Tornadoes in Massachusetts are not as common as they are in the Midwest and South. The last one was on July 23, 2008, according to the National Climatic Data Center. (via MSNBC)

So tornadoes in Massachusetts aren’t exactly uncommon, but it’s been three years since the last one: “Rare, but not unique.” Fair enough, weather is clearly something that’s beyond a lot of human comprehension given how poorly the local news anchors tend to predict catastrophic disasters like these. Except that in Missouri, just a few days earlier, I sat in my basement with my dad while we watched those same local news anchors tell us about the potential for danger from tornadoes streaking across the state. Those violent clouds avoided Kansas City — it seems that tornadoes tend to avoid the bourgeois-y areas in favor of the poorer rural ones — but it is nonetheless a little close for comfort when there are touchdowns only seven blocks from your home.

I haven’t been to college yet, so I clearly don’t understand the difference between correlation and causation, but I’m just saying that it appears very clearly that when I’m inside a state, the chance of tornado activity increases exponentially. Am I worried? No, because in the same way that I avoid making distinctions between correlations and causations, I also avoid binding my logic trains to science or accurate predictions: clearly, if I’ve never been hit by a tornado before, I will never be at risk of this. That’s the type of reasoning that got us through the last financial recession, after all, isn’t it?

But one further point that all these tornadoes are making clear is this: I, Brad Bolman, for better or for worse, am the tornado man. And, further, while I am around or near you, inside a place of relative financial and social privilege, you and all your friends, family, and pets, are 100% safe from tornadoes. Now I may not be the life of the party sometimes, but warding off tornadoes is no easy business and I’m willing to sacrifice however necessary to fight off these cyclical funnels of doom. We will fight it together, but mainly I will fight it off by doing exactly what I typically do during severe weather: tweet about it.

If you’re not entirely convinced by my reasoning, these tornadoes have done an incredible amount of physical, psychological, and material damage to people and communities around the nation. The Red Cross has taken a lead in providing disaster support to those groups most affected by severe weather, and if you follow this link, you can donate a few dollars to help out: RED CROSS TORNADO SAVING. Or, if you’d like to thank me for doing my utmost to protect those of you living in large metropolitan areas, you can purchase one of these Brad Bolman t-shirts… I’ll donate any profits to the tornado relief or a suitable charity.

That soiree last night was awfully crazy
I wish we escaped it
I played some mad golf and had this one girl home by 8 an’
Close my day and know I succeed
Friends go to rehab with crazy speed
Pass out at 2, at school by 8,
Go fail my tests and my papers are late

I wanna go to Pembroke for the rest of my life
Join investment club, avoid social strife
On Chipotle thursday and Fine Arts night
I get my kicks for the private school price.
So math’s kinda tough
Practice APs are rough
English class doubles
Films border on smut
Medlock’s champion of Asian gong
Tullis loves the bon-bons
Families don’t even bounce, teach with your spouse
Better hope you make it
Otherwise you get replaced

Time isn’t wasted ‘less you’re Hallensleben
Woke up today and all I could say is

Spanish oral last week was awfully crazy,
I thought I raped it.
I lied my ass off and had the answers completely mistaken.
Receive my grades and peep the Cs
But weekend events are all I need.
Pass out at 2, at school by 8,
Go fail my tests and my papers are late.

Man I love Pembroke,
And I love thinkin’,
And I love meetin’s,
I love Pembroke.

Now, I can tell you what I learned from school
Cuz’ Griffiths gave a board lesson or two
and yeah of course I learned some rules,
Like, don’t go to the Commons as a freshman,
And don’t pass out on the Loose lawn,
And don’t hope for internet if you’re on swan,
When it comes to 8th grade, man, they’re too young,
Every mom in the world loves Niermann,
Sometimes Raider pride is too strong.
Nothing wrong with some fun
Even if Skdoops totally epically flunked

Time isn’t wasted, unless new kids displaced you
Woke up today and all I could say is

That arty last year was awfully crazy,
I worry ‘bout safety.
I laughed my ass off and had found his hitlist with my name in,
Piss in my pants and tell McGee,
Now that kid is never mean.
Pass out at 2, at school by 8,
Go fail my tests and my papers are late.

