Dicks, who took over control of the city’s police on June 2, waited only two weeks to put out a department memorandum to the city’s police officers ordering that they begin stopping, searching, and possibly arresting men who wear their jeans below the waist to show their underwear or buttocks. Under his guidelines, slightly baggy pants with the waistband of underwear showing only get a warning, but pants pulled down below the butt, or any exposure of the butt at all, are both punishable with a $500 fine or 93 days to a full year in prison.

The ACLU of Michigan has issued a letter to the self-named “Chief of Fashion Police” Dicks (whose name seems strangely appropriate), stating that the “new practice of stopping, searching and threatening young men with disorderly conduct for wearing ‘saggy pants’ is a blatant violation of the United States Constitution,” and demanding that the law be repealed by July 21. Dicks, however, has tried to dodge the allegations of constitutional rights violations by responding that “this immoral ‘self expression’ goes beyond freedom of expression; it rises to the crime of indecent exposure/disorderly persons.” While Flint’s legislation only names the exposure of genitals as indecent exposure, Dicks apparently finds barely-covered posteriors just as offensive and thinks his fashion sense should be universal.

If he is concerned with “immorality,” Dicks could make matching laws for women, criminalizing thongs showing above waistlines, short skirts, or low-cut, cleavage-baring tops. Or, if he is truly concerned with the safety of his citizens, he could crack down on actual violent crime instead of people who wear their pants low. But, rather than changing crime rates, it seems inevitable that this law will only change where criminals wear their pants. Sure, some people don’t like seeing boxer shorts as they walk down the street, but far more people would prefer not seeing violent crime run rampant in the city.

While the law seems laughable, and thus far only warnings have been issued, there is a more insidious side to the criminalization of “sagging”: Because the fashion is now considered a crime, police have legal probable cause to search saggers for weapons or illegal substances, treating them as potentially dangerous drug dealers, gang members, or other violent offenders–all because of where they wear their pants. Not only does Dicks consider the fashion statement criminal, but he stretches his own rule past the point of logic: In a video published by the Free Press, the police chief is seen stopping and issuing warnings to men whose boxers show openly, but also to some whose shirts hang low enough to cover their underwear!

While civil rights groups are saying it’s obvious that this “law” is targeting men of color, Dicks, who is African-American, insists,”This is not a black issue. [...] Many people from different ethnic backgrounds and races are doing this fad.” He may be telling the truth about his motivation. The style originated in prison culture, where men were not allowed to wear belts, and it has progressed into mainstream culture as a part of hip-hop and sometimes gang uniforms. However, it was once a predominantly African-American style. Now, the style has spread to other races and cultures and has become just that–a style. And yet it can’t be denied that the majority of “saggers” are still minorities. Only time, it seems, will tell whether the law is applied disproportionately to black individuals, but the chances seem high.

Fortunately, the ACLU has threatened to take action against Dicks and the police department if the law is not repealed, but in the meantime the male citizens of Flint have to watch their butts, literally. If Dicks chooses to ignore the ACLU’s demand, not only are the Flint’s citizens at risk for losing their right to self-expression, but so are the rest of us.

-Nas
“Sly Fox”

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Historically, New York has always been subject to turbulent, even violent relations between racial and cultural groups as they try to protect their “turf.” From race riots in 1863 to gangs warring over ethnic territory, New York has a long history of tension over change, even though change here is virtually constant. It comes as no surprise, then, that some people in my building see people like me (i.e., young and white) moving in as a threat. I can’t blame them, but I don’t agree with them, either. I’m not trying to invade anyone’s space, I’m just trying to get a toehold in the city, same as everybody else. I work hard for the little income I make, and Harlem is cheaper and closer to where I work than other place. So, I moved there. End of story. I just try to be friendly and respectful to everyone in exchange for the tense but peaceful relationship I have with my neighbors.

