Baltimore

Last night, I watched the mall where I got my first driver’s license get looted on national television.  The city I love.  The city where I grew up.  The city where I plan on spending my future.  Baltimore is in a state of chaos.  Many have turned to Facebook in this hour of unrest and destruction.  Pleas for peace and pleas for justice have dominated my newsfeed for the past 48 hours.  Some are scared, and some see this as a unique opportunity for change.

Personal opinions aside, seeing buildings aflame on CNN is disheartening.  Seeing people so desperate that they would rather resist the firefighters trying to save their city is disheartening.  Seeing the Orioles cancel a home game for the second consecutive night is disheartening.  Most disheartening of all, however, is that amidst all of this turmoil, Baltimore natives are turning on each other.

            There is no denying the tragedy of Freddie Gray.  There is no denying the gentrification of Baltimore city.  There is no denying that a long road lies ahead before real peace, real justice, and real equality can prevail.  But, today, I am disappointed in Baltimore.

It kills me to see my high school classmates engaging in counter-productive arguments on social media.  It kills me to see Baltimore residents putting their knives through fire hoses.  It kills me that, as always, the overwhelming focus is on the problem at hand, and not the solution.

Today, I want to see an end to the rioting and looting.  Tomorrow, I want to see the Orioles run onto the infield at Camden Yards to a sellout crowd.  In the very near future, I want to see the city I know and love stand together in pride.

In the end, we cannot make any progress if we are not willing to work together.  We've turned on each other on Facebook.  We've turned on each other on TV.  We've turned on each other on our very own streets.

So, Baltimore, it's time to take matters into our own hands.  We cannot fight in the extreme, neither in language nor in action.  We must come together as the city we were and city we are, in order to ensure the future of the city we will be.

Birthdays Do Make You Feel Older

I’m not sure how strongly it comes across in my writing, but in case you haven’t noticed, I’ve been in a funk for a while now.  For most of my time at Emory, my friends have found it quite difficult to the wipe the smile off of my face.  I smiled through my GER’s and then I smiled my way into the business school.  Much to the chagrin of the older members of my fraternity, I laughed myself all the way through pledging.  When Emory took Greek life away from me, I managed to keep grinning, despite a faltering social schedule and a less than desirable housing situation.  For the past few months, however, I’ve found smiling to be less of a habit and more of a chore.

To begin with, the trials and tribulations of being a second semester junior induce plenty of stress.  After spending four months whimsically exploring Europe, returning to a regular class schedule has been a change of pace, to say the least.  At this point, you all know how I feel about the pressures of finding a summerinternship.  Add this to the fact that when I returned to Emory in the spring, half of my friends had graduated, and another handful was overseas.  Not to mention, the disheveled remnants of what was once my fraternity are no longer substantial enough to support any type of formal event.  So, why am I telling you all of this?  I’m sure, at this point you’re tired of hearing me complain about all of my problems.  Now, finally, I think I am too.

I turned 21 this weekend.  Yes, I can now legally sit at a bar and order a beer, but let’s be honest; I’ve been doing that for a while now.  The one question that my friends and family kept asking me Saturday was if I felt older.  My initial response was obviously no.  How could I feel any differently than I did last week, just because I’ve now made it through one more calendar year?  One day couldn’t possibly have such a significant impact on my psyche.  That’s when I realized a birthday has the power to do just that.

For my birthday I got texts from aunts, uncles, and cousins.  I got Facebook posts from both people I met last week and people that I haven’t seen since elementary school.  My closest friends hugged me at Maggie’s, and so did complete strangers.  Birthdays are a unique opportunity to celebrate with new friends and reconnect with old ones.

There is no inherent significance to a birthday.  After all, age is just a number.  Saturday simply marked the 21^st time that Earth has orbited the Sun since I’ve been born.  Yet, our culture has shaped the birthday as a moment of personal glorification.  Your birthday is the one time of the year that everyone is supposed to put you first.  It is a recurring reminder, an annual wake-up call that says you exist (and perhaps more importantly, that your existence matters).  The people who really care about you are always sure to reinforce that notion on your date of birth.  Whether that care is shown through a midnight phone call, or a personalized gift, or a night out on the town, your true friends will not disappoint.

So, to everyone who asked me if I felt older now that I’m 21, I changed my mind; my answer is yes.  Up until this weekend, I had begun to forget who I was, and who matters to me.  Moreover, I had begun to forget what it means to smile for no reason, a skill that I have long considered one of my strongest.  In the end, it took turning 21 to remind myself that my life is full of joys and incredible people.  A birthday may just be an arbitrary time-marker, but this year, my birthday brought me back to life.

Family First

            A burnt out college junior, a budding freshman, and two recent empty nesters try to make dinner plans: this is my current family dynamic.  I’m not going to lie; it can be stressful spending time with my family.  My parents go to sleep no later than 11.  I go out no earlier than 11.  My sister likes kale.  I like cheeseburgers.  Often, I find that I have very little in common with the people that shaped me.

            As you grow up it’s easy to forget how you got to that point.  I certainly do not spend a lot of time thinking about my elementary school days.  Even less often, however, do I take the time to remember life back at home with my family.  Between exams, and projects, and the disheveled calendar that is my social life, I rarely reminisce about Wednesday nights back in Pikesville.