Man I love Pembroke,
And I love thinkin’,
And I love meetin’s,
I love Pembroke.

Now if everybody would please
Put their café drink as high as they can,
As high as they can
And repeat after me

CHUG! CHUG! CHUG! CHUG! CHUG! CHUG! CHUG! CHUG!

FRESHMAN! FRESHMAN! FRESHMAN! FRESHMAN!

WATCH NICK TINOCO! WATCH NICK TINOCO! WATCH NICK TINOCO! WATCH NICK TINOCO!

HI HAT! HI HAT! HI HAT! HI HAT!

Yeah
That soiree last night,
Man, I love Pembroke.
I love it.
That party last night,
Alright, everybody I gotta go back to class for a little bit…

But after that,
You know whats goin’ down,
My parents are in Japan,
See you at my house,
You’re all invited.
Bring your friends,
Bring your mom.

Do I really have to graduate,
Or can I just stay here for the rest of my life ?

When the President talks to God, does he ever think that maybe he’s not? That the voice is just inside his head when he leans next to the presidential bed? Does he ever smell his own bullshit, when the President talks to God? (“When the President Talks to God” by Bright Eyes)

*    *    *    *    *

The president’s knees met the familiar, blue carpeting of his bedroom. He felt a quickly evaporating soreness in his left thigh, a reoccurring pain left by the quadriceps tear during his senior year as middle linebacker for St. Mary’s high school football team. As his muscular hands closed together, the quiet blue eyes, now framed with three distinct wrinkles, shut slowly. This was a quotidian activity, one of the few elements in his daily schedule that he could always count on as a relaxant.

“Glory to you, Lord. That this evenin’ may be holy, good and peaceful, let me pray with a unified heart and mind. As my evening prayer rises before you, O God, so might your mercy come down ‘pon me to cleanse my heart and set me free to sing your praise now and forever. Amen.”

The deep, gravelly voice that had kept him off of the school choir but in the girls’ hearts rose quietly above the music emanating from elsewhere within the White House. “A waltz,” he thought to himself. He paused and  took the gentle breeze that whistled past his window as a sign that he ought to continue talking.

“Lord, I have before me a problem. A problem — well, Lord, this is a big one.” The wind stopped and the music was no longer audible. Rarely did these conversations venture into territory as important as this, and he was uncertain how to proceed on such a delicate query.

“Today I received a briefing statin’ the People’s Republic of Waki— Wari — Waziristan— may have completed the construction of a nuclear warhead. Now, as I’m sure you’ve been hearin’ on the news recently, well, Lord, relations between our nations aren’t so hot. I’m worried we are facin’ a grave threat — I’m worried they’ll attack us.” He waited at least ten seconds before continuing, hoping the magnitude of the situation might settle in for both of them.

“As you know, Lord, I’m a believer in the powers of diplomacy, but this time, I think… well, I think war looks to be our only option.”
At this point, he opened his eyes, looking directly past the red, pleated curtains, out the window towards the dark, equinoctial sky. Silence.
“Lord, I’ll give you some time to think this matter over, and I’ll be back tomorrow night to hear your answer. Until then, I’m a bit tired, so I bid you farewell.”

Maybe he was just tired, but swore he heard a voice inside his head reply, “Thank you, Goodnight, Mr. President.”

*    *    *    *    *

The Secretary of State meandered back and forth in front of the strategy table. Her back was to the figures seated at the table, but she could have named and placed each participant with her eyes closed. The President, of course, was seated at the head of the table, manning the leather-backed chair built two decades back, staring straight at her with those piercing blue eyes, gathering in the information displayed on her PowerPoint. The Secretary of Defense was seated on the left of the President, a slight, sneering grin the only decoration on his otherwise toneless face. The  Vice President occupied the seat at his right hand, right knee crossed over the left with his Brooks Brothers suit shimmering from a recent cleaning.

