Prejudice, Kellogg's style

We’re taught since childhood that prejudice is a horrible thing. We’re told about its rampant past and the terrible path of destruction it has carved through history. That may make one think it’s over and done with. But, no, it’s still here. Maybe it’s a bit subtler and sophisticated, but it’s still here. And the most shocking form of it I discovered today. In my breakfast cereal.

What happens when you find something different floating in your milk? That’s right, you cast it away, shun it. And more often than not, that different something is a piece of cereal that is the wrong color. Cereal pieces should all be one color and a color other than normal is deemed not worthy of digestion.

And what color do I mean by different? Let’s face it, they’re the brown and black ones. The Rice Krispie that’s too dark from being cooked too long; the Cheerio that’s browner than the other Cheerios; the Corn Flake that’s just plain whacked out. We’re all guilty of this kind of prejudice, even though there’s nothing nutritionally wrong with the abnormal cereal.

But look past the abnormalities, look past what’s different and occasional, and see the everyday truth: people prefer white cereal. Rice Krispies, Kix, Cheerios, Corn Flakes, Special K: they’re all light-pigmented cereals. Your eating habits are promoting white cereal supremacy.

Not only are white cereals preferred, dark cereals are seen as unhealthy and disgusting. The #1 cereal hated by mothers concerned with their children’s nutrition: Cocoa Puffs, the flag bearer of dark cereals. Other honorable mentions include Count Chocula and Reese’s Puffs. Even though Cocoa Puffs has no more sugar than Lucky Charms, one is loved and the other hated.

Lucky Charms are white and Cocoa Puffs are dark, but the battle between these two boils down to their mascots. One is a charming and intelligent Leprechaun; the other is a schizophrenic dodo bird that keeps belligerently yelling at us about being insane for a food product. Lucky the Leprechaun tells us that Lucky Charms is steeped in tradition and sophistication while Sonny the dodo bird merely flaunts his neurological disorder. The prejudice is clear.

Take the example of Frosted Mini-Wheats. Normal shredded wheat falls under the category of health food, loved by parents and hated by kids. But suddenly, when the mini-wheat becomes frosted, the cereal is universally loved. Why? Because frosting is white. Kellogg’s has taken a light-skinned cereal and made it whiter. And all us prejudiced consumers appreciated the change.

Now I know what many of you are thinking. You’re thinking: “What about Raisin Bran?” I agree that Raisin Bran is a very popular cereal, and a dark one at that. You may be quick to admit a flaw to my thesis, but not so fast, Mr. Smarty-pants. We all know what the best part of Raisin Bran is. It’s the sugar on the raisins. And, you guessed it, sugar is white. Case closed (the law & order sound goes here).

And for the love of God, people: milk is white. Milk: the essence of cereal. The Eve to cereal’s Adam, the Ying to Yang, the trolley to Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood. No one would dream of putting chocolate milk on their Captain Crunch. There’s no way around it; cereal is prejudiced.

Okay, so what’s the hidden meaning? Am I saying that prejudice is everywhere, even in the most mundane aspects of the day? Am I saying that looking for prejudice everywhere in life is ridiculous? Well, I don’t really know. Maybe deep down I am prejudiced and this is just an outlet for that. Or maybe I do find the world ridiculous. Or maybe in another life I was the Trix bunny. Who knows? It’s just comedy, not a social treatise. You’re supposed to laugh, and to laugh one has to think, which is more than outraged political backlashes can manage these days. Maybe I’m being insightful and progressive. But…no, I was probably the Trix bunny in a past life.

So next time you’re looking at your breakfast cereal selection and thinking about what you’re going to eat, why don’t you pick up that cheap ceramic bowl and look at your reflection? It may turn out your motives are as spotty as the Froot Loop I found this morning.

Errors In Exsanguination

The phone rings.

It's a Tuesday night, and I've just walked in the door after a day at work. My brother answers the phone; it’s for me.

"Hello?" I ask.
"Hi, this is (insert generic name here) from LifeSource."

Brick wall. It's over. There's no escape.

LifeSource is the area's blood bank. I've given blood once: my senior year of high school. It was the first time I weighed over the 115 pounds necessary to donate.

"Would you be able to help us out by donating?" the genderless, nasal voice asks.

