, so 30K might be reachable!

The negative: we're young enough to handle two jobs, so 30K might be reachable!

There's most definitely a light at the end of the tunnel, of this I'm sure. But seeing as I'm near-sighted, my vision won't allow me to see it without my misplaced spectacles. The real question is, "How long can you wander in the dark without deciding to take a nap on the cracked concrete below your feet?"

Ah, youth, hate while you have it, love it when it's gone, and spend your entire life bemoaning either fact.

A Super Gay Day in Cali

One can only imagine what occurred behind closed doors on their wedding night.

Yesterday, January 16th, 2008, California hosted a gay party.

The extravaganza was quite like a college blowout (meaning rager/fiesta/pahty/kegger/etc., not this). The threat of legal recourse clouded the atmosphere like Purple Haze, drunken threats flew through the air like ping pong balls, usually missing their targets, and in the end, everyone just wanted someone to make out with.

To stop being coy and relay some facts, this really was a banner day for human rights. Unfortunately, the banner could go up in flames like America's credibility lately.

California's courts, perhaps only temporarily, allowed for the union of same-sex marriages to count as, umm, marriages. The funny thing is, the debate seems to be based on semantics, not whether or not two consenting adults can do whatever the hell they want to each other behind closed doors, according to Matthew D. Staver, founder and chairman of an anti-civil rights group errantly named the Liberty Counsel (source: NYT article linked above):

“Marriage has traditionally been known, across continents and all geographical regions, as between a man and a woman,” said Mr. Staver, who is 51 and married [presumably to someone who, in fact, looks like a man]. “Marriage between the same sex may be some sort of union, but it’s certainly not marriage.”

Hmm. First of all, I would like to know if Mr. Staver is a Los Angeles Lakers fan, and in turn a Kobe Bryant fan, and in turn a fan of sodomistic rape of women. But I digress. Anyways, here's a nice little list of definitions of the word marriage.

Now there are 10 definitions on the linked list, and quoting a dictionary definition an argument does not make, but let's just have at this for fun.

My favorite is unequivocally number 10: "Obsolete. the formal declaration or contract by which act a man and a woman join in wedlock."

The very definition of marriage merely meaning man and woman is listed as obsolete. Quite telling if you ask me.

Next, let's look at number 5: "any close or intimate association or union." Note the use of Mr. Staver's favorite word: "union."

And lastly, since this tactic is probably getting old, number 2: "the state, condition, or relationship of being married; wedlock."

Same-sex marriage certainly qualifies under the above definitions, and also seems better than this "obsolete formal declaration" thing that meant the husband owned his woman, and could do as he pleased with/to her until the arrival of her merciful death. (Sounds sort of like slavery doesn't it?)

Anyway, if Mr. Staver and his hate mongers want teach their children to hate gay lovers and gay-lovers alike, which might include themselves, and live unfulfilling lives in unhappy marriages, that's their problem. But, please, don't force your definition of life, one you probably mistakenly took from a really Good Book, on the rest of us.

Here's hoping the morality cops don't bust down the door on this innocuous little gathering they've got going on out in the Governator's Crib.

Obama Ready To Lead

Growing up my father wasn't allowed in my home.

From age six until eighteen, twelve full years, while my mother worked strenuous hours trading in her chosen profession, dance, for the pursuit of dollars and happiness for her children, I was often alone. My big sister, the owner of five extra worldly years on this planet, stood watch, but in a town where the most successful establishment was something called, quite literally, The General Store, safety from others wasn't such a concern.

And yet, my pale blue Ghostbusters blanket could only do so much late at night.

My relationship with my father was tenuous during my most formative years, and I didn't look forward to spending Tuesday and Thursday nights and the entire weekend twice a month sitting in his dingy apartment. We spent most of our time together at his shaggy rug-covered abode in a small living room with quickly enclosing walls. Inside his building hanged an abject emptiness the effusive odors drifting from the kitchens of other, equally downtrodden poor folks failed to mask. Bordering the living room that served as a catacomb for my sister and me were a kitchen and bathroom not much bigger than a walk-in closet, as well as a solitary, dark bedroom.

I knew my father loved me, for my mother had assured me of this fact, but I wasn't sure if I loved him back. He slept elsewhere, after all.