“Gentlemen, as you are aware, the situation in Waziristan is worrying, but given that very little information has been confirmed, we need to act cautiously. I’m certain that, even if the intelligence is confirmed, this situation can be resolved peace—”

“Madam secretary, I’d first like to commend you, you’re doing a heck of a job. To the point though, I think we in this room have got to decide to what lengths we’re willing to go to solve this problem,” said the Vice President, his voice full of that strength, so admired on the campaign trail. It was the reason he had been chosen for the position, even though, as Mayor of a small Mississippi town, he was relatively unqualified for the position.

“Well, Mr. Vice President, I feel that, with all due respect, we can rule out the use of invasion, air strikes, or a nuclear strike—”

The Secretary of Defense interjected, “Madam, I happen to agree with the Vice President in this situation. We know from previous dealings that these Muslims cannot be trusted to act as clearheadedly and predictably as we might expect from someone like, Russia, or another Western nation. I think that we’ve got to decide whether we’re willing to use force, even the bomb, to protect the interests of America. And, because we are like the ‘city on the hill’ that President Reagan used to talk about — well, I believe we represent the interests of the Western world. That means our response will be accepted and applauded by our friends around the globe. I happen to be of the persuasion — and perhaps this is a radical view — but I happen to be under the belief that we’ve got to be willing to solve this problem with the purest utilitarian means.”

“Are you seriously sugges—” the Secretary of State tried to add before she was interrupted again.

“Yes, madam, I am suggesting the use of a nuclear missile against Waziristan. At this point, I view it as the best course of action.”

“Think about Ira—” but she thought better of bringing up that bit of history. She paused and remembered the aide who had been fired last week arguing that America had lost in Iraq. She looked at the Secretary of Defense with a look of utter disbelief written visibly across her face. “We don’t even know for certain if they have the bomb!”

“And we may never know,” replied the Secretary of Defense, “but I do know one thing, and that is — and I think I speak for most of us here — I’m willing to break a few eggs to saves the lives of our civilians. If it means saving the lives of millions of Americans, if it means saving everything that we stand for, I think I’m willing to advocate pushing that button.”

The color drained from her newly tanned face. For a moment the Secretary of State stood in silence. Then she mustered some hidden reserve of courage and, in a voice of rising hostility, said, “You can’t possibly! This goes against every part of the Non-Proliferation Treaty! Nothing has even been confirmed yet, we’re running on — well we’re running on pure speculation right now! And let me remind you, that up until that oil pipeline debacle, we had been on very cordial terms with the administration in Waziristan.”

The President, having sat quietly until this point, fumbling absently with the ripped arm on his chair, decided it was time to calm down the room. “Now, I think you’ve both got some very good points. But she’s right, we couldn’t authorize an attack on what we’ve got now. At the same time, I don’t think we, as leaders of the free world, could sit by and allow atrocities like these to occur against our Western brothers.” Once again, there was a pause. He looked around the room, measuring the degree to which they were following him before he continued. “What we need is a reason, a good reason, maybe backed by some hard data, that will the unite the American people against this threat.”

“Sir?” A voice seemed to come from nowhere.

“Who is that?”

“Mr. President, I’m right here.” It was the mousy intern he had hired to take notes for him during meetings. Sitting in an ill-fitting corduroy jacket, Lenovo laptop placed on his right leg, the intern took a sip before continuing. “Mr. President, I think I might have an idea. If you’ll remember, there were some rumors a few months back that President Bajir of Waziristan had been keeping secret prisons in a southern section of the country. I’m thinking that if we play this up as a violation of human rights, we can win over a lot of liberals, including some positive CNN and New York Times coverage.”

“Who is this fellow?” the Secretary of State wondered out loud.

“Well who he is doesn’t matter, now does it? He’s got a good idea, so we need to follow up a little. Jim? —”

“It’s James, sir.”

“Right, James, don’t worry, I never forget a name. Get this story out there as fast as possible and let me know what the reaction is. Look, gentlemen and ladies , I believe — we believe, I should say — that this administration has received a silent blessing from God. I think we’ve got to make the Christian decision here. Even if this whole ‘human rights violator’ piece doesn’t go over so well, we’ve all got to be willing to make the right decision when the choice comes to us. By tomorrow, I expect we may have to make a decision that we cannot undo. Everyone is dismissed.”