As a matter of fact, I love living in my area. I went to school in a mixed Bronx neighborhood and then lived on a Native American reservation, so being in the minority is nothing new to me. I like getting a taste of the other cultures as they mix together around me; just the other day my Korean neighbor taught me how to make traditional rice balls, and my favorite parties are at my friends’ apartment downstairs, where they set up various instruments from saxophones to conga drums to microphones and let people from different backgrounds jam. The block is always alive with music blaring from car windows and stereo speakers, from Reggaeton to hip-hop to salsa to jazz. For the most part, I love being around it and being a part of the community.

But, remember I was cranky? The reason for last night, or technically this morning, at 2:30 a.m., I was jolted awake by mariachi music blasting at full volume from speakers in somebody’s window. The music was so loud that even when I closed my windows and turned my fan on “High,” I could still hear every note and feel every jolt of bass vibrating the legs of my bed. I tried to go back to sleep, but it was no use. It was too loud. The music continued until around 5:00 am, and I didn’t get a wink of sleep. I considered calling the police or the housing authority, but I didn’t know which apartment it was coming from, so I thought calling to ‘tattle’ on them would have been more trouble than it was worth. Plus, I thought, it had to stop soon. Who parties at 4:00 am on Monday morning?

But now, here I am, too tired to get anything accomplished because somebody decided that 2:30 - 5:00 am was fiesta time. I’m sorry if it sounds culturally insensitive, since after all this is a “free country.” But, while freedom in America does give people the right to celebrate their culture, it also gives me the right to share a building with others and be treated with respect, or at least with common courtesy. What blows my mind is nobody else seemed to care, when it’s impossible that I was the only one whose sleep was disturbed. There are a lot of small children or elderly relatives on our block, not to mention people with jobs that they have to get to in the morning. And yet nobody did anything.

This shouldn’t end up being an issue of culture or race, because I think my complaints are justified. But, I’m still afraid to say anything because of my race. I don’t want to be seen as the prissy white girl who doesn’t like Mexican music, and I certainly don’t want my discontent to be a catalyst for tension to turn into hostility. But, I don’t think that I should be forced to sacrifice my health or happiness because somebody else wants to blast their music at inappropriate times, either.

I feel like I’m between a rock and a hard place, and this particular phrase makes me think. Maybe, rather than being diplomatic or just dealing with it, I should fight back. I’ll play some rock and roll, at full volume, out my windows at 4:00 am., or some country music, or Broadway musicals. Maybe some Irish jigs. What then? I can guarantee my neighbors wouldn’t appreciate it, but would they come knocking and tell me to turn it down, even though the Mariachi was apparently fine? Or, would they respect my right to disturb their peace? Is this appropriate, or am I just really tired and looking for revenge?

