Just a long paragraph

I needed to write this.

I’ve been traveling alone in the Boston Commons for the better part of three weeks now, and it’s been so remarkable an experience for me that I can’t book a ticket home yet. I haven’t spoken very much out loud these days, but I’ve been thinking to myself in what feels like surround sound. I can see so many things clearly, and feel so connected to myself and the world around me that I need to share the perspective with you.

I’m already aware that when I move, say or write anything, 50 percent of the response will be in support of it and the other 50 will want to discount it. This blog, though, is directed to 100 percent of people reading it. If my blog truly does have any cultural effect, then it should be used for more than just pictures of John Mayer and funny YouTube videos.

This is about a level of self consciousness so high in my generation, that it’s actually toxic.

This is about the girl in her bedroom who poses in front of the camera she’s awkwardly holding in her outstretched hand. She’ll take a hundred photos until coming up with one she’s happy with, which inevitably looks nothing like her, and after she’s done poring over images of herself, will post one on her MySpace page and then write something like " I don’t give a f*ck what you think about me. "

This is about the person trying out for American Idol, who while going off about how confident they are that they were born ready to sing in front of the world, are trembling so badly they can hardly breathe.

This is about me, the guy who walks through a throng of imaginary photographers into a restaurant like he’s Paul Newman, but who leaves a "reject" pile of clothes in his closet so high that his mom can’t figure out how one man can step into so many pairs of pants in a week.

This is about us all; every one of us. We, who all seem to know deep down that it’s incredibly hard to be alive and interact with the world around us but will try and cover it up at any cost. For as badass and unaffected as we try to come off, we’re all just one sentence away from being brought to the edge of tears, if only it was worded right. And I don’t want to act immune to that anymore. I took the biggest detour from myself over the past year, since I decided that I wasn’t going to care about what people thought about me. I got to the point where I had so much padding on that, sure, I couldn’t feel the negativity, but that’s because I couldn’t feel much of anything. And I think I’m done with that.

I’m not the first person to admit we’re all self-conscious, even Kanye is. But what I want to do is to shed a little light on why we’re all in the same boat, no matter the shape of the life we lead: because every one of us were told since birth that we were special. We were spoken to by name through a television. We were promised we could be anything that we wanted to be, if only we believed it and then, faster than we saw coming, we were set loose into the world to shake hands with the millions of other people who were told the exact same thing.

And really? Really? It turns out we’re just not all that special when you break it down: Beautifully unspectacular, actually. Truth is going to catch up with us whether we want to run from it or not. It’s just a matter of how old you are once you embrace that fact. And for me, 14 sounds about right.

What now, then? I can only really say for myself: Enjoy who I am, the talents and the liabilities. Stop acting careless. In fact, care more. Be vulnerable but stay away from where it hurts. Read. See more shows; of any kind. Rock shows, art shows, boat shows. Create more art.

Wear hoodies to dinner.

Carry a notebook and hand it to people when they passionately recommend something and ask them to write it down for me.

Root for others.

Give more and expect the same in return, but over time.

Act nervous when I’m nervous, puzzled when I don’t know what the hell to do, and smile when it all goes my way, and never, in any other order than that.

And when it’s all over, whether at the end of this fabulous career or of this life, which I hope takes place at the same time, I should look back and say that I had it good and I made the most of it while I was able. And so should you.

I’m going quiet now.

Petrus

A Sprite-Soaked Miracle

By P.H. Reis

“Look at that! What is it?” I say.
“That’s a lift bridge.” Uncle says.
“Oh. What’s that?”
“The thing you’re looking at.”
“Mmmm…”

It was a Sunday night. Three days before today we were in Brazil almost losing our apartment. Three days later we’re in the U.S. looking at a bridge. The car is parked near the sidewalk. My Father, Mother, Aunt, Uncle and I are leaning on a fence overlooking a boat crossing a section of Boston Bay. The fence is high. I’m a short kid. Not a helpful combination.