Unfortunately, my skinny, malnourished, pale body is still above 115. I sigh and quietly resign myself to parting with a pint.

"Yeah, sure."

There's really no way to refuse. They're a nonprofit organization that saves lives. I'll shoot down telemarketers any day. But for some reason, the minute LifeSource calls, I imagine an adorable baby with a large laceration on its leg, desperately asking me to “donwate bwood.” Which, now that I think about it, is probably just something wrong with me and completely non-relatable. Sorry.

Plus I'm spineless. If it’s at all reasonable, I’ll say yes. Hey Bobby, can you drive me to the airport? I’m not busy. Why not? Hey, I need to borrow some money? Fine. Take your shirt off and feed me grapes! Ok, but this is the last time.

“Great,” says Mildred (I decided that’s her name). “Oh, you’re AB+. That means you can donate platelets.”

Brick wall number two.

Platelets give humans the ability to heal; they’re the little buggers that cause wounds to clot. They also take about two hours to donate. You get hooked up to a machine; they extract your blood, filter the platelets out, and put the blood back. It’s like taking a car out for a spin and coming back without any seatbelts or airbags.

Now I really can’t refuse. Turning down a donation of whole blood is like not helping a car accident victim; they might die anyway, whether they get your blood or not. Turning down a platelet donation is like saying, “Ha. You will die from that paper cut, sucka!”

“Great, we’ll see you this Saturday then,” the voice concludes. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” I respond, crossing off “Be Emo and Cut Myself” from my weekend To-Do list.


Saturday rolls around. I miss a boating opportunity and show up for my appointment. The bleak decoration, the smell of sanitary conditions, the awful taste in magazines: this must be the right place. I sign in, exchange perfunctory greetings with the woman behind the desk, and am handed the infamous Clipboard of Personal Questions.

Now, the Clipboard does have a real purpose. I realize the importance of obtaining accurate information about donors so as to prevent the distribution of tainted blood. However, the Clipboard’s main purpose is to remind me of two particulars:

1. The small number of places I’ve traveled to.
2. The lack of sex I’ve been having.

“No” gets checked a few hundred times and I return the clipboard to the receptionist.

Then the nurses argue over whether I weigh enough or not. Then they argue over whether my veins are large enough. But the weird thing is they ask me, as if I should know their rules and regulations.

“Do you weigh enough?” one asks.
“Umm…you tell me,” I respond.
“Are your veins large enough?” questions another.
“Is that something I should know?”
“Do you understand anything about the aphresis procedure?” the first nurse condescendingly demands.
“Well, I have ER out on DVD from the library, but I don’t think it’s come up yet.”

Finally, I get the green light and take a seat in a blue donation chair. A list of films is thrust into my hands and I’m asked to pick one. After a careful conference with my mood and taste, I select Planes, Trains and Automobiles. The DVD plays and a snack pack of Oreos is dispensed to me. I snack and watch in comfort as I wait for the inevitable needle-stick.

But it never comes. My nurse (or technician or stewardess, whatever they are) seems to be fussing with the machine quite a bit. It’s a bit distracting. I’m trying to watch John Candy annoy Steve Martin to hell, but it’s P (something Slavic) annoying me with the constant beeping of the machine. She replaces something with a new set. After that, she calls the company on the phone and follows their directions. No luck.

Two hours after arriving at the clinic, I walk out the door. They couldn’t fix the machine and someone else was using their other one. Because my paperwork had been filled out for platelets (or, more likely, because they’re lazy and didn’t want to get a new form), I was not allowed to donate whole blood in lieu of platelets.

So what I did today: miss boating on Lake Michigan with my friends and instead deplete a nonprofit organization of its snack foods and t-shirt supply.

I leave, hoping the paperwork somehow goes through and it looks like I did donate today, meaning they’ll never call me again.


They call again.

I experience the same bleeding baby image, the same platelet request, and respond with the same pained resignation. As a creative writer, it’s rather pathetic that I can’t invent an excuse to get myself out of something as easy as blood donation. On the other hand, it gives me material to share with you lovely people.

So I show up at Life Source again, this time on a Thursday night after work. The Clipboard of Personal Questions appears again; I weep internally.

