Stop It!

Don’t judge a book by its cover. It is such a simple phrase that has been told to us over
and over again, but yet we forget it. Each day there are thousands of kids who walk through their
schoolhouse hallways afraid. Afraid of what is to come because they are judged and bullied,
their lives deemed worthless by society. School is supposed to be a place of safety, a place where
children go to get an education to succeed in life, a place that is supposed to support them in
their growth as human beings. Unfortunately, the world has twisted and the reflection of school
has become a negative view; a house of hell, the concentration camp, the slaughterhouse.
Society is constantly changing, but humans seem to be two steps behind when it comes to
acceptance. Every school is diverse in its own way; the key is to accept people for who they are,
not to judge their lives. They are not perfect and neither are you, stop acting like God because
you have no reason to cause everyone to be afraid of you. Humans gloat about how we are the
superior species because of all the magnificent things that are possible because of ourselves. We
gloat how we have evolved into beings of superiority but we constantly stoop down to the level
of the animals. We are territorial, marking out our distinct boundaries and when a person invades
into a set perimeter, the opponent attacks the unknowing victim. Life has become a jungle and if
you are not careful where you step, you may end up as someone’s next meal.
Being dinner of a carnivorous animal is a metaphor of high school bullying. In the
present, bullying has become much more extreme due to technology. With the use of technology,
all the sabotage is sneaky, like an animal hunting its prey. The bullies wait for the perfect
moment to strike, the moment when it will tear their victim down to nothing, the moment where
it will hurt the most. Unfortunately, the main targets of bullies have been homosexuals,
impregnated teens, and the mentally deficient. All have had to live in fear; afraid to be who they
really are because people choose to judge them instead of getting to know who they truly are.
There is a girl with red nails that you called a slut because she is pregnant at 15. No one
knows she was raped by her neighbor. No one knows that she is afraid to give up the baby out
of fear because her religion forbids murder. No one knows that she was thrown out on the street
by her parents for being impregnated. No one knows that she wanted to be doctor, but now will
spend most of her time raising a baby as a single mother. No one knows and no one bothers to
know, because it is just so much easier to laugh and spit in her face, it is easier to be part of the
problem than it is to be part of the solution.
There is a boy in the red baseball hat that you just called a retard because he is part of the
special education program. No one knows that his birth mother was addicted to cocaine while
pregnant with him, resulting in his birth defects. No one knows that he is living with his sixth
foster family, just waiting to be thrown back out on the streets. No one knows all he wants to do
is draw, to create something so spectacular that people will believe he is worth it. All of this in a
boy who has a couple issues that people are unable to tolerate. So society tosses him aside like a
broken toy; unworthy, pathetic, useless.
There is a boy with a red hoddie that you just called a faggot because he is gay. No one
knows that all he wants to do is be accepted by those around him. No one knows that his father
beats him thinking that he can beat the gay out of him. No one knows that he is afraid to live and
afraid to die. No one knows that he takes a razor blade to his wrist three times a week to cope
with the pain. No one knows his hopes and dreams because people either ignore or taunt him. No
one knows that he has written a suicide note and plans and hanging himself tonight. Society has
driven him to the point where killing himself is, what he believes, the only option. And no one
cares because he is attracted to the same sex.
All three were examples of typical teens that are bullied. None of them would speak up
out of fear. Fear of being judged by their peers, by their teachers; for being a rat, a snitch, a
coward. Humans were given two eyes to distinguish right from wrong, a voice to speak up for
those who are unable, hands to make a difference, and a mind to make up a choice. So use what
was given to you to do what is just. To stop the bullying that is plaguing America. To end
teenage suicide and self-mutilation. To stop the deep, red, blood from flowing from the veins of
your peers. To evolve form animals into actual, decent human beings. To end the fear that
paralyzes the body. To become a hero. To save a life.

Tinley Park Penitentiary

       Walking down the halls of the high school everything seems to lack color. The lockers that were once a vibrant red have faded in to a maroon, almost gray color. The walls have decayed from creamy beige to a stone gray. It seems lifeless.
       The bell rings. Students pour out of their classes. It’s spirit day and everyone is wearing different shades or orange modeling after their mascot, who wears a orange jumpsuit at all times. Although they are all different, they still have the same look on their face. Dread. They walk into their designated hallways drowning out everything their last teacher just explained and preparing for the next. This has become a routine, the minimal sentence here is three years. Officers hover around the halls, looking for someone to bust. They all get sent down to Mrs. Warden, that’s the last place you want to be. She’s the one who controls things around here. She has the power to take away the little freedom you have and elongate your sentence.