     Rip added the paper in his pockets. “I hate this shit.” He showed a sheet. “Why people write on it? I don’t want no pen on my shit.”
     Jacob inhaled, “Money is money.” Releasing smoke, he examined the air.
     Clouds were breaking, and Sun’s shine began to fix them. “At leas’ it ain’t rainin’.”
     “I kno’.”
     “It’s gon’ tomorrow too.”
     “No it ain’t,” Rip put the paper in his pockets. “That’s wha’ the news said.”
     “The new don’t kno’ nothin’.”
     “What? You a weather man now,” Rip smiled.
     “Might as well be. When they say it’s goin’ to rain, it’s sunny. When they say it’s goin’ to be sunny, it rains.”
     “You didn’t say that this week,” he looked at his friend.
     “They got lucky,” Jacob laughed. “You might be right though.”
     “Why you say that?”
     “Because tomorrow is Sunday.”
     “So…”
     “It’s always sunny on Sunday.” Rip gave a confused glare. Seeing it, Jacob continued, “You ain’t never noticed that?”
     “No,” Rip said shortly.
     “I’m tellin’ you, Sunday’s are always sunny.”
     “Wha’ about winter?”
     “In winter too,” Jacob paused, “It makes sense. S-u-n-d-a-y. Sunday.”
     “I kno’ how to spell,” Rip turned to the street and disregarded the idea.
     “Let’s bet.”
     “How much?”
     “Fifty.”
     “Ain’t got,” Rip patted his pocket.
     “You lyin’.”
     A loose smile came over him. Rip extended a hand, “Fifty.”
     “Fifty,” Jacob restated, stamped their agreement as official.
     As Rip shook hands, “You ain’t gon’ pay me,” he said.
     “Prob’ly not,” Jacob inhaled. A law car arrived at the street lamp. The passenger organized his shirt’s cuff. He straightened his tie’s knot. He reassembled the small shield over his left breast, exchanging a base stare at the two. “Ain’t nobody doin’ nothing.” Jacob spoke as he climbed the car trunk. “They need to gon’ ’bout they business.” He took a cigar out his pocket.
     “He was botherin’ me the other day.”
     Jacob lit, “For nothin’, huh?”
     “Always.”
     “I hate him,” his words were inside a grim playfulness.
     Rip smirked, “He hate you too.”
     “Prob’ly so,” Jacob tapped the amounting ash at his cigar end, going with the air before it hit the ground. “Ev’rytime he see me, look like he want to beat my ass.”
     “I kno’ how he feel,” Rip tossed the cigar from Jacob’s hand. Jacob raised his mid-finger. “It’s still lit.” Rip went to take it from the ground.
     Jacob kicked Rip’s side from his seat. He hopped onto the ground, dividing weight between the prancing tips of his toes. Rip sat the cigar in a wet water spot. Pant pulled on his waist, and hands stood up in front. An open fist was thrown; it touched Jacob’s face. Jacob placed three quick hands at Rip’s cheek. “Check it out,” Jacob lowered his fight. Rip revolved attention at the coming bodies.
     Reaching through the back window, Rip asked, “Wha’ ya’ll need?”
     “Two,” they replied in unison. Hands were exchanged, and paper was put into Rip’s pockets.

     In the kitchen’s sink, faucet water and oil went unmixed in a pan. At a very near distance, mop hairs soaked in a pink bucket, which bent on a single side. Egg batter and spilled grease floated on the surface of gray tinted water. Going back to the sink, Grace carried a dishtowel with skimmed yoke sewn into it. She turned the switch, letting the egg’s yellow untwine under warmer than lukewarm water. A rotten red wooden barrier held her attention outside the window. Some of its planks were not there, and playing children commonly ran through the holes. She recaptured herself. The towel was rung out. From the stove’s top to its handle and face, Grace slid her cloth while running faucet water ran behind the foreground. A glossy streak followed every stroke, making her return to the sink or use a different towel.
     With the mop staff cradled between her right shoulder and cheek, the bucket was taken outside. Both doors were allowed to be wide open, leaving ample space for pests of the night, mosquitoes and gnats. She emptied it next to the fence, changing the red rock next to it into burgundy. The mop head was strung on the fence’s spiked top. And its bucket was left on the porch corner when Grace took her body back in.

     An odd man strolled around the corner. His hair was really tightly bound and thick, resting on his scalp and face. Rip served him and the man left.
     “You seen ‘im before,” Jacob asked.
     “Nope.”
     “‘Nope,’” Jacob mimicked the inflection on Rip’s voice. “You ain’t never seen ‘im before?”
     “I said, ‘No.’”
     “You gon’ get us caught.”
     “If you scared, go in the house.”
     “Come on now,” Jacob responded.
     “Don’t trip.” Jacob began to part his mouth, bringing words to his lips. “Don’t trip,” Rip repeated.
Moon was painted fully. Sky was nearly clear. Trunks of cars rattled as speaker boxes pushed noise against them. Neighborhood children rode demotorized bikes; and lying over and on their yard fences, parents looked on. Jacob said, pointing at the gas station, “There go J.”
     “His shit look right,” Rip said inspecting the shiny, well-kept ride.
     “Don’t it.”
     “He got tha’ off the street.”
     “Hell naw,” Jacob spoke in disbelief.
     “Fo’ real,” Rip was still fixated.
     “How much?”
     “I don’ know.”
     “Who you hear tha’ from?”
     “Nobody.”