*    *    *    *    *

“Well God, I’m back. I hope you had plenty of time to think the situation over, and I’m interested in hearin’ your thoughts.” Once again, silence fell upon the presidential bedroom. Directly in front of the President’s face, his sheets lay, crisply pressed by Matilda. It was another of the “perks” he was always bragging to his brother in South Carolina about.

“Well, Mr. President, this is certainly not an either/or situation.”

“You got that right, big guy.”

“The choice you make will probably reveberate for decades. People, not only Americans, will be affected by your choice.”

“And that’s why it’s so hard. Jesus! Why can’t these choices be easier? Why can’t there be a nice, little, black and white decision? The question I keep askin’ myself is, ‘Can these Muslim souls be saved?’ But I need your help findin’ the answer.”

The deep, soothing voice reverberated inside his head. “Mr. President, I can’t make the decision for you. But I can assure you that whatever choice you make, it will be the choice Heaven intended you to make, and that you will be my messenger. Mr. President, it is your job to maintain America’s status as leader of the free world. You must do whatever it takes.”

“Thank you. Knowin’ I’ve got your confidence means everything. I’ll do the right thing tomorrow. ‘Night.” A long silence fell upon the President, the searing pain in his thigh again became apparent and he winced slightly, leaning to shift the burden of his body to the other leg. But that didn’t solve the problem, so he shifted back. After a few seconds of restless movements back and forth, he stood up slowly and turned to the door. He walked out into the hallway, steps echoing on the marble floor, turned right into his office, then stood pensively in front of his solid oak desk. He took out a small, silver key, tucked behind the twelfth grade yearbook photograph of his daughter in his wallet, and unlocked the third drawer in the desk. “Took a tree to make this desk,” he would’ve said if there were an aide behind him. They, in turn, would have responded that it was a “remarkable tree indeed,” and an awkward silence would have ensued. After withdrawing a small bottle, he unscrewed the cap and took a long swig. “Boy, were things different than the old days working the family farm in Virginia during the summers back from college,” he thought. After a second swill from the bottle, he felt assured of himself. He re-screwed the cap, deposited the bottle back into its resting place, slid shut and locked the drawer, walked back to his bedroom and quickly fell asleep.

*    *    *    *    *

The next day at exactly 12:37 p.m., Eastern Standard Time, the President of the United States of America received clearance to launch one, hair-trigger, inter-continental ballistic missile targeting the Democratic Republic of Waziristan. A mere three minutes later, he pushed the red button, activating the warhead and beginning the countdown to launch. The President was later told that the death toll estimated to be 274,000. At 1:20 p.m., the Vice President uncorked a bottle of Dom Perignon Vintage 1998 in a newly crowded White House Conference Room and cheers arose from the surrounding staff and cabinet members. Some aides had converted one of the Conference Room tables to a poker game and on a day like this, who could blame them? One aide could be heard shouting above the bunch that “Fukuyama was wrong, THIS was the end of history!” Hearing this, the President smiled to himself and looked towards the ceiling, giving a quick wink that only his highest advisor noticed.

In a 1939 radio address, Franklin Delano Roosevelt stated that “repetition does not transform a lie into truth.” Nearly seventy years later, it is miraculous how his words seem tailor-made to rebuke the Bush administration’s strategy in Iraq. Before the invasion, the American people were told repeatedly that Iraq represented a direct danger to our interests — Iraq possessed weapons of mass destruction (not really), Saddam had strong connections with al Qaeda (ouch, wrong again) — and 933 other Bush administration lies and canards (Jumping Jesuits, Batman!). Sorry George, we aren’t studying for a Graves test; repetition doesn’t work like that. As if Bush would know anyways. The last time he studied something he was trying to understand the deeper meaning of The Very Hungry Caterpillar.

