The Black Marketmature

As a first year you have very little free time. So when you finally have a night off, it's important that you do something constructive with it.

“Party in room 1020! Who has efficient nipples?”

Night off from what, you may ask? Well, if for a moment you’d pretended to be someone’s Superman you wouldn’t have to ask that question. College life is hectic, and it doesn’t help when all you’re really good at is being really good at is being there in the evening, and never remembered in the morning. But there's a certain time every morning, after the papers have been written, that a calm washes over the place; and you can't help but feel peaceful...can’t help but letting it go that you’ll remain a faceless protector to someone you hold dear. To most people, it might have seemed like nothing had changed. But it had a little. You get to watch friends grow, even over short periods of time, and start noticing a change in their responses. You want every one of them to make the right choices, or at least the right choices for them, but really all you can do is wait and see and hope you’ve been a good enough friend. Still, that's not what this story's about. It's about the day I realized that admitting we're not heroic is when we're the most heroic of all.

Allow me to begin. As I walked along the pathway towards my 8:30 English class on an early November morning, I couldn't help but think two things. First, I do look stunning in my jacket -- I mean, come on, who wants a taste? Second, everyone's day begins differently around here. The art kids for instance are the most superstitious bunch. So they always start their mornings with an oddly homo-erotic ass slap, hug, and stand around smoking in an oval formation. I never actually see them rush to class. I wonder if maybe they’re expressing themselves by standing out and not running like everyone else. But then, I guess that’s what makes them art students.

And as I continue along, I see the athletics kids…and then their own personal good luck rituals. I wont go into detail there because clearly I’m not up to speed with these sorta things. See, I’m a political science major, and all I know is how to sound correct. That doesn’t mean I’m always right, I just quite simply go to class to learn how to sound right, and if you sound right, nobody knows you’re not. Still, I can’t help but feel like we’re all just wandering around campus until we find a clique to buy like college is some kinda personality black market.

I’m a little too prideful to admit I don’t think I belong as a political science kid. I can talk, I can even convince. I just don’t wanna be right, even when I’m wrong. Pride's a funny thing. A lot of times, pride can be pretty hard to swallow. But still, in good practice, pride never gets in the way. As for me, even if I wanted to put my pride on the line and finally do what I’ve been itching to do all semester, I can't -- I have to be careful.

Careful of what? Well, depending on whether or not I attempt it, you might be reading about it in my next blog. If not, don’t worry about it. Where was I? Right. Okay so I sometimes just want a fun clique, but I’m a thinker. I’m a talker and I hate being wrong, even when I wanna be. It isn’t me.

I’m top of my game or I’m not playing, that’s how I do things and as terrible of an approach as it may be, it’s mine. But this black market, I wouldn’t mind seeing what it offers, and who I could pretend to be once in a while.

Being right isn’t just about sticking to your gut, or circling ‘A’ over ‘B’ on your mid-term. It’s about a wide range of things, namely friends. I think I’m right about who’ll be okay, and who already is. There’s a couple I’d like to smack sometimes, and a few I wouldn’t mind helping through some issues, but all I can do is watch from the sidelines and hope I’m right about everything I’ve predicted. Basically, I see good things for most, and for the few I don’t, well, they’re not really my friends anyway so who gives a flying fuck if I’m wrong.

It got me thinking about heroes, and who needs to be one. Being Superman is too hard sometimes, especially for a first year. Unfortunately, around here things don't always end as neat and tidy as they do in college movies. Relationships aren't always magically fixed in ninety minutes -- you have to work on them. Problems don't always have easy solutions. And around here, nice people don't always win out. And at times like that, it's comforting to know there's always one thing that can pick your spirits up. Whether it’s putting in a college movie and watching it with some friends on the fifth floor lounge, or having a heart-to-heart with the girl in too-tall-boots at 4 AM in the freezing cold.

It’s a way of life. It’s my life, and though small and unappreciated, I’ll admit that its too hard being Superman, or that just once I’d like to be rescued from this apocalyptic nightmare I re-dream every Friday; never able to drink my problems away, and only to take on those of this one I love, who shouldn’t see me for who I am…and she doesn’t, because in truth I don’t really exist unless she needs me to.

There will always be a black market to sell your soul away in exchange for a new you, in all walks of life. Half the time I wish I would, but then, who’d buy my role? Maybe I don’t win out, but I’m there as much as I can be, and I do it well. And maybe I’m alright with coming to terms about who I am, and what I do for my friends, whether it makes an impact on them or not. I think…no, I’m right about this. I’m always going to be okay, and they’re going to be great, just as long as I’m there for every smile and every tear. I think tomorrow morning I’ll keep my eyes to the ground, and ignore the market around me.

“I guess he’ll always be a hero to me.”