PC

Sean John Combs was his given name, but when releasing his first rap album, Sean christened himself Puff Daddy. He became famous, and with his upcoming albums, his music wasn’t the only thing that transformed--His stage names did as well.

He went from Puff Daddy to P Diddy to just Diddy over the span of one decade.

Although I may have rolled my eyes at his "inconsistencies," it wasn't that big of a deal. I thought it was even kind of cool that he could wield such power, because, not that long ago, people of his race didn't have that ability. Once upon a time, people of color were called negros--or even worse--the other n-word. And before that, they were merely nameless slaves.

Times change. What was once accepted, is now appalling. Society is evolving, and with that, our vocabulary.

But sometimes it’s exhausting being PC. It’s not uncommon to hear something like, “People are overly sensitive these days; I can’t say a damn thing without someone getting offended!” And that’s fair. Everyone should be able to state his or her opinions. Keyword: everyone.

But some claim that they “Can’t keep up with it all. It’s impossible to be politically correct because people keep changing their minds!” Also noted. Just look at the ever-expanding LGBTQ+ abbreviation. Every time I check, there’s another letter added. But also, is this really a problem? My sexuality may be represented with that first L, but that doesn't mean I refuse to call anyone by a new name added to the abbreviation. I should welcome change even if it doesn't concern my needs.

Being PC is not ridiculous. Being PC is not a chore. Being PC is the least you can do to listen and acknowledge those who once didn’t have a voice. If you can change for Diddy, I’m confident you can be PC for those Humans with whom you don’t identify. Please don't let privilege get in the way of empathy.

Although today may not be “the good old days,” today is a better day. Let's be grateful for that.

Stupid Love Songs

These little shits think they're sooooo romantic.

I’m sick of men singing songs about beautiful women.

They pat themselves on the back for the compliments

that slide off their tongues so easily and

turn a blind eye when those same compliments

slide off the backs of women.

I’m sick of boys singing songs saying,

“You don’t know you’re beautiful,”

thinking they’re deep by claiming,

“That’s what makes you beautiful.”

And maybe they see this as a compliment because

they say it like it’s a good thing.

Like it’s a good thing that her enemy is a mirror.

That she hates her own skin, her own curves, her own body.

Like it’s a good thing that men can talk all they want about her beauty,

but she can’t believe them

because no one likes a vain woman.

Call me a hypocrite, but I also tell women they’re beautiful,

and, even though I’m also a woman, they don’t believe me.

They refuse the truth like a dangerous dessert,

scared the compliments will stick like sickening sweet honey,

a nice flavor, but a nasty mess when let loose.

Yes, yes, the dessert was a kind gesture,

but what she wants is a real meal

because too much sweetness makes you sick.

My girl is beautiful and

I tell her every day, but she just says,

“That’s because you love me.”

And it’s true. I do love her. And when you love someone

their physical imperfections disappear

like mascara that’s not waterproof

a perm shampooed too soon

a spray tan in the shower.

Because beauty is just the wrapping paper and ribbons,

but your heart and your soul and your intelligence--

Those are the gifts inside.

Women don’t need to be told they’re beautiful.

It wasn’t until men focused on their looks that they started to doubt it.

Women don’t need men to tell them they’re beautiful

because there’s no point in stating the obvious.

I don’t want my girl to ask me if her jeans make her butt look big.

I want her to tell me her butt is big and that I should be grateful.

I want my girl to strut her stuff, not for others’ eyes,

but because she loves her own body.

Afterall, nothing is wrong with wrapping up a present;

it shows that you care about the gift inside.

I want to tell my hot ass girlfriend that she’s beautiful

And I want her to accept it, without deflection.

I want to tell my amazing girlfriend that she’s beautiful,

-like truly beautiful-

and I want her to believe it.

But I guess it’s not about what I want;

it’s about what she wants.

And although I can’t speak for her,

maybe she just wants people to stop talking about the
wrapping paper, and just open up the god-damn present.

I get it--I look like a student

Once upon a time, there was a girl. Actually, she wasn’t a girl -- she was a teacher, but the hall monitors treated her like a girl. Now, this teacher Ms. Oda was aware that she looked young. In fact, if it wasn’t for her faculty badge and a plethora of blazers, she would blend right in with the sea of students as she walked down the hallways. She was ok with looking younger than she was; she had accepted it. What she didn't accept was how the hall monitors treated her. How they patronized Ms. Oda even though she was a professional with a college degree.

She also wasn’t ok with writing in the third person, so she stopped.

It all started at the beginning of the school year. I was starting my third year of teaching, but this was my first year at Copper Hills High. No one knew me yet, and no one was really sure whether I was a teacher or just a dressed up student with an identity crisis. It was my prep period, and I needed to grab something from my car. As I walked to my car outside, a hall monitor approached me, fire gleaming in her eyes.

“Where are you going, honey?” she asked. She may have used a cute name, but the hall monitor’s words dripped with accusation. I looked at her for a split second, confused with why I was being stopped and why the woman’s hand was still on my shoulder.

“Umm, I’m going to my car?” I said, raising my faculty badge for her to see. “I’m a teacher.”

“Oh, I’m sorry!” she laughed. “I thought you were a student! It’s hard to tell when you’re as old as me."

I’m sure she meant the self-deprecating humor to double as a sincere apology, but it didn’t. The damage was done, and I kind of hated her for it. But let me be clear -- I didn’t choose her as my enemy because she mistook me as a student--that happens on the daily. What bothered me was how I was treated. The hall monitor talked to me like I was a guilty teenager trying to cause trouble. She stopped me with the intent to chastise me.

The next week I was stopped by the other hall monitor. It was before the first bell when I rushed past her to get some copies from the library. Copies for my class. The class that I teach because I’m an effing teacher. I had passed the hall monitor when I hear, “Uh, doll, you can’t wear that bandana.” I turn around and she sees my badge. “Oh, you’re a teacher?” she asked (without embarrassment). “I guess you’ll still have to take off the bandana. It could be a gang symbol.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I apologize. “I’ll take it off.” Because I’m a responsible adult. Because I’m not a gangster. That was strike two.

There has been a strike three, four, and will probably continue on to higher numbers, but here is my takeaway: whether you’re an adult, a teacher, a boss, someone’s superior, or any other status of power, don’t treat those “below” you like they’re already guilty of something. Don’t expect the worst, expect the best. Give those teenagers a chance. I didn't mind being mistaken for a student, but I didn’t like how those hall monitors made me feel. I get it--the purpose of their job is to make sure students aren’t skipping class and messing around--but students are still people. And so am I.

I’d like to be treated like one.

Blazer = Teacher
Mirror Selfie = Slightly Embarrassed Millennial