In 2003, swept up in post-911 patriotic fervor, citizens of the United States were willing to accept any drastic steps deemed necessary to defeat the “terrorists.” Billed as the Pepto-Bismol for world stability, Iraq was that step. Five years later, we’ve created more terrorists than ever existed before, we are faltering in our mission in Afghanistan, and increasingly Iraq looks like a colossal imbroglio from which we will never escape. I may differ from the “loyal Bushies” and other right-leaning acolytes, but I refuse to accept that supporting a blatantly colonial war in a country that Ms. South Carolina couldn’t even point out on a map is representative of “American” ideals. Considering the loss of American lives that President Bush’s project has wrought, the only appropriate American stance on the war in Iraq is to stand firmly against it. I, therefore, agree with leading Democrats (and many Republicans) for a phased withdrawal from Iraq. Let’s elaborate, shall we?

So What’s the Plan?

A friend told me that the problem with the Iraq war is that there is no clear exit. I agree, anonymous friend. We are lost in the consequences of American superiority: in our innocence and beliefs in America’s exceptionalism inculcated since kindergarten, we are lost in a pre-Vietnam confidence in our own power. There will be no easy exit strategy. True. But there will also be no clear victory. At what point can we declare that “we” have won? When Iraq becomes the 51st state? We are in over our heads as a nation; and sadly, no action in Iraq will foster a miraculous hegira back to glory, nor will they win us allies and supporters around the world. We need to stop kidding ourselves – Iraq will never be the secular nation we are attempting to create, because religion and Islam are too important to its culture and history. Thus, the best strategy is withdrawal. As the expression goes, “When the going gets tough, the tough get going.”  Let’s get going. Barack Obama proposes a 16-month full withdrawal from Iraq. But let’s clear up a common misconception about such a withdrawal – we aren’t abandoning the Iraqis in a torrent without an umbrella. The Obama plan mandates soldiers to stay in Iraq and to protect embassies and diplomats. If al Qaeda should attempt to create a stronghold in Iraq once we are gone, U.S. forces stationed in Iraq will carry out strikes on their terrorist positions. “But Brad,” you say in an insouciant voice. “Why would we want to take our soldiers out of Iraq?” Fearless reader, I’m glad you asked….

Just Like Governor Spitzer’s Hookers, Iraq’s Been Costly

Every war requires an honest evaluation of the costs of battle in comparison to the benefits. From the first days of shock and awe to 2008 (Wait, the mission was accomplished in May 2003? Right?), more than 95,000 Iraqi civilians have died. And 4,031 American soldiers have lost their lives thousands of miles away from their families, friends, and homeland. We cannot eschew these statistics or their implications unless we are willing to complacently and naively hand over our lives (and those of Iraqis) to a government in Washington willing to “sacrifice” them on what now seems like a whim.

For those as concerned about money and our economy as about the loss of American lives, the economic costs of this war effort have been equally staggering. The Iraq war has cost the U.S. of A. nearly one trillion dollars. If you consider the impecunious state of the American economy and then imagine adding a booster shot of one trillion dollars back into our economy, the picture becomes clearer and a hell of a lot brighter.

Just Like the Pope at a Tech N9ne Concert, We Shouldn’t Be There

The U.S. invasion of Iraq must also be examined on the basis of international legality. The invasion not only violated the sovereignty of the Iraqi people, but also a majority of international laws. The United States scoffed in the face of The Hague and Geneva Conventions, “which clearly restrict the right of occupying powers to interfere in the internal affairs of an occupied people” (Arnove 68) and quickly assumed the undisputed distinction of “World’s Largest Hypocrite.” We scold China about its human rights abuses and tell the government of Darfur not to wage war against its own people,  while we occupy a sovereign nation in the name of their freedom and ignore a host of  international legal standards.

Just Like Tipsy, Trigger-Happy Security Guards, We’re Aren’t Making Anyone Safer

Recent studies suggest that the American occupation of Iraq has increased, rather than decreased, the number of terrorists (Arnove 76). While accomplishing the opposite of his plans may be a Bush trademark, as a nation, America does not have to continue down this path. Al Qaeda didn’t show up in Iraq until after the invasion, and any ostensible links between Saddam and bin Laden have been proven incorrect. Once George W. Bush leaves office, Osama bin Laden will no longer have an “old, neo-conservative president” to direct his hatred at, and Sunni fighters in Iraq will no longer seek intiqaam (revenge) for the destruction wrought on their families, friends, and property. Once we withdraw from Iraq, the terrorism and insurgency will slowly cease.