     He inhaled, “You don’t know what you talkin’ about?”
     “No,” Rip paused as a vehicle of females passed on the street, “you don’t know what you talkin’ about.”
     “I ain’t playin’ that game.” The two laughed at each other.
     “What you need?” Jacob asked to a very dark toned man.
     “Two,” he answered. Jacob extended to the back window. Discovering one, “Let me get one?” Without an answer, Jacob opened the backdoor. He reached over the seat closest to Rip’s side and grabbed one out of a plastic bag. “Here,” he turned and gave the man his request. “I be back,” Jacob began moving up the street.
     While facing the dingy couple, “A’ight,” Rip said.
     Crossing, Jacob recognized a truck as familiar and threw a peace symbol at it. He waited for safety, and then mounted the center divide. Following the tail end of a van, he met weather beaten painted cars and unmanned rooftops. Weed and mice made habitats. Unrecycled drinking containers and bags for chips were strayed on the sidewalk, forcing themselves against fences when wind decided to blow. Miniature plastic bags and guts of tobacco tubes went on garden-like gardens. Walking up his steps, Jacob acted strange at the appearance of a mop and bucket. Searching for keys, his cigar’s box fumbled out his pants. He picked it up and moved his body through the living room. “Where you goin’?”
     Strapping his backpack, Jason answered, “Jessy’s.”
     “Oh.” Jason moved beyond him. “Wait up.” At the corner dresser, Jacob refilled his bag and disappeared with Jason into the hallway. Knocking on their parent’s door, Jacob said, “We gon’.”
     Jason patted his pockets. His keys’ metal moved against one another. In a single line, he and Jacob moved down the steps. “Who was tha’?” Jason responded to his brother’s not at a passing vehicle.
     “I don’t even kno’.”
     “He knew you.”
     “No didn’t. We jus’ seen each other a couple of times.”
     “I wouldn’t talk to nobody I don’t know,” Jason words were straight and forward. Stepping into the street, Jason looked to see if the bus was arriving. “You kno’ what time it is?”
     “Nope.”
“It’s s’ppose to be here,” Jason turned to the sidewalk. Dropping his bag, Jason leaned his back against the bus signpost.
     “Buses always late.”

     A circular motion was turning everything. The living room walls rotated and the feet under him stepped outside a straight path. He walked into the heater, bracing his elbow on its metal visor. He opened the door. He asked, “Grace?”
     “What?” She stayed on her bed side. Fanning her hair away, she faced Maurice with a half dry face.
     “Nothin.’” Maurice went to the bathroom and spit in its sink. Stumbling through the hallway and brushing the heater once more, preparations for a meal were taken out the kitchen freezer. He dropped the contents into the pan, attempting to melt frost away. His hands were put around the refrigerators lower half, pulling and losing grip; Maurice fell to the tiles. Silence and seconds passed as he relaxed his head and watched the ceiling roam in circles. Rising along the countertop, his body bent and eye lids came down. He refocused over the sink, recalling the pan that it was holding. Unthawed meat was in it. And oily oval went over it. With the faucet still going, he moved back into the back.
     Grace had placed nightclothes on herself. Her face was clean, and hair settled on her ear like a pen or pencil. Laying back her right arm holding up her upper body, Grace crossed her legs at their knees. The door pushed hard against the wall. Startled, Grace forgot relaxation and asserted her night gown tighter around her chest.
     “What’s wron’ wit’ you?” Maurice’s hand went flush against Grace’s cheek.
     With a tender and slightly and blackened eye, she collected herself after Maurice’s slap. The back of his hand hit again, twisting Grace onto her stomach. He lifted the back of her gown and stripped under clothing, groping her and breathing gently whenever sedation displaced itself from her. As he dismounted, a jagged breath came from his wife’s mouth and smelled the pillow. The bedspread was placed over her, tucking her in. Maurice lit a cigarette and walked to his side of the closet. Grabbing a new wardrobe, he carried his body into the bathroom. He took a fast but thorough washing and returned. In the mirror, he reassessed his chosen outerwear and smiled. Taking a final look at his wife, he turned off the lights and left.