How could I respect a man who made the mother of his son and daughter cry? How could I love a man whose mere presence ruminated threat. If my father were present, in the flesh or even just in my thoughts, the world was not stable. My mind was a sponge and his internal anger invaded it. I was prone to outbursts of fury mixed with private episodes of remorse, guilt, and salty tears regretfully rolling down my troubled face. When we wrestled I would hit him hard, hoping he would return the blow, enabling me to turn my back on him forever. This was no joke; I was a warrior defending my mother's honor.

All this, and my father truly cared.

Years later things have changed. Time has mellowed the man. Pain has been replaced with a strange appreciation for his existence. Our relationship has grown, and I now enjoy my father's company. The scars of his past are still visible, but the aesthetics are easier to take now that his sutures have faded from view. I know I can count on him; in turn, he can count on me too.

The best of a bad situation was made, one could say. But the truth is, the situation wasn't so bad.

The two women in my life, and my home, shaped my existence.

My mother was a rock--unbreakable, indefatigable, heroic. I have trouble picturing another human being of her quality. She was a guiding light in a murky swamp of a childhood.

At the same time, my sister served as an example of what not to become. She had caved under the pressure of an easy erasure. Drugs could delete the ringing in her ears that mommy and daddy's berating each other had left. Once she gathered her fragmented mind, eschewing the easy route of day-to-day survival for cold turkey austerity, I had another perfect example--this time of whom I should strive to be. The screw up became an archetypal ideal, The Teacher.

Meanwhile, sports nursed my ego, bestowing confidence upon me in the way that a father in the home should have, teachers urged me to develop my mind, and friends would eventually become pillars I could lean on.

But it was no sure thing. My life avoided the cliché. Others aren't nearly as lucky.

Untold American youths toil in unsafe communities, fatherless. Dad doesn't live a town or two away in a dingy apartment; he doesn't exist. He simply up and left when he got the news that he had fulfilled nature's instinctual demand. He enacted Light In August in modern times.

Barack Obama also grew up in a fatherless home. Like my sister, he at times lost his way. But, ultimately, the presumptive Democratic nominee gave up self-pity and grabbed the mantle of leadership left vacuous by his lack of a male role model.

Today, on Father's Day, he spoke up.

The New York Times mentioned the outspoken Bill Cosby in reference to Obama's speech in a thriving Chicago church this morning, but the Illinois Senator's tone is different. When Obama calls for parents to be just that, he does so without the disdain that many viewed Cosby as radiating. The Man Who Would Be President eludes nothing more than a steady confidence, and wise words.

"We need fathers to realize that responsibility doesn’t just end at conception," he told a gathering of thousands. "What makes you a man is not the ability to have a child. Any fool can have a child. That doesn’t make you a father. It’s the courage to raise a child that makes you a father."

Obama's speech was not a diatribe, but a truthful assault on passiveness and lassitude. A man is man when he acknowledges that fact and embraces the responsibility it entails.

While Obama aimed his words poignantly at African-Americans, his point transcends race, nationality, ethnicity, or politics. The time is upon us to change America. Our country is great, and contrary to reports of its demise, it will continue to rank as one of the great nations in history for generations heaped upon generations. But, there's no reason it can't be better.

When the final votes are cast in November, the likely winner will be ready to fill the void America has felt for the past eight, arduous years. The nation's father figure has gone missing. With the ascension of Mr. Obama, keepsake blankets once again must provide only physical comfort.

Mr. Accountability is ready. All that's left is for America to declare the same.

The Opening Act

I've written two or three different initial posts at this point. None has been worth sliding my finger along the mysterious silver rectangle known as a "mouse pad" in order to hit the orange Publish Post button at the bottom of my screen.

I feel like a sixteen year old girl on her way to prom--I want the first time to be special, so I'm trying to talk myself into believing that my horny date with the spiked hair and underdeveloped vocabulary (but omg hes cute lol!) is the one. Because there just simply has to be a "the one." Right?

No. Maybe there is, maybe there isn't, but waiting around for someone who may or may not come is only reasonable when the cable guy enters the equation. So, on that note, this is the inaugural post at youngapathetics.com.

There will be more to come, and invariably, they will be better and more enjoyable keyboard romps than this one. But for now, I'm done waiting for that FiOS guy to shine the light on me.