Many proponents of continuing the war argue that withdrawal will lead to a regional civil war. These people (who will not, by the way, be joining the army because they have “more important things to do”) obviously don’t read the newspapers. The longer our forces stay in Iraq, the more resistance our occupation breeds. As American forces leave, the predominately-Shiite government has the opportunity to rule without the stigma of being seen as “puppets” of foreign “infidels.” Sunnis would be more likely to meet with Shiite leaders and begin the needed reconciliation process (Nir Rosen). Some proponents of the war insist that al Qaeda would create a stronghold in the region if the U.S. were to withdraw. This is less likely than finding the Golden Ticket. Al Qaeda and other foreign terrorist groups make up a numerically insignificant part of the insurgency. Often overlooked but crucially important is the fact that there are other Middle Eastern nations, and they can serve as regional watchdogs to keep Iraq in check. Iran, Syria, Egypt, and even Israel, all see a peaceful, militarily prostrate Iraq as beneficial to regional stability – and can invest in making sure that happens. Were Iraq to fall into civil turmoil, these nations would ensure minimal fallout. It’s in their vested interest to do so.

Just Like Nixon, You Can’t Cheat The System And Maintain Power

The war in Iraq has damaged our reputation as a nation and as a world power. Much of America’s influence in the international arena lies in what has been termed soft power. “[Soft power] is the ability to get what you want through attraction rather than coercion or payments. It arises from the attractiveness of a country’s culture, political ideals, and policies” (Joseph Nye). Iraq has permanently damaged America’s reserves of soft power. The impact is clear and visible to us all. A homeless man whom I asked for a quote for this article told me that the best way to win an election is to have the most friends. Wise words, sir. In an era where the United States must increasingly compete for the role of international “hegemon” in a global contest with a rapidly growing China and expanding European Union, friends become of the utmost importance. Iraq alienated not only Middle Eastern nations, but European and African nations as well. We must rebuild the trust of these nations to strike up lasting military, economic, and political ties. Withdrawing from Iraq is the first, and most critical, step in this process.

Background

Color Wars began in 2007. The premise was simple: each grade is assigned a random color and they must immerse themselves in that color for an entire week. The grade competes with other grades in events like jeopardy, dodgeball, and hallway decorating. The winner of the most events wins. Honestly, I’m still a bit fuzzy on the prize (respect? a pizza party? DOUBLE WIN!). Seems simple enough, and it is.

But here are a few thoughts I had.

Mismanagement

Last year, in its inaugural season, Color Wars was a hit (except for the fact that the seniors cheated us out of first place. “This icy body…” was legitimate, “this television character…” was not.). The event fostered cooperation inside grades, hatred outside of grades, and allowed me to fill my closet with green shirts I’d never wear again (I haven’t felt this successful since 9th grade history!).

This year, things were a little different. The event was announced with little less than four days to spare. Instead of an entire week as per last year, Color Wars lasted a measly three days, with the culminating event now just dodgeball (Color Wars without trivia is like a hooker without syphilis). Green was dropped in favor of white (read below), which pissed off yours truly, who was excited to finally cleanse his closet of the distinct leprechaun influence. And finally, Color Wars II felt a lot like The Matrix Reloaded (lamer, darker, and milking an empty cashcow). This thought sets up the possibility of an interesting threequel to the Matrix; Matrix IV: Color Wars.

“Neo, you must wear your red on Tuesday!” says Morpheus.

“But, why?” (In slow-moving, Keanu Reeves voice).

“Because you… are… the… red one,” (In overly dramatic Morpheus voice).

*Sidenote: Don’t worry if you missed the humor on that one, only for me would that be considered funny.

Increase the Divide

For a school that claims to yearn for integration of the student body, to yearn for a student body lacking conflict, does forcing the different classes into a winner-takes-all type competition contradict that goal? I’ve always heard that nothing brings people together like a common enemy, but when we’re competing with three other groups of people, are we creating more enemies than it’s worth?