Different people are on duty tonight. They argue less over whether I weigh enough and things seem to be going smoothly. The machine is working this time and my veins must be large enough because the needle slides in easily. My snobbish cultural education decides a viewing of Groundhog Day is in order, and I settle back to watch Bill Murray’s misfortune.

But the misfortune on display this evening would turn out to be mine.

My nurse (oh, let’s just call her Petunia, k?) keeps fussing with my machine, staring at some sort of pressure meter. Eventually, she’s satisfied and walks away.

A moment later the needle starts vibrating around in my arm.

Now, vibration is not all together a bad thing. For example, the ability to hear is something I enjoy. This sensation is possible due to sound waves causing my ear drums to vibrate, sending a decipherable signal to my brain, allowing me to understand that you just said, “no means no.” Another example: The Beach Boys’ “Good Vibrations.” An excellent song, defining for later generations what a perfect single is. I’m sure some of you can imagine another example of vibration (and did so right away) without any of my help. All of these are good.

A shaking tube sucking the blood out of my body? Not so good.

I stare at the jittery fluid extraction device, the cheer Harold Ramis had provided me with quickly draining away. Someone takes notice.

“Is anything wrong?” Petunia asks.
“Well, yes, unless this thing has a spin cycle,” I answer.

Suddenly, I have more attention from the staff than the TV did a moment earlier. They adjust the needle, driving its point further into my arm. It hurts. It hurts pretty badly.

They fuss some more; the grimace on my face increases in intensity. I begin to think that maybe forcing the needle further and further into me is not the best course of action. I’m not a bottomless cavern, after all.

My old friend P (something Slavic) appears and comes over to help. She touches my arm just above the needle; it’s rock hard.

“Alright, we’re going to have to stop,” she says.

The needle had gone through my vein. I was leaking fresh blood into my arm along with the blood being sent back to me deprived of platelets. Happy happy joy joy.
They unplug me and strap a bandage on. I notice that the tube is full of my blood as Petunia comes back.

“We weren’t able to reinfuse your blood. So unfortunately you won’t be able to donate again for 56 days.”

Life needs a soundtrack because in my head Handel started blaring from all my brain’s synapses. In 56 days, I’ll be a thousand miles away from this place and their wretched, life-saving Samaritan ways.

I return to the lobby, grabbing a seat for the required fifteen minute “cool down.” I eat some Oreos and browse the newspaper. The receptionist just sits there watching me.

“I’m sorry about what happened,” she says.
“Oh, thanks. I guess these things just happen,” I say. I’m too forgetful to hold grudges, so I usually anticipate the memory lapse and don’t care from the start. I joke instead.

“Shouldn’t you guys have some Anne Rice novels lying around?” I inquire.
“What hunny?”
“Anne Rice. She’s a popular novelist, writes about vampires.” Still nothing. “This is a blood bank.” Zero reaction. “You know what? Forget it.” I throw back the rest of my juice and depart, my opinion of the place falling and falling.

And the bastards didn’t even give me one of those goddamn stickers saying, “Be nice to me. I gave blood.” I at least deserved one saying, “Don’t touch my arm. I tried to give blood and earned a hematoma.”

It’s been almost a week. I still have a bruise.

And so arises a challenging conundrum: I will at some point in my life again be petitioned for blood donation. What do I do?

It seems unfair to stop helping save lives because of this experience at one place. On the other hand, I’m 0 for 2 in the span of a few weeks. Maybe I’m just cursed.

As I type away, the computer screen illuminates the inner part of my arm, bringing my gaze to rest on the yellowish bruise. I scoff at their incompetence, yet as I do, I can’t help but think that if I had massive internal bleeding instead of a bruise, I would want there to be donated blood there for me.

I decide to give it another shot someday. Not now. Not for 56 days, at least. But someday, I’ll try again.

The phone rings.

No. It can’t be. It’s only been 5 days, nowhere near 56. Maybe they’re calling to apologize, to check up on me. That must be it. Or it could be someone else entirely: a friend, a relative, a wrong number. Somehow I’m not convinced. I pick up the receiver.

“Hello?”

My heart is pounding. I can’t hear the first couple words because of the resonance of my thumping rib cage, but the last two words cause my heart to beat more violently.

“…to donate?” the voice of Satan asks.