“Mom? Can I go over there?”
“Where?”
“Over there, right after those boxes and trash.”

There’s a section of the high fence that seems to have one of it’s supporting columns broken or rusted terribly. Therefore, lowering the fence and enabling me too see clearly other than peeking through those quadrilateral holes you find in fences.

“Sure. But, wait for me to take you there. There’s some trash covering that part of the sidewalk. To get you there you’d have to go into the street.”

Me, being the, ‘rambunctious’ little kid I was, decided not to wait. I peek at Mom, noticing that the bridge that neither of us had ever seen distracts her, I deviously, slowly crept out of her sight and into the street.

_________________________________________________

It’s early September and anxiety is at its peak. Not exactly the type of anxiety that you would feel before a dance or before your birthday party. This anxiety does not build up excitement but builds up apprehensiveness and doubt. We’re getting ready for our trip. Trip. Saying it doesn’t ring the same to me, as it would’ve a couple of months ago. Back then, a trip meant as it would it mean to many, a weekend vacation. But, this trip isn’t. It’s more of an escape. For how long will this escape last? I don’t know.

While the busy of packing and anxiety of leaving, many of our friends and family have come by. Some saddened by our departure, but others, knowing that America is richer and having the stereotype that upon arrival you are granted immediate wealth, have come to, for the lack of a better phrase, suck up.

It’s the day to go to the airport and my whole family is there to say farewell to my parents and I. We are departing for São Paulo where there we will go to New York then to Boston. I had just been eating over priced airport chocolate that I had, mhhmm, ‘asked’ for, when I see my Mom staring at me. She begins to move towards me, pulls out a napkin and gently places it on her tongue, wetting it and begins to clean my face of the chocolate I had eaten. She had always done this. After every lick of a mixing spoon fresh out of a bowl of chocolate filling going straight into a cake, after every watermelon devoured. She finishes cleaning and looks me straight in the eye and says, “I love you. This is for the better” Dad calls me, I turn back and I head towards the entrance to the plane.

____________________________________________

If I thought about what I was doing I would’ve crossed around the trash pile between the sidewalk and the parked car. But no, I cross around the car and into the street. Right then and there I see two bright headlights gleaming in the night coming towards me. With two seconds of reaction time I stand there paralyzed like one of those unrealistic women taking a shower after a villain has just opened the curtains and raised his knife up in the air. Not having the power of flight to lift myself up or the power to stop the car with my bare hands like superman, whom by the way I pretend to be frequently, am hit by the speeding car. I am thrown about 5 meters back or 16.404199475 feet to those who only know the English System. Hit. Brakes. Thump. That’s all that was heard. My mom screams, “My son!”

I am dead. Bleeding from every opening in my body, I am dead. No pulse. No movement. Just blood. My father being raised in a Christian Protestant home and being a loyal Christian his whole life began to pray. No wimpy prayer. No overly recited, unenthusiastic, unfaithful prayer you’ll see at a Sunday morning service by the tired and the ones wondering why they’re even there. No. It’s a real prayer. The types you hear that’ll move mountains or even bring back the dead.

“God, I did not come to this country for my son to die! I came here to give him a better future. Better than anything my country could ever given us. Better than anything I ever had. God you’ve already given us everything we’ve ever needed, but I ask you to give me back my son.”
Ambulances, police cars, fire trucks are heard from afar. It’s as if the closer help came down on here on earth, the more help from God came down.

I begin to cry, to sob tears of salt and blood mixed into a maroon liquid. These tears aren’t tears of guilt I cried when leaving Brazil. These tears are tears of relief, of cure, that instead of bringing sadness like most tears do they bring joy, they bring happiness.
I’m rushed to the hospital, completely unconscious but still thankful to God that I was at least alive. While entering MGH’s emergency room doors, I miraculously wake up. I’m delusional, ‘seeing stars’, but still I manage to ask for my mom. I don’t speak a word of English, except for my ‘hi’s and bye’s’ of course. A Hispanic lady, probably a nurse or a translator is to my right holding an oxygen mask firmly to my face. In some miracle I manage to speak through the mask.