    Tasting the cigar plastic tip, Jacob tossed it. An ad for a motion picture motioned along with the bus’s moving rear end. He stopped and a reddish car turned in front of him. Down the street, its driver pushed the horn at a convention of bodies. Two teen aged had red on their faces from absorption of each other’s swings. The crowd urged them on, throwing them towards one another whenever one decided to turn away. Jacob shook his crown. He dug in his pockets, tearing the packaging from brown box. Putting flame to a cigar, he continued towards the intersection.
     On the outskirts of bunched people, Jacob took a stance. Yellow tape was being unrolled and pink flares were being broken. Officers pulled their vehicles up at each corner, trying to retain order. Across the divide, law dogs were about the overhand. Authorities took photographs. And a figure stretched on the four-wheeled stretcher. Jacob reversed his feet, bumping into spectators as he paced home.
     The water was still going, almost falling into the sink. Through the hallway, he reached and knocked on his parent’s room, “We’re back.”
     Grace began to wake. Her face pulsed. She rose from the sheets and noticed her one-half nakedness. Moving to the vanity mirror, Maurice began to drip down her legs. A confused expression went frantic over her bruised look. “Wait…I…” she thought to herself. Tears cascaded as she threw her fist into the person in front of her.
     Jacob chased the glass breakage. He knocked. “Mom? Mom?” he said into the closed door. He grew restless and placed it open. Grace was comforting herself on the floor. Legs were shut and pulled in protection towards her chest. Rosy blotches were soaking her nervous hands and the carpet immediately about her. Jacob rushed to the linen closest. Taking a body towels, he wrapped his mother’s bleeding and cover things he should not be seeing. He asked, “When?” Grace sat on the carpet, teetering herself in stillness. “Where’s Maurice?”
     “I woke up an’…”
     Jacob ran into the bathroom and ran water into the tub. He placed his hand beneath the faucet to try temperature and prevented water from returning into the pipes. “Come on, Mom,” he led her to the bathroom. “Keep your hands out until the blood shows.” Sitting at the tub’s neck, tears trickled down her face; he washed them away. Leaving her to tend to herself, Jacob stood abruptly and calmed his walk each step towards his parent’s bedroom. Pulling out the second drawer, he asked “Alright?” Grace sat still. “I’m goin’ out.”
     Before his motion was completely outside the bathroom, “Where?” she asked as tears began building in her eyes.
     “To get Jason. He should be done by now. You okay, right?”
     “Yeah,” she said softly.
     Jacob closed the door, returned to Grace’s bedroom, and hurried outside. He stepped into a three-quarter gone water circle. Checking down, he misread a water hydrant’s extended knob and grazed his thigh with it. Momentum pushed him to the ground. He scraped his palms. A passing man asked, “You a’ight?” He slightly smiled, discovering humor in Jacob misfortunate feet. He picked himself up without a reply and patted his waist.
     Opposing traffic was sluggish to him. Car radios at top volume were far and paused. Passing people moved mouths with no sounds. Jacob walked. He patted and clutched his waist. He walked. Over saliva, articles that belong in filth cans, grimy puddles, tiny bags, broken lighters, used books of matches, shattered and intact bottles, protection for sex and their wrappers. He walked.
     At a corner, there was a large metal canister. Old food and infant underwear broke seals of big black plastic bags, which reached the canister’s limit. A decaying façade was behind it and old tunes were seeping out its wooden wombs. Jacob parted with his cigars, leaving it half smoked on the ground. “Seen Manny?” A cluster of broken dreams shook their heads in denial, pleading for loose coins as Jacob walked away.
     “Dude? Dude?” A young man said from a two-toned car wagon. Its hood was missing and fumes sprayed out the dirty exhaust pipes. “Dude? Dude?” Jacob walked in front of the car’s head lamps, disregarding the voice with his name in it. “Hey, Dude?” he said once more, pressing his horn at Jacob’s feet that pressed upon the concrete walk. Jacob patted his waist. Paying attention to his thoughts, he bumped into a woman carrying bags of grocery. “Damn, watch where you goin,’” she yelled. He walked, splitting a group of five young men who were splitting a small container of drinking alcohol.