Silence. Not only on the phone line, but in my mind. This wasn’t one of those moments where thoughts rush over me and I have an inner freak-out. There was literally silence in my being. I couldn’t think about this phone call not really happening because, as far as I was convinced, it wasn’t happening.

“Hello?” Lucifer asks impatiently.
“What?” I manage to squeak out.
“This is the Salvation Army. Do you have any clothes to donate?”
“What?” I’m still in a daze and the request confuses me.
“Clothes. To donate. Do you have any?”
“Just clothes?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s it?”
“Yes, sir. Just clothes.”
“Do I have to fill out a clipboard?”
“No, just leave the clothes outside and we’ll pick them up.”
“Do I weigh enough?”
“Huh?”
“I only weigh 123 pounds.”
“Um…yeah, that’s fine. Just leave the clothes on the porch and our truck will pick them up.”
“How long will I be hooked up to the machine?”
“What? There’s no machine. Just put a box of clothes outside.” He’s getting frustrated.
“What if you can’t reinfuse me?”
“Just put the clothes outside! This isn’t difficult. I’m not trying to draw blood.”

I faint.

Paper Jam

All my life, people have been trying to get me to do work in advance. They’ve suggested outlines, first drafts, schedules, assignment notebooks, rewards, punishments (if you’re into that sort of thing), and therapy. None of them succeeded. I thrive on the deadline and always work right up to it, printing out my finished product moments before class.

But if there is one thing that could possibly make me change, I’ve found it: IT. The Information Technology computer lab on Cummington Street is doing what others could not.

It’s the experience of being in the lab, not the lab itself. My behavior is not miraculously changed just by descending to the basement. If I could fix most of my problems by descending below sea level, I’d be attending the University of Death Valley.

I climb down the stairs to the lab and search for a computer, the most daunting part of the printing process. Everyone in the room, all (and I’m estimating here) two hundred of them, turns to look at me as I enter. You’d think I was holding a gigantic steak in front of a swarm of snow leopards. Is what’s currently occupying all of their screens so dull that the mere appearance of another student satisfies them in ways only Lost usually can?

Fortunately, I’d earlier emptied my pockets of spare meat products, effectively safeguarding me from the snow leopards playing minesweeper in the fifth row. After a short search, I find an unclaimed computer and nestle myself in front of it. I enter my approved password, one that satisfies all of the requirements put forth by BU: capital letters, lower case letters, numbers, punctuation marks, and a reference to the presidency of Calvin Coolidge. It’s accepted and I go about my printing business.

Now, I know you’re supposed to wait for the infoprint message telling you that your job is done. They practically teach that as doctrine. The computer says it; posters posted all over the room say it; the technicians behind the counter incessantly repeat it. I’m half expecting a Bruce Springsteen song about it to come blaring over the PA system.

However, I don’t see the logic in it. Since I’ve clicked print, I’m just going to sit there and read Robinson Crusoe. Why not log off and allow someone else to use the computer rather than take up an entire machine by simply waiting for a confirmation? Perhaps, I’m being too utilitarian.

I log off and lean against the far wall, reading my book. After twenty minutes or so, I go up to the window to see if my printout is ready.

“What’s the name?” the attendant asks.
“Rkennedy,” I respond.
“Hasn’t come out yet. Wait a few more minutes.”

I return to my perch against the wall and devour a few more pages of Defoe. Time is short and I need to head off to class soon, so I move for the line once again. At that exact moment, every person in the lab, all four thousand of them (once again, estimating), sprints for the line. I end up somewhere in the middle.

As I stand there, quietly reading, my companions-in-waiting begin to disturb me.

“Hi,” a girl chirps.
“Hello,” I reply and keep reading.
“Why doesn’t my boyfriend like me?”
“Pardon?”
“He’s never excited to see me. There’s no intensity anymore. I need that; I need someone to want me desperately, like in a Julia Roberts movie. Do you know what it’s like to be seen by someone as the cutest thing in the world?”
“Um-”
“Do you think he’s settling for me? I want him to be happy, too. I don’t just want him settling for any girl.”
“Honestly, I don’t think he’s the one that needs to be settling.”
“Why did my beetle die? I was keeping him in a jar and feeding him leaves twice a day?” asks a boy.
"Am I bizarre?” asks another.
“Quesadilla?” offers someone else.