“Where’s my mom?” I say in Portuguese.
"Hush. Hush Baby. Do not speak.” She responds in Spanish.
“Where is my mom?”
I, in a struggle, repeat in an aggravated tone filled with pain and yearning for my Mother’s care. The two sentences I had said had made me exhausted or maybe it was just the anesthesia that did it but I was knocked out from there.

My parents later told me that throughout the time I was sleeping the doctor had told them of my injuries. I had severely cracked my skull and hip. Because of the head injury, blood had rushed into my brain. It was either I had a ninety-nine percent chance of death surgery or I didn’t have the surgery and died anyway. I have the surgery. The doctors warned my parents that if I survived I would be at the very least paralytic neck-down; I’d be mentally disabled and if I were lucky, ‘lucky!’ I would be able to breathe on my own.

We didn’t except it. Instead of looking at it as in obstacle to face, my parents said, “What obstacle? We believe in the God of impossible.” Again, my parents made their mountain moving, revival from the dead prayers and because of these prayers the nine-hour surgery was a success. The crack in my hip that the doctors said was unfixable was gone. The one percent chance I had to live over conquered the ninety-nine percent chance of death. It was as if the tiny numeral on my side had just slung a stone at its giant suppressor.
After surgery I am put in intensive care. I can’t move because of my weakness and the fact that probably I have more wires and tubes in and over me than Robocop. Because a machine is breathing for me and food is being poured into my veins nothing has touched my lips for some time and they have become dry. Because of this the doctors allowed my mother to wet them with a sponge soaked in water every now and then.

Since this happened nine years ago my memories of the time are not exactly vivid. But one of the only things I remember clearly is my mom holding a sponge to the top of a sprite bottle: my favorite soda at the time, tipping it upside down thus wetting the sponge and gently placing the sponge to my mouth and cleaning it. Cleaning it like she had done three days before.

“Mom? Is that you?”
“Yeah. It is.”
“Am I going to be alright?”
“Yeah baby everything will be fine.”
“That’s what you said in Brazil and now I’m hurt.”
"I didn’t lie to you. I told you everything is going to be all right and it is. Isn’t it? We’re in America. God healed you inside out. You’re not dead like the doctors said you would be. God gave them the gift to operate and gave you the strength to get through this. You’re not paralyzed. You’re brain is perfectly fine. Sure you got a scar on you’re head but there’s a thing called hair. Son, you’re Brazilian. We’re known to laugh at suffering. And you know what? You’re not even suffering. You can laugh even harder now. God saved you. He made a miracle. Don’t let the way things seem be what things are. Don’t go through life waiting to face an obstacle. Go through it knowing that whatever comes isn’t an obstacle because God is almighty. Nothing is big to him. When your face is full of chocolate, wipe it clean. When your lips are dry, there’s a always a sprite-soaked sponge waiting for you.”

Advertising: Twenty-First Century Hypnosis

By P.H. Reis

It’s six o’clock on Christmas Eve and Steve’s son, Bobby, has asked specifically and monotonously, to say the least, for the new Tickle Me Elmo doll, a bright red colored doll that when squeezed at specific locations would giggle. The mall is packed. The line at KB Toys is unbearable. Every shopping center in all of the country seems to have signs at its toy store doors stating in large legible print that they are all out of ‘Elmos.’ Why had Bobby so persistently, so stubbornly, so confidently asked, demanded even, for such a useless and honestly tasteless red creature in doll form? The answer lies months before the holiday season. Tickle Me Elmo is a brand from children’s’ toys tycoon, Tyco. The toy was advertised everywhere a child could have and would have looked. Other versions of the product such as Ernie or Cookie Monster from were made. But, none compared to the prestige that Elmo held to his toddler audience. The toy was popular that it was priced almost sixty-seven times more than it appropriate retail price. TV, radio, Internet, billboard, even buses held Elmo’s propaganda. All of this created the want, no, not the want, the need in children to have Elmo. Advertising not only targets children but it targets the minds of all ages. It is an intelligent and resourceful business. It affects the morals, self-image, finances, and even speech of people. Advertising uses specific images to manipulate the consumer into believing he/she must have the presented product, therefore, impacting the consumer’s perception on his/her needs and wants.