     Maurice pulled parallel to the curb. He released himself from inside, tracing truck front in order to open the passenger passage. She stepped out with higher than high heels and a black dress. Holding her hands, he pushed them behind her back. A smile came over her face while she backed into the shutting door.
     From the bending the sidewalk, Jacob saw his father taking an unknown woman into their home. He inhaled a final pull and lowered his cigar carefully. He moved his feet in haste. Coming after the recently closed front door, “Who’s this?” he asked.
     With indifference, Maurice answered, “A friend.” He stood quiet and upward, staring at his son.
     “Look,” Jacob said shortly. Maurice glanced at his wife’s coming into the hallway. Under its darkness, it was difficult to notice the swell on her face and the shredded skin on her knuckles. Arms were free alongside her side, looking at the woman next to her husband.
     “You can’t do this.” Three sharp sounds dispersed red dabble from Maurice’s body. He inched back and fell. The other woman failed to wipe blood off her Jezebel dress. The forty-five caliber hit the carpet a few feet from Maurice’s leaking chest. Jacob took a look at his mother’s hiding in the hallway corner. And he leaves.

Today, the debate rages on. Just last year, Nobel winning biologist, Dr. James Watson, who headed America’s role in the international Human Genome Project, came under fire for suggesting that blacks are not as intelligent as whites. In the medical community, some favor sorting humans based on race because of assumed genetic health differences. Others claim dividing individuals based on genetic differences is arbitrary.

Working to quell the debate, direct the the public’s imagination and the scientific community’s characterization of the biological significance of race, A multidisciplinary group at Stanford University recently published 10 guiding principles on using racial categories in human genetics . Question: Do these recommendations carry any weight or are they meaningless? If meaningless, what will it take to debunk the belief in genetic racial superiority?

Here are the principles as translated by NewScientist Magazine. Click here to read the open letter first published in Genome Biology.

1. All races are created equal

No genetic data has ever shown that one group of people is inherently superior to another. Equality is a moral value central to the idea of human rights; discrimination against any group should never be tolerated.

2. An Argentinean and an Australian are more likely to have differences in their DNA than two Argentineans

Groups of human beings have moved around throughout history. Those that share the same culture, language or location tend to have different genetic variations than other groups. This is becoming less true, though, as populations mix.

3. A person’s history isn’t written only in his or her genes

Everyone’s genetic material carries a useful, though incomplete, map of his or her ancestors’ travels. Studies looking for health disparities between individuals shouldn’t rely solely on this identity. They should also consider a person’s cultural background.

4. Members of the same race may have different underlying genetics

Social definitions of what it means to be “Hispanic” or “black” have changed over time. People who claim the same race may actually have very different genetic histories.

5. Both nature and nurture play important parts in our behaviors and abilities

Trying to use genetic differences between groups to show differences in intelligence, violent behaviors or the ability to throw a ball is an oversimplification of much more complicated interactions between genetics and environment.

6. Researchers should be careful about using racial groups when designing experiments

When scientists decide to divide their subjects into groups based on ethnicity, they need to be clear about why and how these divisions are made to avoid contributing to stereotypes.

7. Medicine should focus on the individual, not the race

Although some diseases are connected to genetic markers, these markers tend to be found in many different racial groups. Overemphasizing genetics may promote racist views or focus attention on a group when it should be on the individual.

