the Medium
OPINIONS
Wednesday, GAYpril 11th, 2018
“When you shake it, it gets all big”
CALL ME BY MY NAME
UNIVERSITY VOICES
What’s your spring fashion must-have? “A sweater than can withstand weather from 2580 degrees.” Stacey Perez Meterology minor.
“The love of my mother, the pride of my father, and the strength of my ancestors from generations ago.” Jason Philips Big Goodwill customer.
“Necklace with locally sourced shark tooth.” Greg Lam Small business saturday is his favorite holiday. LIKE, NO
I’M NOT AN INSTAGRAM FREE-RIDER BY JENN ERIKSON I’ve been an Instagram user for over 5 years and I haven’t really gotten the hang of it until recently. At first, I wasn’t sure about what aesthetic I wanted for my profile and what thematic direction I wanted to take it in. As I gained more followers, I became more in tune with the inner workings of the gram. I found that many people scroll through their feeds and like almost every picture they pass through. I find that liking every picture with reckless abandon regardless of whether you actually like the picture is ingenuine. I only “heart” pictures that I actually like. I don’t post frequently, but I have found that whenever I do post pictures, I get a large number of likes on pictures. Some have accused me of freeriding on Instagram, as the likes I receive on my pictures is disproportionately larger than the number of pictures I like. I would disagree with such a derogatory label. I hope that people would expect me to uphold my integrity online as much as they would offline. Social media is full of sycophants and I will not take part in a culture of such superficial flattery. I just can’t compromise my values for the sake of others’ pride. Follow me @hotgirljenn27 (disclaimer, I might not follow back)
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BELIEVE IT OR NOT, MY NAME IS NOT SAM BY SAM I AM NOT
The first twenty years of my life have been a lie. To appease the whites, I have been forced to avoid the cringe-worthy conversations and change my name, which actually is Shyamasundaram Thiruvanallam, to simply, Sam. Like what the hell do you think of my parents? You think that a pure-bred Indian couple would actually name a kid Sam? No. I was born and raised in India for fuck’s sake. Always remember this, if an Indian ever gives you an Anglicized name and that small voice inside your head questions whether or not that really is his/her name, there is a 99.9% chance that your voice is right. Of course he/she is lying. In a world where coming out as gay has become an everyday phenomenon, I am starting a new movement: #MeTooPart2. If you have been a victim of whitewashing, this movement is for you. I would really appreciate the support and now would like to be called Shyamasundaram. If my name fazes you in any way, remember how easily triggered people get these days. No matter how hard you try to properly pronounce my name, you will be the victim for mispronouncing it. I have been the victim for twenty years, #enoughisenough. If any of you would like to donate to my cause I will be accepting donations atfuckyouforthinkingmynamewassam@gmail.com.
GOURMET OR NAY
I WAS TOTALLY BLINDSIDED BY THE HUMMUS ON MY EGGPLANT SANDWICH BY RICKY JORDAN I bought a pre-made eggplant sandwich from the Rock Café on Livingston and was caught completely off guard. I thought it had eggplant, mozzarella and basil, but there was some humms spread under the bun. Sure, I like hummus, but that’s not the problem. I’m not saying it tasted bad or didn’t add another flavor dimension, but it was totally unexpected. I enjoy a complex culinary dish as much as the next guy, but I’d prefer to know what’s coming. I don’t want to be floored every time I buy a sandwich from the Rock. If I order a Mozzarella Eggplant Basil sandwich on ciabatta, I want my expectations for such to be met. My trust has now been shattered by each and every student worker behind that deli counter and even the warm grandmother figure at the cash register. I used to see the Rock as a refuge from the cookie cutter franchise fare from the likes of Panera and Sbarro. The Rock is the closest reminder to the semi-gourmet food my grandmother cooked for me in my youth and this hummus fiasco is almost as bad as the time she tried to bake broccoli into her brownies and call them “greenies.”