This is ridiculous. Just because I’m standing in close proximity to someone does not mean I’ve agreed to be their psychologist. I didn’t marry Oprah in order to launch my career and get my own TV show. Leave me alone.

“Rkennedy,” I plead to the man behind the counter when I finally get there.
“Did you get the infoprint message?”
“No, I didn’t wait for it becau-“
“ALWAYS WAIT FOR THE INFOPRINT MESSAGE!!”

The man then pulled a kitten out of a drawer and decapitated it, just to drive his point home. Stunned, I stumbled back against the wall, content to wait just a little while longer. As I watched the line slowly shrink, I began to outline my paper due early next week, just to get ahead, and hopefully help the poor kittens keep theirs.

Order in the Court?

I’ve always thought that people who neglect their duty as citizens by not serving on a jury are bastards. You live here and you enjoy the benefits this country presents you with; the least you can do is help run the system that protects all that. Not serving because it’s inconvenient or annoying is unjustifiable, and those guilty of it are bastards.

Today I was a bastard.

A week ago, I received a jury summons for The Circuit Court of Cook County, requesting my presence on the 30^th of January. This date occurs after I return to Boston, effectively preventing me from attending. All I had to do was tell them that.

But I didn’t, and I left for the east coast. And what do I find in my mail box upon my return? A jury summons for the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. How fitting.

It’s not that I’m a bad person. I’m no saint; I do have impure thoughts from time to time. But compared to most people, I’m a nice guy. Open-minded, caring, thoughtful, smart: all concurrent with the personality of a male who rarely gets dates.

And while some complain that being a nice guy is the worst because it keeps one celibate, it’s even worse to be a nice guy and summoned to jury duty because you’re guaranteed to get picked. Think about it: you’re the prosecutor and your choices include an ugly bigot machinist named Fritz, an elitist trophy mom named Belle, or an English major named Bobby Kennedy (remember, you’re in Massachusetts). They might as well send me a room key with the summons.

So I call the number for information about being excused because of undue hardship. A travel distance of one thousand miles must surely qualify. And, of course, it’s an automated menu.

“Press 1 if you need directions to the court house. Press 2 if you need to be excused from duty. Press 3 if you have any special needs or dietary restrictions. Press 4 if you thought Mariah Carey and Pamela Anderson looked hideous at the Golden Globes.”

I pressed 4, hung up, dialed again, and then pressed 2.

“If you are seventy years or older, press 1. Otherwise press 2.” I press 2.
“Enter your Juror Number.” I do.
“To be excused automatically, enter your bank account number and PIN.” I hung up.

The form says requests for excusal need to be submitted in writing. So I wrote up this nice little letter for the Jury Administrator.

Dear Sir or Madam,

What’s that? I can’t hear you! Maybe it’s because I’m in New England during a monsoon storm. My power was out all morning and I got soaked through on my way home from class. Or maybe I can’t hear you because sound doesn’t travel this long a distance easily, and neither do I. But I probably can’t hear you because this is a letter and you’re probably not even vocally addressing me in the first place. I’ve included pictures of me lying in a puddle, sleeping on a park bench, giving the governor the finger, and riding a statue of Samuel Adams to prove my whereabouts. Have a wonderful day of dealing with jurors and keeping Judge Judy’s podium stocked with Midol.

Your friend and a little more,

Bobby Kennedy

So that’s one summons down, one to go. But there’s no way to get out of the Massachusetts one. It specifies that students studying and residing in the state at least 50% of the year are obligated to serve. I check my schedule and that day in March is actually a light one. Jury duty it is.

Not everyone believes my letter will do the trick. They think I should have been more formal, including official University documents rather than pictures. They’re being absurd. If there’s one occupation I know that prefers to break the rules and just do the fun thing instead, it’s a judge.

I don’t hear back from the Chicago office. What could possibly be taking so long? One look at the pictures proves I’m a hardworking student unable to break from his studies. I have a legitimate reason to be excused here.

Why is the Judicial branch picking on me? It’s not my fault that it always places third to the Executive and Legislative in importance during social studies class. Why didn’t the founding fathers give it some awesome power? Like the ability to command cod or the power to tax chewing gum. Maybe then it’d stand out and be more highly respected.

I checked my mail today. In it was a summons to be a judge in the state of California. I give up.