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In the Studio
So I'm writing this on Sunday, September 5, at 12:30 in the morning as my radio show, "The Bro Show" has it's premier showing. Wait, wouldn't it be a listening? I don't know. Anyway, things are frantic here at WTBU, The BEAT of Boston University. Broadcasting live at 89.3 FM or 640 AM...
Written on September 8th, 2010 in Campus Culture
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Dead and Not So Gone
Late nights under the sky during this past summer left a lot of time to reflect on metaphysical problems that don’t have any real impact on us or society. However, sometimes they can help us internally and give us a little inner peace. The latest thought experiment I have deals with a kind of...
Written on September 8th, 2010 in Keeping Conscious
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Summer Roundup
Hey Culture Shock Readers! Do you guys feel left out because you forgot to check Culture Shock during the summer? Are you a new freshmen or transfer student and are just finding us? Well if so, here are five posts from the summer that are a good starting point for you to check out! Poland- The Nation of Strength- Allison teaches us about her Polish cooking and gives us some history from the country! Born Into Fortune- George talks about how lucky we are to be in the developed world. Thoughts on the “Ground Zero Mosque”- An anonymous writer gives us some things to think about concerning the Islamic Center being built in New York. The Reluctant Graduate- Monica helps talk about the bittersweet feeling from graduating a year early. Embrace Your Inner Dork- Eric nerds out...
Written on September 7th, 2010 in Keeping Conscious
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An Interview with BU Alum Mark Rosewater, Head Designer of Magic The Gathering
Boston University has a great legacy and community of success. With alumni in almost every corner of the world and in almost every profession, you never know who you may have that community with. As a kid, I grew up playing this card game called Magic, The Gathering (yes I'm a nerd). Part of...
Written on September 7th, 2010 in Keeping Conscious
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Taboo
I return to Boston with a tattoo confirmed and a consultation meeting planned. The naysayers dislike it not for the design, or the irrational decision making (I have sat on the idea for a year), or even for the actual process of inking my body, but only because of the stigmas surrounding...
Written on September 6th, 2010 in Keeping Conscious
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If This Little Sailor Boy Can’t Dance…
Jun 8th
Spending my Memorial Day weekend visiting with my grandparents and later soaking up rays on the beach allowed for me to have the time to let my mind wander and imagine what life was like during World War II.
Of course there are plenty of horror stories-particularly the struggles of those who saw action coming home and assimilating back into society. I cannot help but focus, however, on the romanticism of USO dances.
My grandma always talks about dancing with the servicemen the night before they were to be shipped overseas. Although it was tough to imagine what was in store for these young men, it seemed to force everyone to truly cherish the moment. The elimination of expectations for something more enabled them to enjoy the simplicity of each other’s presence.
Yet, sometimes that something more happened when it was least expected.
My grandparents both showed up to a USO dance in DC with their respective friends who were dating each other.
Violette and William
“If this little sailor boy can’t dance, I’m outta here,” my grandma said to her friend as they walked through the door.
“This is the girl I’m going to marry,” my grandpa thought as he spotted her across the floor.
He was the guy whose lead no one could follow.
She was the one who somehow could.
Sixty-four years of marriage later, she says that she certainly was not ready to get married at the time. Luckily for me, my grandpa was set to stick around the country for a little while and won her heart.
A Tale of Two Cities
Jun 7th
This past Memorial Day weekend, I took a trip to New York City. As both a native Bostonian and Dominican immigrant, I have always had a very conflicting relationship with the Big Apple.
On one hand, growing up in Beantown, instills natural loathing for New York mainly seeded in sports fanaticism. Every major American sport has a Boston-New York rivalry: Bruins-Rangers, Celtics-Knicks, Patriots-Jets (as a proud Pats fan I dare not mention the other team), and, of course, Sox-Yankees. From there, the rivalry spreads into other areas of contention.
Yet, New York is the hub of the Dominican Diaspora. I have family there (well, every Dominican does). And I love visiting. Every time I go to New York, the experience is always different and exciting. Up in Washington Heights, I can enjoy a replica of Caribbean life as Dominicanos and Nuyoricans kick it by the corner bodega drinking ron, playing dominó and debating over the latest in béisbol news or neighborhood happenings as Latin music blares through hooked-up car speakers and the aroma of chicharrón y fritura both waft through the air. Down in Bushwick, in Brooklyn, I can play streetball at the local park with my boys, chill and politick about the latest social issues over plantain chips and a Presidente before we go to a hip-hop concert on the Waterfront.