It could easily be argued that any attempt at team-building inevitably creates enemies to compete with, but I have to wonder if there aren’t alternate paths to take towards creating grade cohesiveness. But when I thought about it, the split-by-color method is even used in “top-of-the-line” leadership workshops (as Amy Winehouse said, “They tried to make me visit the workshops, but I’ve got a life, life, life…”), and it does do wonders to create coherent groups. But in an era of globalization where the cohesiveness of small groups is becoming decreasingly important, it’s pertinent to consider whether we’re selling ourselves short with events like Color Wars.

Racism

Yet for me, the concept of “Color Wars” evokes more than a contest between randomly-assigned colors. “Color Wars” is a conflict between people of different “color” and colors, not just in the ostensible, randomly-assigned sense. The idea that people of different colors should compete so that one group might be declared the “winner” by a seemingly-impartial judge seems full of racist undertones. This point is further emphasized by the colors chosen for this year: white, red, yellow, blue.

1. First, white isn’t a color because it has no hue.
2. Second, the fact that a grade’s color directly correlates with a skin color only accentuates the potential for confusion about the agenda behind Color Wars. It also leads to deepening the stereotypes. If the white team corresponds to caucasians, are yellow and red intended to do the same for other stereotypes?
3. Third, the “white” team, are you kidding me? Give it one more year and the freshman class will be donning their dark colors and decorating the hallways in support of the “black” team. That wouldn’t be bad, but at the point when a team can get in trouble for having signs that say “(our color) pride,” the colors should probably change. In the planning stage, did no one think to say, “Hey, you know what, maybe white ISN’T the best idea for grade’s color.”
4. Yes, you’re right, white clothing is probably easier to find. But come on, this is Pembroke Hill; everyone knows where a Target is.
5. Don’t try to tell me it’s patriotic, because there is no yellow in the American flag.

Yet, it has to be stated that initiating a racially-driven conflict was not the goal of Pep Club (or at least, I’m 99% sure). So the question to ask ourselves is, are the conflicts between race and color so deeply engrained from history that competition between people of different “colors” becomes acceptable on a behavioral and societal level?

Maybe I’m reading too deeply into this, I usually do. But I think to understand the phenomenon on a deeper level, the event itself has be questioned. As Joseph Barndt said in his 1991 book Dismantling Racism, “Brick by brick, stone by stone, the walls of individual, institutional, and cultural racism can be destroyed.” Sometimes I worry that, unintentionally, we’re just adding more bricks to the wall.

There were less jokes than usual. My apologies.

It’s what “everyone” is doing.

“Just try it, it will change your life,” they say.

No, it’s not your first trip to World’s of Fun or the beginning of a night you won’t remember tomorrow. The letters, words, and phrases you are about to read discuss an issue far darker, and way more frightening. HIDE YOUR CHILDREN AND YOUR NEALS! I speak, of course, of the phenomena of braces.

Braces were born somewhere, likely in Romania (always those damn Romanians!), out of everyone’s innate desire for perfection. It reminds me of that age-old question: “Which came first, plastic breasts or braces?” (Answer in this month’s People magazine! OMG). I like to imagine that one day, a dentist was having trouble finding clients. This dentist issued a silent prayer that God help him gain popularity. In a dream the following night, God appears to the dentist (not like God-to-Isaac style, or anything cool like that. Big G might’ve even used a proxy. I’m not crazy enough to be able to claim that I’ve ever had God talk to me in a dream, so I can’t comment on specifics.) and tells him that the path to fame and fortune could be found by making once-cute children look like metal-mouthed demons (and nightly prayer, duh). It’s God, so of course the dentist didn’t really ask any questions.

Ever since I was a wee lad in prekindergarten and had an unfortunate meeting between my teeth and a quickly approaching fake wooden stove, I figured I was a shoe-in for braces. Yet, as best as I could, I delayed and delayed the inevitable. Imagine Paula Abdul trying to delay the inevitable destruction of her own minimal career. I delayed until, faced with the possibility of braces forever, I soiled my trousers and gave in.

Personally, I had misgivings about putting a metal fence across my mouth. Fourteen seemed quite young to erect a Berlin Wall across my incisors. Besides, while I might’ve been referred to as Bucky the Rabbit by some, it wasn’t a truly widespread issue. Although some more creative classmates did begin using Land Before Time-based names, like Chomper. The prospect of a better future, however, spurred me on. Nothing hurts more than being insulted with dinosaurs names.