One of the biggest anchors in American civilization is Mass Production. When mass production first began in the 1800’s, advertising took its start as well. In 1843, Volney Palmer opened the first ad agency in the US in Philadelphia, PA. The more factories appeared, presenting more choice to a product, the more agencies one would see. About 150 years after, in 1994, the first Internet ads appear on HotWired as banners to run across the top of the web page. Only ten years after, Internet ads grew to be 80% of the size of magazine advertising. Expanding at a startling rate of 34.5% since 2003. In the last 160 years, the advertising has grown from a small agency developing Philadelphia to a major multi-billion dollar corporation.

A couple years back, in Tasmania, thirty-two people died at the hands of one gunman. He had a supposed obsession with violent Japanese anime and other cartoons. Speculations say that his obsession with violent and merciless massacre was the cause for the murders. The more a person sees something, whatever it may be, the more one becomes accustom to it. Murder became a normal activity for the assassin. From all the hours watching, reading, listening, and breathing violence, the murderer came to think of killing as a common household action. Advertising has the same effect. For example, advertising for movies these past days have become more violent. The Boston Globe recently released an article by Joanna Weiss where parents complained of the commercials during the Fox hit show; American Idol. Idol is the top rated show among children 2 and above. Should such advertising be allowed on a family show? No. If the excessive view of violent behavior turns violence less severe, thus evading the truth, then the only significant thing broadcasted violence to children is doing is creating more and more ‘Tasmanian Assassins.’ Questions arise if banning violent commercials is the solution. Banning a violent movie increases the desire to see it. Advertising has become such a fact of life that even banning it increases its power. When a movie commercial is banned, the desire to see it increases, therefore making seeing the movie less of a want and more of need. Either way you spin it, advertising still wins. It’s a win/win situation

If someone sees a certain item as a need, one will not mind wasting his/her hard earned money on it. Statistics show that non-stop buying due to advertising frequently results in increases consumer debt. Ads have led to recent increase in personal bankruptcies. Advertising has not just taken over the American media and communications but it is even starting to take over the American wallet. People have come to rely on others to tell them what to spend their money on. With all the commercials, billboards, jingles and flashy signs buzzing through the air one can’t help look both ways before buying a product. One now is not buying a product on its value and efficiency but on its fame and attraction.

Stereotypes are all around us. Examples include all African American are good at basketball. Why is it? Advertising is the main cause. Many Nike ads for their famed basketball sneakers include a group of African American men playing basketball with great skill. Stereotypes, such as women being perceived as sexual toys, are also strengthened through the media. On February 5, 2007, Dolce & Gabana released an ad where several men are susceptibly raping one woman. NOW: National Organization for women said, “The ad indisputably promotes violence towards women.” Such ads affect the needs and wants of the consumer. For a man, seeing the ad subconsciously convinces him that using Dolce & Gabana will increase his sexual abilities. For a woman this not only degrades her as an individual and presents her as an object to grope and rape at one’s pleasing, but it tells her that with Dolce & Gabana she will be wanted. The ad tells her that she will be loved. The ad tells her that the anonymous woman wearing D&G is loved because she fits an ideal. She fits the D&G ideal.

One’s self-image is also affected by advertising. One in two 11-and-12-year-old girls in Britain say they have problems with their weight. Many say the causes of weight concerns of these Britannic girls are the various ads of thin, beautiful models in fashion magazines, trailing down runways with gorgeous posture and elegant pose, while other gaze and marvel at their beauty. All of this attention focused on these almost surreal models attracts envy in younger girls. Like the murderer in Tasmania, coexisting with something so frequently makes that something ideal, especially if it is attractive. The point of fashion shows is to promote the designer’s creations. It’s one big advertisement. Since the beauty ideal comes from fashion, and since fashion is just advertisement, and the beauty ideal creates envy, then advertisement is creating the want in young girls to be a certain ideal therefore making them buy the product the ideal is using and promoting.