A couple of hours later, the students are released to lunch. Orange bodies line up in a lunch line awaiting to receive either over-cooked or under-cooked meals. The freedom of choosing their own lunch have been taken away too. The meals have been rationed and the variety has diminished. The students sit down on different tables, reminiscing on home cooked meals, they seem so unattainable. Someone rarely gets visits from family members bringing food.

The bell rings again and in a quick second the halls are deserted. Officers, again, are walking back and forth peering in to the classes; anyone who is seen doing something out of the ordinary is promptly sent to the Warden. Sitting in class you can often hear the sound of other students being escorted down. Their steps sound like chains rattling in the distance. Each officer is assigned a different hall. The halls are then divided into classes, or cells as the architects called them. Each one of these cells are divided by the year you are currently serving.

The students serving their first year are the worst they still don’t understand the rules and regulations. They still have hope something will change along the way, but the fourth years they know its going to be the same no matter how long you try to change the system. Most of the fourth years have witnessed failed attempts at cracking it, someone always tries. They try to change the way things are taught here. They explore the possibilities, think outside the box and try to create new pathways. This is strongly discouraged by the faulty and more importantly the Warden. Any disturbance to the way things have been set by past generations is frown upon and highly consequential leaving no room for growth and experience.

I sat in the waiting room, adjusting my purple dress with my withered hands. My frail body was, but a skeleton beneath the purple cloth. Men and women, like me, limped in and out of the office. They were wearing purple too. Nobody noticed them; purple is a ghost color compared to pink. A woman wearing pink walked into the office, things were dropped and the world was suddenly at their feet. The woman in pink has something I lack: breasts.

I used to get mad, angry, to the point of almost wearing pink during my next appointment. Then, I realized that it is not her fault people swoon. We live in a breast obsessed culture, so is the woman to blame? Or, is it us? Every time we purchase an “I love boobies,” bracelet, give money to the Susan G. Komen organization, or participate blindly in some walk in a “fight” for breast cancer. We encourage the obsession whenever we do these things. It is no longer about fighting for pink; it is about the status symbol wearing pink gets you. It is no body's fault and every body's fault. We cannot escape it; our obsession is rooted deep within us.  

She wears her sickness on the front of her chest, while mine is buried within me. When you look at me, you cannot see my double d; my double d is in my pancreas. I’ve never seen a bracelet that says, “I love pancreas.” Sure, there are organizations and walks, but they’re not publicized. I don’t see purple ribbons being sold in an effort to fight for me. But, like I said; we live in a breast obsessed culture.

My intention isn’t to downplay the seriousness of her breasts, she is still ill. But, so am I. Every week, I sit in this same seat and ponder these thoughts. The oncologist looks around the room and calls the women in pink to come first. When there are only people in purple left, he begins to call on us. As I take those dreaded steps forward, I’m reminded of something I always forget; the women in pink suffer as well. I’m reminded through the simple sight of the big breasted woman bent over a toilet.

Although we are fighting against a similar enemy, we are not entirely relateable. After five years of being worn, 81% of pink cloth is kept, while only 7% of purple cloth is kept. That is the difference.

Nobody takes these numbers into consideration while purchasing their next “volley for the cure” match ticket. Of course, “volley for the cure” is a pink fundraiser. Nobody questions it; they just receive their status symbol as “god like” for contributing to such a great cause. Don’t you think God would think about where he is putting his money? Do all of our efforts need to be pink? Is pink the most worthwhile cause?  

Susan G. Komen just cut their funding towards Planned Parenthood. Their only reason for doing so was political gain. Of course, they made up some bullshit excuse to cover it all up. Before you donate a bunch of money under the assumption that you’re helping millions of people, consider where your money would make more of a difference.

I’m not a saint. Before I was dressed in purple I thought the same way you did; I was breast obsessed. But, if you, for a second, put on some purple jeans you’ll see that there is more than what most people consider a big deal. There is always something more important out there; some different color that needs more help surviving than pink or purple.

So, if we all take our focus off of breasts, then our eyes will be opened to bigger issues we are facing. Maybe if we are able to redirect our attention to the pancreas, or lungs for instance, then we will be able to stop it, no matter what color it is.