The city is always changing to the point where every block has its own micro-culture for which it’s identified. From Spanish Harlem down to the Lower East Side, New York offers so much to do that it would take a lifetime to do it all. And by then the city will have changed so much that you would need another lifetime to see what’s new.
Well, this last weekend in New York was crazy fun as I expected. Through all the debauchery I got myself into, I could not stop thinking about just how…well, just how WEIRD New York is. I mean, next time you are waiting for the train at a station, look at all the people around you. Collectively, it is a weird group of individuals that do not make sense together. For instance, you might see an Asian socialite rocking the latest Goku-like hairdo, a businessman wearing a fitted suit on his way to close that deal, a perfect-10 model on her way to her next photo shoot, a Jewish couple of 45 years fighting over groceries on their way to synagogue, a group of inner city kids on their way home from school mocking anyone that dare come within two feet of them, and of course the local homeless dude conversing with the nearest pole. Only in New York is that a normal crowd commuting on the subway.
That is not to say that Boston does not have its fair share of eccentricity, but it is not on the same level of New York. Boston just seems to be…more organized or…in more expected order, I guess. I could not stop thinking about this dynamic between the two cities. I mean, what is it about New York that allows for this melting pot of diverse characters? Why is Boston so much more conservative in comparison?
A Black Belt’s Discipline
Jun 4th
Many things in our lives require a great deal of discipline. School, sports, music, etc. But what does it mean to be truly disciplined? Is it never letting an outside distraction deter your progress or is it having the ability to persevere when obstacles challenge you to your very core? Discipline is, in my mind, the ability within a person to keep calm, stay focused, and perform to their highest ability. I do not expect people to go out and meditate for hours on end or to never have the outside world break their concentration, but to become better at an activity or practice, one must never lose sight and never give in.
I have trained in Chinese Kempo Karate for approximately four years now. When I say karate, I do not mean “wax on, wax off,” rather I mean training six days a week for multiple hours working towards my black belt. I absolutely hate waking up in the morning but that is when the best classes for me are so I force myself out of bed and over to karate where I work out, learn, and practice and practice and practice. Many of you readers can probably empathize in some way, shape, or form, especially if you ever were a musician or athlete at a high level. But physicality and learning some self defense is not all it means to be a black belt. It is a way of life and as incredibly corny as that sounds, it’s the best way to explain it.
Hold that for ten minutes.
To be a black belt, at least in my particular school, means to be a person of the highest character. You act kindly, respectfully, in a way that you’d want other to look at you and be impressed with your confidence. Notice I said “confidence,” not “cockiness.” Your mind is calm and free of hate, you do not cloud your judgement with rage, rather you keep a level head and sense of benevolence about you. Most of all, you realize you’re not a bad ass.
Many people, some of my friends included, think that being a black belt means you go around and beat people up. This is 100% wrong. No person should ever go looking for fights and you never fight unless you absolutely have to to either protect yourself or someone else. Just because I know how to defend against knives and guns doesn’t mean I want to test my ability. A black belt reasons first, runs if possible second, and finally and only if absolutely necessary fights. I would rather be alive and down some money than dead or injured trying to be “tough.”
The Wonders of Technology
Jun 3rd
Technology is really a great thing. It helps us connect with friends who may be geographically far away, hear news instantly, and even watch T.V. shows after they’ve aired. So last week, I’m sitting on my couch, watching the Lost series finale, and I notice something that feels weird:
I am sitting here, watching this show alone, while my friend two blocks away is watching it alone too, and we’re both tweeting 
about it.
As much as I love not having to smell my friend’s stinky feet, I was a little put off by this. In fact, it wasn’t just the two of us! There were about four or five other Losties tweeting and facbooking about the finale as well.