Obesity is growing in America at groundbreaking rates. The main causes for obesity is a mal-nutrition. The staff at the Federal Trade Commission or FDA considered a standard in which advertising for junk food would not be permitted on any program where half the audience was age six and younger. Only one show would have been affected – Captain Kangaroo. Also, any governmental ban on junk food ads would raise First Amendment implications. It’s one thing to control the wallets of a society but to control the food, the very thing that keeps us humans alive should not just be illegal but should be decreed immorally wrong. America is beginning to be known as the ‘fat capital’ of the world. America is letting such corporations like McDonald’s and Burger King to rule the diet of the American citizen. If one has no control over the food he/she eats then what’s to say to say that he/she has control over his/her own well-being.

The only way to sell a product effectively is to target the advertising to a specific group. Many strategies are used in doing so, such an omission. Omission is when an ad does not give the consumer the full story on the product being promoted. Ideal is also used. This is when a perfect situation and identity is shown in the ad, such as an ideal family. The kids are good looking with fashionable clothes. All the members are attractive and they all get along perfectly. Deceptive phrase advertising is also strategy commonly used. Even though laws decree that ads should tell the truth, advertisers use misleading words such as ‘the taste of real…’ or ‘New, better tasting…’

Many perceive advertising to be a blunt and unintelligent business. This is wrong. Advertising is not just 30-second entertainment bits during commercial break of one's favorite soap opera. Advertisers are intelligent individuals. They use the human psyche against itself in order to sell a product. Strategies used are not just affective in manipulating one's needs and wants but it is also deceptive in its promises.

In 1998, In Georgia, A student wore a Pepsi T-shirt on his university's 'Coke Day' and was suspended. The new provoked the question as to whether corporations should be able to buy student brand loyalty or not. They should not. A campus or a school or any place where learning is taken place is, or at least should be, a sanctuary of knowledge. A corporation has no right to interfere in learning. One should have the right to pick what he wears no matter what the day is. Clothing is a way of expressing one's self. If advertising controls on what day one can express individuality, then it controls yet another aspect of what a person is.

Ronald McDonald House Charities commonly sponsor schools in turn advertising its name throughout the students. McDonald's shows it's a 'good citizen' through its charities. Showing that a corporation is a good citizen even though it's one of the main causes of obesity is hypocritical. The sad thing is, is that no one seems to notice it. Through the charities McDonald's touches the heart of the consumer making him/her believe that it is close to home, that I can be trusted. By this the consumer is more willing to spend his/her money on the product such company is offering.

Political advertising also targets specific groups. Most voters rely on the media for information on the running candidates and parties. Most Politicians rely on TV ads to publicize his/her message. If the media favors a certain politician than he/she will get more airtime. Therefore, increasing the probability for that politician to win. It's not fair to that since TV ads publicize a message, a party that is less wealthy loses to a more financially set party. In the end, not the politician with the best views is chosen but the one with the fullest wallet is. Advertising is so integral in the American society that even the selection to choose the ones who lead this country is controlled by the media. If America is of the people, the people who elect leaders who control this country, who are actually chosen by the media, then Advertising controls America.

Advertising has saturated the American life. Everywhere one goes he/she sees an ad. On the bus, in their cars on the radio, on the clothes of other while walking down the street. Advertising is not just ruining the physical world but it is beginning to saturate the digital one as well. Many businesses advertise by E-Mail. The volume of unsolicited email or in other words; Spam, is causing such a profound depletion of confidence of the public that it can destroy email as a tool for communication. E-mail is such a great tool. The ability to send and receive information in the blink of an eye is powerful. Email needs to be protected by useless ads such as ‘Genital Enlargement!’ and ‘Win a Free Ringtone!’