8. The study of genetics requires cooperation between experts in many different fields

Human disease is the product of a mishmash of factors: genetic, cultural, economic and behavioral. Interdisciplinary efforts that involve the social sciences are more likely to be successful.

9. Oversimplified science feeds popular misconceptions

Policy makers should be careful about simplifying and politicizing scientific data. When presenting science to the public, the media should address the limitations of race-related research.

10. Genetics 101 should include a history of racism

Any high school or college student learning about genetics should also learn about misguided attempts in the past to use science to justify racism. New textbooks should be developed for this purpose.

But when I heard his line about how he expected the checks to “turn this economy around” and “encourage job creation,” my excitement faded into a fit of derisive giggles, like I usually have when I think about poor old George. Not to say I empathize with him, but the guy is just so misguided that sometimes I want to pat him on the back and tell him - in a supportive way — “You’re such a moron. I can’t wait for you to be out of here.”

I mean, seriously. Not that I don’t love free money, but $600? How is that going to help me stimulate the economy? Armed with $600 I could put a serious dent into a month’s worth of groceries and utility bills, with maybe some left over for a night on the town with friends. I could put it toward my rent and have some extra money left over, maybe, but what’s that going to do for the economy when I pay my rent every month anyway? I thought of getting out my old party streamers for yet another “George W. Sucks!” party, but at this point they just seem redundant.

Because, really, what did his crack team of economists think $600 each would do for the middle class? Pay off the mortgages people are paying on houses worth less than they owe? Jumpstart the stock market? Somehow convince the rest of the world that we’re economically viable again so they’ll start trading in their Euros for dollars? What our economy needs is not a few hundred bucks dumped into summer vacations or credit card debt; it needs serious investments of thousands and millions. It needs a strong dollar, and it needs, more than anything, for Americans to believe in its power–not throwaway tax rebates.

I ended up ingloriously blowing through my check on bills and random entertainment. I guess I stimulated the economy in my own miniscule way, but it felt dirty somehow, like I’d been tricked into acting as if I’d gotten an extra paycheck when I really was just taking pity handouts from the Right Wing. Looking for clues as to how we were supposed to spend this money raining down from Capitol Hill, I got online to see what others were doing. I found a great website called, “How I Spent My Stimulus” with all sorts of cool ideas from those who had already spent theirs. One guy blew his on 2 oz. of “great weed.” A couple got their baby boy circumcised, and one guy just filmed himself burning his check. But, none of these appealed to me. None of these seemed the appropriate way to say “up yours, Bush,” which is what I wanted to say.

But, just recently, the numbers have started coming in and it turns out that a large number of people felt the same way. According to the Huffington Post:

“An independent market-research firm, AIMRCo (Adult Internet Market Research Company), has discovered that many websites focused on adult or erotic material have experienced an upswing in sales in the recent weeks since [Economic Stimulus] checks have appeared in millions of Americans’ mailboxes across the country.” Kirk Mishkin, Head Research Consultant for AIMRCo said, “Many of the sites we surveyed have reported 20-30% growth in membership rates since mid-May when the checks were first sent out, and typically the summer is a slow period for this market.”

I can’t remember the last time I felt this great about the American People. I’m not joking. We took our economic stimulus money from the Right-Wing conservative government, and we spent it on porn. Probably, the very last industry that George W. had in mind when he urged us to turn the economy around, but one that most Americans would support more if they had a few extra bucks coming in. And as soon as we got those bucks, we went straight to the Internet with it. I salute you, George W., for stimulating something, even if it wasn’t the economy. Good job, old pal. We’ll remember you for this one.

Thinking about America as it is today is an exciting and mildly disappointing venture, much like the contemplation of the Greyhound bus company. It’s an act of faith to believe that a country so huge will deliver on its promises of personal life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness, just like it requires faith to stand in line for a bus that shows no signs of arriving, just because a giant corporation told you that it would show up. Living in America today is a different experience from that of the Founding Fathers 232 years ago when they signed the Declaration of Independence. Greyhound is the very embodiment of “free enterprise,” as laid out by the Founding Fathers: It has built its way to the top of the bus service industry by offering lower fares, easier access, and service to more destinations than any other bus company in America. It may not always work as quickly as you want, and it may not be as efficient as you hope, but just like the American government, the Greyhound will usually show up and deliver on its promise in one way or another.