Indeed, the procedure itself was casual enough.

“Would you like me to make you look like a monster?”
“Why yes, I would!”
“Clear rubber bands?”
“YES, PLEASE!”
“Take this knock-out gas.”
“SURE!”

In fact, the first day was pure bliss because of one key reason: I looked JUST like Paul Wall (of Hotlanta fame). In front of every mirror, I practiced my Paul Wall grimace, threw up gang signs, and even spit some mad rhymes (I spit fire, yo!). It’s rumored that my mother was worried enough to call the cops about the ruckus being caused in her house. I, of course, started that rumor, but it’s still a good one.

Then I woke up on the second day to raging pains across my Great Wall of Bolman and realized how wrong I had been. Not only did I not look like Paul Wall, but my rapping skills were shallower, and I’m pretty sure Paul Wall doesn’t eat Applesauce for a majority of his meals. Indeed, I was left demoralized, shoveling all the Mott’s I could get my hands on into my metallic mouth, pessimistically awaiting the year and a half until Reagan would break down my wall.

Well, it’s been about two years, and I’m finally close to that day of liberation. Sure, I still give myself that Paul Wall smile every once and a while, but I’m over it. It’s weird, however, because the braces are trying to convince me that I don’t want to take them off. Two words braces: screw you. For years of unnecessary angst, bad luck, tooth-aches, and frayed toothbrushes, I’ve endured your torment. Your anger every time I attempt to eat a Snickers. The way you mock me ruthlessly when I decide that I want to eat an apple. Your time is up braces! (It should be stated that never before braces did I have erotic fantasies involving the consumption of caramel-coated apples)

Well all of that is good and fine, but I still have to actually get rid of them. Now I’m not just talking about taking them off, that will come in time. I’m suggesting something more suiting for their terrible crime. What is my grandiose scheme? Kill them, like Othello kills Desdemona? (strangling and kissing inclusive) No. Throw them off a cliff? Tempting, but still no. In fact, my plan is simple: I want to melt them down and make a coin with my head on it with the remaining metal.

DUH DUH DUH!!!!

Sure, it’s not as frightening or grand as I intended it to be, but I’m no Napoleon here. I like to keep my plots to realistic limits. Plus, it sets up a bunch of fantastic conversations. Such as:

“Brad, where are your braces?”
“Got them removed last week.”
“You look different!”
“PEEP THIS COIN!”

So, in roughly three weeks, I’ll be free (and slimy, apparently). Is this the beginning of a new stage in my life? I doubt it. Will anything change? Who knows. But there’s one thing I do know: I’ll be brace-face, chomper, Gorbachev’s Experiment, or Fats McKenzie no longer. I’ll be Brad Bolman, something most kids only dream about.

What an arrogant and cliched ending indeed.

Alternate Ending

Brutal Death at Hands of Orthodontic Failure.
KMBC 9 News Report Transcript (Sunday, February 24, 2008)
Repoter: There was a freak braces accident at Hoffman Orthodontics the other day. It seems that an unidentified child was killed during a routine braces removal. He was rushed to the hospital, but there’s no news yet on official cause of death. It’s speculated that an electric power tool severed his vocal cords, allowing him to subsequently bleed to death. Chuck?
Chuck: Wow. That is not way to go. Let’s head over to Nancy for our weather report.
Nancy: Thanks Chuck, we’ve got a cold front coming in through the Midwest…

I almost like the alternate ending better. I sort of go out with a bang that way. Either way, no more braces. Everyone wins. Especially the ladies. *wink*

Alternate Ending 2

Brutal Death at Feet of Pre-Pubescent Girls.
FOX 4 News Report Transcript (Monday, February 25, 2008)
Reporter: A teenaged boy was trampled to death this afternoon mere hours after leaving the orthodontist. We don’t have a lot of information yet, but it seems that before he was trampled by Dionysian girls, Tiger Beat in hand, heels on feet, he was heard yelling something along the lines of “The coin wasn’t worth it.” The funeral service will be this March. A special note from the family: young girls are not currently allowed.

fin.