Advertising is beginning to control all aspects of the American citizen. There is still hope. America cannot and should not let corporations run its self-image, wallets and states of mind. With such tactics and groups as Media Literacy and Culture Jamming, America, as a whole can reduce ads and bring back the true American culture that the fathers of this country fought so hard to win and protect. America is a fee country. That should not just refer to politics. Advertising has already taken control of society; do not let it take control of American freedom.

Accesorized Recyclables©

By P.H. Reis

The doors swing open; a mix of peculiar odors come flying through. No windows are open to show the world outside. No luxury is found here. Only clumps of disorganized apparels displayed unevenly on mal-built hangers. There are no salespeople pushing their product at you to make a profit. No pompous women marked cloyingly with bright smudges of make-up spraying and saying, “free perfume samples” like you would find at other places like here. The only signs of commercial life that you see are exhaust-stricken singletons counting the minutes till their shifts end. The only conspicuous voice your ears might hear is the announcer telling the brats in aisle seven to stop fooling around, “A reminder: any child in the toy isle is to be supervised by his/her guardian.” As if you would not know that what had just been said was a euphemism. As you step through these doors, especially if it’s your first time, the first things that you might notice are the people there. Individuals that are no less, no more than anyone else in dignity but still depleted of their integrity for the very fact that they are there. These individuals are here not because of choice but because of need. These people need clothing. They are not in Adam & Eve’s time. To walk, work and live in this world you need clothing. It’s a fact of life.
As you walk down the aisles costumed by arrays of clothing ‘generously’ donated by heart-filled good citizens, all you can think of, like the employees, is “I want out.” But again, these individuals are here because of need. Above the aisles are badly made advertisements for the discounts that are daily offered. “Today’s color is Red!” As if giving a discount on already under priced products is such a wholehearted given gift! It’s not a gift. It’s a token of pity. Shopping here is less of an errand and more of a search. Browsing the hangers is like clicking ‘enter’ on Google. Millions upon millions of results come but only a few are what you actually wanted. The fact that you can call something clothing doesn’t mean it is fitted to be it. The odds of finding something valuable in this array are as small as the amount of patience that you will receive from the salespeople.
A peculiar aspect is that when you leave, your hands are dirty. With what, I’m not sure. Maybe it’s dust from the loosely cleaned clothing. Maybe it’s the must rising from the dirty jackets somehow drenching your hands with filth. Although exiting here is a relief beyond no measure, you are not left unmarked. It is easy to spot the brightly colored bags displaying logos such as, “The Ultimate Treasure Hunt.” shown through back windows of raggedy old cars bathed in grime blown ferociously by wind made by rushing speed on the highway. Is it treasure really? It’s not like searching for precious gold among imitation fools’ stones. It is more like separating the ‘not so bad’ from the completely ‘useless’. Like fixing an old car even though you know it will break again. Ads from places like this all ensure that you will save money. But, the consumers here, who most are probably struggling to even pay their rent, do not consider their purchases discounts but another expense of life. Upon exit, there is no sense of satisfaction. You can’t say, “I did a good job.” All you think is, “How will I wash this junk?” But, oddly enough, there is a positive feeling. There is a sense of gratitude. Although shopping here is not exactly one of life’s greatest moments, it is one of life’s greatest charities. Not generously given charities such as those shown on cups you see on supermarket counters. Those are given with heart. You can easily pass by the cup and not give a penny’s worth. They are not demanding. They are asking. But here, donations are not asked for, nor are they demanded. They are presented as business transactions. “We’ll take your no longer needed junk that if thrown away your conscious would haunt you and we’ll give you the short-lived satisfaction of doing a good deed.” These donations are given in second-hand, hence the name Second-hand Stores. A Thrift Store, Salvation Army, Savers. A place where what is presented is not what is wanted but needed. It is the place where your junk can find a home with someone else, a place where your pity finds its comfort. I’ve felt your pity. Thanks.