And the Founding Fathers who laid out the framework for America and American capitalism, who made Greyhound possible just as they did today’s government, would probably have been impressed by how well Greyhound epitomizes “every man created equal.” Greyhound is the embodiment of multiculturalism and equal opportunity beyond the wildest dreams of the 18th century white man. Almost every Greyhound bus, particularly those coming out of major cities like New York, is laden with travelers of multiple races and nationalities, who can hardly speak a common language but who nonetheless sit side by side in cramped seats and maintain their peace. Not only is it a multicultural experience, but the bus even levels the playing field for all socio-economic backgrounds. Offering low prices brings everyone from middle-class penny-pinchers to tourists who can’t show the proper ID or fork over the cash for air or train travel. In many ways, it seems, Greyhound seems to be a mirror of exactly what the Fourth of July makes us remember, the equality and the opportunity of America and its dream.

All that being said, however, anyone who has spent time on a Greyhound bus can attest to just how “un-dreamy” this capitalistic nightmare of a company can be. The past few times I have traveled Greyhound, the buses arrived and left anywhere from fifteen minutes to an hour and a half late. I’ve had an incompetent driver who got so lost that he had to stop at a gas station for directions. I’ve had a bus break down at a scheduled stop, only to hear the corporate office tell my driver to wait for the next bus - which came through four hours later. I’ve had a bus blow all three front-right tires because the driver ignored the frantic gestures of other drivers trying to tell him he had something stuck on his axle. Overall, Greyhound’s employees, drivers and otherwise, are unhelpful and unknowledgeable. Often, I’ve wondered if there is a training program in existence for them, and if so, how anybody passes it. And it’s the same with this country as a whole, in many ways. Just like the Greyhound, which shows up late, one of our favorite mottos, “every man created equal,” is still not really being upheld in light of discriminatory laws and practices against homosexuals, minorities, and women. Just like Greyhound drivers, our elected officials often get lost in the haze of power they have amassed, forgetting their ideal destinations in the hearts of their people and aiming instead for the money. Sometimes when things go badly here, our government doesn’t give us the response that’s best for us, as the entire Bush administration has done for eight years, trying to fix the breakdowns of our foreign relations, international reputation, and economy. And sometimes we screw up royally and keep on driving even when our tires have blown out completely, like in the war in Iraq.

And yet, Greyhound and America trucks, or rather buses, onward. Despite their abominable customer service and horrendous internal operations, Greyhound continues to be the largest bus company in the country, just as American continues to be, despite its iniquities and bunglings, a beacon of freedom to the rest of the world. Greyhound is living the American dream and, despite its inefficiencies, helping others to do the same. Even if part of living that dream on a Greyhound means being jolted awake as your bus hits potholes and rattles so loud that you’re certain the bumper is dragging on the ground or the luggage is falling out of the under-carriage, there is a certain amount of freedom in the terror you feel. Of freewheeling excitement, just like Founding Fathers probably felt when they signed their names on parchment 232 years ago.

I say this with conviction because, when I woke up somewhere in Eastern Pennsylvania, convinced that the bus was about to lose its front axle and go careening down and killing us all instantly, I realized something truly fantastic about what it means to be an American. In this country, where we are blessed to live free, we do not walk outside to be controlled by fear of government interference, or of invasion, or even of being told what to do by the authorities. We are able to decide whether taking the chance of being overbooked or stranded, broken down or lost, is worth the chance to pay a minimal price for transportation. Call Greyhound a curse or a blessing, but it is, at its heart, the most American of companies, and it offers Americans (and visitors, too!) the opportunity to exercise their freedom to take advantage of it.