See, as much as technology does wonderful things, it’s also disconnected us from our fellow man. As ridiculous as the Lost series finale was, or game six of the Celtics Orlando series, or even the inconsequential Stanley Cup between two teams I’ve never heard of (Really, 6-5? How does a Stanley Cup hockey game allow 11 points to be scored??!!!???) shouldn’t we be sitting in the same room watching this instead of on our own little islands?
So I’ve made a new resolution. I’m going to take time out of my day and make sure that I never sit through these major events alone again. And as much as that last sentence sounds really sad, let’s all make the effort to reconnect with those people down the street and save the internets and technologies wonders for those of us who are truly far away (unless, of course, the person down the street really needs to do something about their stinky feet).
A Hostile Flight Home
Jun 2nd
Today, I write from seat 14B on my flight from Boston to Dallas and it feels as though it is first time in the last week that I have truly taken a second to breathe. As I’m sure many of you know, the past few days have been consumed with studying, packing, trips to storage, saying goodbyes and everything else, minus sleep and relaxation. But once I checked in my bags, passed security, and boarded, I finally felt at ease, despite the fact that the man in 14A slightly resembled Jabba the Hutt (Yes, I like Star Wars), and was strategically using his stomach to completely steal my right armrest. This was of course, until I realized I was freezing cold.
First things first, I press the assistance button calling the flight attendant. I then proceed to politely ask her for a blanket. She counters, “That will be 8 dollars…we only take card.” My meek “Oh right, no thanks” response covers my mental uproar. Now, not only must I deal with the emotional repercussions of no complimentary lunch or snacks (we all remember our tearful goodbyes to the honey-roasted peanuts), but I also must suffer through the hunger and the cold which is not suited for my Texas-raised internal climate, mind you. As I shiver and my stomach growls a series of expletives towards the flight attendent, I reminisce on the glory days of my childhood where blankets were provided and food was abundant. This contemplation led to my further research of the additional expenses for what were once free commodities while 30,000 feet in the air. To name a few:
>>Blanket: $8.00
>>Cookie: $3.00
>>Nut Blend: $5.00
>>Sandwich: $7.00
>>Headphones: $2.00
These items above together become a whopping $25.00 extra, and don’t worry, plane ticket prices have only inflated. So a word of advice: on your next flight, consider the following two options. Either be careful to fit all necessities into your 45 linear inch carry-on or be prepared to swipe your card. If not, you will most certainly suffer the hostile consequences.
May the force be with you, fliers.
Poetry and Proof
Jun 1st
Y fue a esa edad… Llegó la poesía
a buscarme. No sé, no sé de dónde
salió, de invierno o río.
No sé cómo ni cuándo,
no, no eran voces, no eran
palabras, ni silencio,
pero desde una calle me llamaba,
desde las ramas de la noche,
de pronto entre los otros,
entre fuegos violentos
o regresando solo,
allí estaba sin rostro
y me tocaba.
And it was at that age … Poetry arrived
in search of me. I don’t know, I don’t know where
it came from, from winter or a river.
I don’t know how or when,
no they were not voices, they were not
words, nor silence,
but from a street I was summoned,
from the branches of night,
abruptly from the others,
among violent fires or returning alone,
there I was without a face
and it touched me.
It is difficult to walk away soberly from Pablo Neruda’s work. His prose pours hot through frigid veins, while his metaphors lick hearts clean of sensibility. To see such devastating poetry come from a Senator and statesman is disarming. Pearls of adoration, round as his Spanish syllables, string carefully together in tides of passion, frustration, joy and despair. His vulnerability is brazen.
Como si fueras encendida por dentro / Debajo de tu piel vive la luna.
As if you were on fire from within / the moon lives in the lining of your skin.
Poetry eschews rationality, capturing an intangible power that escapes logic. It is prudent to eye such emotional indulgences with suspicion, to prefer comfort in lucid deductions and calculated proofs. To reason’s chagrin, there remains an inescapable magnetism in poetry. The medium’s raw pulp of expectation and desire peels back tightly-wrapped pretenses. Poetry is daring, often going farther in depicting experience than we would venture to go ourselves.
Let’s make a list of favorite poets, poems, or stories here. If you enjoyed Neruda’s work sampled in this post, I suggest his Nobel-winning Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair (Veinte poemas de amor y una canción desesperada). With some luck, we can refer to these comments for some summer reading.
