Daddy needs a new iPod Shuffle
Okay, the following is the essay I wrote in hopes of winning Melvin a little Melvin Jr. I'm sorry it's not as funny as some of my other pieces. If I had my way, I would write a sarcastic essay about how white people are so much better than everyone else, but I'm sure it would be lost on the heathens that will no doubt grade it. Without further adieu, here it is, "Diversity, The Essay"
Diversity, The Essay
I grew up in Colorado Springs. For those unacquainted with this humble burg, know that any other rich, pretentious white town can be substituted in without endangering the veracity of my tale. Born into such a town, I was raised thinking diversity was how people had different colored eyes. I had never really been around black kids before. There was one I had grown up with, but he was, for lack of better terms, born and bred in captivity. He had more in common with Urkel than Will Smith, if you catch my drift. So, I was naturally flabbergasted when Bo, my first real black kid moved to town. He had moved from Texas, and being the prying Anglo-Saxon that I am, I was morbidly curious. It was an interest that stemmed from liberal doses of fear. The only black people I had ever seen were the ones that I saw on the “Music Television”, and they had always seemed to be up to mischief or other such tomfoolery. Being, as I was, ignorant to diversity, I had no idea what to expect. He looked, forgive me for being asinine, like Snoop Dogg. Basketball jersey, pants that could fit Rueben Studdard, and a silver chain jangling against his chest. Now, while it’s something I don’t like to admit, I do have flaws. One such shortfall in my character is that I am exceptionally critical of others. Another is my unfailing trust of axioms and proverbs that should have no bearing on me, but do despite. The maxim in point here? “When you hear hoof beats, you think horses, not zebras”. When I heard Bo, I thought horse. I was wrong. And it took a year of geometrical shapes to show me that. On the first day of Geometry, the alphabet put us at the same table.
“’Sup, dawg?” he asked, sitting down.
“Please don’t shoot me.” I replied, somewhat in jest, mostly in terror. He smiled- since he had moved, he had gotten used to this response. Those were the first words I ever said to him. Reflecting, I feel some degree of regret. They were tactless and downright offensive. But what did I know then? All my knowledge about blacks had been a result of vapid channel changing. Math changed that. Geometry was a fog, and I was lost. Bo helped me out a lot. Something about math just seemed to click with him, something that I envy to this day. It was a humble experience. I never expected to be tutored by someone who looked equally likely to shoot me as to look at me. A year passed. Bo taught me a lot that year, and not just about math. That thug you see on TV, with his chains and his gun? He’s not real. He’s an image. Bo was real. He was genuine, and he was black. And he never said “for shizzle”. Well, once. But I paid him to do it.
Diversity, The Essay
I grew up in Colorado Springs. For those unacquainted with this humble burg, know that any other rich, pretentious white town can be substituted in without endangering the veracity of my tale. Born into such a town, I was raised thinking diversity was how people had different colored eyes. I had never really been around black kids before. There was one I had grown up with, but he was, for lack of better terms, born and bred in captivity. He had more in common with Urkel than Will Smith, if you catch my drift. So, I was naturally flabbergasted when Bo, my first real black kid moved to town. He had moved from Texas, and being the prying Anglo-Saxon that I am, I was morbidly curious. It was an interest that stemmed from liberal doses of fear. The only black people I had ever seen were the ones that I saw on the “Music Television”, and they had always seemed to be up to mischief or other such tomfoolery. Being, as I was, ignorant to diversity, I had no idea what to expect. He looked, forgive me for being asinine, like Snoop Dogg. Basketball jersey, pants that could fit Rueben Studdard, and a silver chain jangling against his chest. Now, while it’s something I don’t like to admit, I do have flaws. One such shortfall in my character is that I am exceptionally critical of others. Another is my unfailing trust of axioms and proverbs that should have no bearing on me, but do despite. The maxim in point here? “When you hear hoof beats, you think horses, not zebras”. When I heard Bo, I thought horse. I was wrong. And it took a year of geometrical shapes to show me that. On the first day of Geometry, the alphabet put us at the same table.
“’Sup, dawg?” he asked, sitting down.
“Please don’t shoot me.” I replied, somewhat in jest, mostly in terror. He smiled- since he had moved, he had gotten used to this response. Those were the first words I ever said to him. Reflecting, I feel some degree of regret. They were tactless and downright offensive. But what did I know then? All my knowledge about blacks had been a result of vapid channel changing. Math changed that. Geometry was a fog, and I was lost. Bo helped me out a lot. Something about math just seemed to click with him, something that I envy to this day. It was a humble experience. I never expected to be tutored by someone who looked equally likely to shoot me as to look at me. A year passed. Bo taught me a lot that year, and not just about math. That thug you see on TV, with his chains and his gun? He’s not real. He’s an image. Bo was real. He was genuine, and he was black. And he never said “for shizzle”. Well, once. But I paid him to do it.