            A home cooked meal.  4 people crowded on one couch around a grossly outdated EDTV[1] (that stands for enhanced definition; you’ve never heard of it because they only made them for about a week).  Maybe 24 is on, or The Office.  My sister pops popcorn and dad scoops ice cream.  Perhaps we’re playing Scrabble (I’m probably winning).  It’s nights like these that make me miss home.

            My parents don’t party.  They don’t eat Domino’s.  My sister doesn’t drink Budweiser or play FIFA.  They won’t come to Mardi Gras or see the new Fast & Furious movie at 10:30.  Yet, I can’t hold that against them.  The truth is, we’re all at different places in our lives, and that’s okay.  The challenge is remembering the things we have in common and searching for new ones.

            I’m going home this weekend, and normally that’s stressful for me.  There’s something about living under my parents’ roof that undermines my basic independence.  Nevertheless, I’m excited to be back in Baltimore.  After all, it only takes a few moments to remember how much fun we had together, back when school was around the corner, and family TV night was a highlight of the week.

            So, I urge you to take a minute and remember your childhood.  No one’s was perfect, of course, but if you dig deep, I’m sure you can smile about the time when you were cared for by people who loved you unconditionally.  Call your parents on the phone.  Meet them for dinner.  Send your sister a stupid snapchat.  NO matter where you are in your life, these are the people who will truly always have your back, and the biggest mistake you could make would be pushing them away.

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[1] Note: that TV has since been replaced.

I Should Have Been An English Major

            How do you measure the accuracy of a printing press at a newspaper publisher?  That’s the riveting question that my professor is attempting to answer in front of 50 students for my operations management class.  I look around the room and see hardly an interested face.  In my limited field of view, at least 6 Facebook pages are open.  A few students have their cellphones in their laps, happily texting away.  One dude in the front row has dozed off at least 4 times.  A handful of students appear to be taking notes.  I listened for a while, but then I found myself typing here.

            I don’t blame the professor.  He’s brilliant; a mathematician by trade, he is extremely overqualified to teach this dumbed down statistics class for business students.  His heavy Eastern European accent doesn’t help his cause.  I actually find the material mildly interesting, but the huge disparity in mathematical aptitude amongst the students necessitates that the concepts are introduced at the pace of a snail.

            I’ve been taking classes like this for two years now.  It’s not that I abhor my coursework; much of it, I find quite interesting.  Add that to Goizueta’s prestige, and the assurance that if I put in the effort, I have a pretty good chance of finding gainful employment, my business school education certainly seems worthwhile.  Still, instead of taking notes on the statistical significance of systematic process data, I’m sitting here writing this post.

I’ve prepared half a dozen presentations this semester.  I’ve taken four exams.  I’ve memorized the phases of the moon and the winter constellations.  I’ve researched affordable legal services and the health insurance market in America.  I’ve put in countless hours delving into topics that couldn’t mean less to me, or my future.  Nevertheless, to this day, I haven’t written a single paper—not a report, not an essay, not even a reading response.  Almost three months into the term, I’ve yet to use the one skill that I’ve put the most time and effort into improving, my one true passion.  What kind of undergraduate education does not require its students to write more than a paragraph at a time?  So, when people ask me how I like the business school, my response is always exactly the same:

I should have been an English major.

It's Not What, It's Who

            I’ve travelled all over Europe.  I’ve been to Mardi Gras three times.  I’ve pledged a fraternity (RIP).  I’ve attended countless baseball games, and concerts, and festivals.  I’ve gone to many classes, and, of course, I’ve also skipped a few.  In short, my college experience has been a marathon, to say the least.  Only recently, however, have I come to the conclusion that what I’m doing is far less important to me than the people I’m doing it with.

            This year I spent my spring break in Miami, and it was fun.  I got plenty of sun, enjoyed fine food and drink, and spent a little bit more money than I would’ve liked.  All in all, it was a good break, a nice change of pace from class and studying.  But you don’t want to hear about my trip; that would make Student Parking Only no better than the worst abroad blog.

            I’d rather tell you about Saturday night, when I had safely returned to Atlanta.  Following 11 hours of driving, I was pretty worn out, but when my friend gave me a call and asked if I was going out, I said, “sure.”  After all, I was still technically on vacation.

            By any standards, the night was a dud.  12 guys and 3 girls at the pregame was a bad start.  To make matters worse, when we arrived at Maggie’s, the average age was about 35.  Half our group left shortly thereafter.  This was by no means cut out to be a night for the record books.  Yet, for me it was.

            The few of us who stayed at the desolate bar made the most of it.  I threw some songs on the jukebox, we cracked jokes, and Alexi narrowly avoided a fist fight with a middle-aged man.  When we finally decided to leave, we went back to my apartment and stayed up til 4 AM, chatting, telling stories, and listening to music.  By the time we all called it a night, we could hardly keep our eyes open.

            In the end, I did nothing of particular consequence on Saturday night, but nevertheless, I had a smile on my face the entire time.  I can’t say the same for my week in Miami.  So, next time you’re making plans, I encourage you to worry less about the question of what you’re doing.  Who you spend your time with is everything, so choose carefully.