It' Not Racism and Don't Protest

(this is kind of an introduction to my other blog post, where you can read, in depth, into what I am skimming over here)

Hello and welcome to another sentence by me. I am righting this write now because the general population does not seem to understand the situation they are protesting (Yes, those typos are intentional, which means they are not typos. Derive meaning from that as you wish). Many black men have been slaughtered by a machine that is powered by tiny men with big badges and everyone is pissed. Most people are attributing the cause of these unfortunate situations to something as basic as color. But this is not the case. This situation isn’t that simple to explain. Humans tend to strive for the simplest explanation to everything, but I assure you that these recent happenings are not black and white (by “black and white” I am referring to both the public’s tendency to simplify substance and, of course, race). Cops are all very aware of the fact that they represent the government. Because of this, men in uniform are wary. However, because they are trained in the police academy to be ready for any attack, they are hyper-wary (probably not using that hyphen corr-ect-ly). Hyperactive minds are not always safe in jobs that require you to act physically. This is because when you overthink your actions, you legitimize them. Therefore, a cop who lashes out violently will usually have a great reason for doing so, even if we don’t all agree with said reason. The problem we are all currently witnessing is not a problem of race, but a problem of class. Police officers, who see themselves wearing a uniform in a mirror each day, see themselves as operating higher than the rest of society (also, officers embody the law, which actually is higher than all members of society). They have been handed a badge that they have earned. It was a long and exhausting process to get the uniform they so proudly wear. So pride itself puts policemen and policewomen on a pedestal above us all. These blue men and women expect respect from the entire population. They feel that the title that precedes their name warrants such respect. “Yes, Officer Blank.” “Of course, Sgt. Blank.” This sense of entitlement, which comes from their title, in combination with the fact that officers expect an attack at any moment, propels and encourages violent behavior. Cops distance themselves from general society by growing closer with other members of their department. Since they all have common ground to relate through, Officers grow alone together. Autonomy. Through this, a divide is created between officials and the population. Uniform vs. No-Uniform. The real reason police officials are violent and even lethal in response to unarmed men and women is because they are so separated from real society that they fail to identify with the average joe/joan. Empathy and sympathy are too far to reach, thus making violence easier to perpetuate. Many cops have been killed in unexpected and unforeseen situations. Because of this cops actually think that they are at war with the population. But how do police officers asses and identify their enemy? In the police academy, prospective police officials are fed a constant dosage of objective facts (and it is only rational to shape your reality on objectivity, why else would we have science?). Statistics inform the minds of policemen and policewomen. Statistically, lower income citizens will commit more crimes. Thus making officials more aware of the lower end of society. Police officers are exposed to the lowest members of society every day. It is what they look for. There is a higher chance that a police officer will pull over a shabby looking car than a new BMW. They have been trained to discriminate, they get paid to do it. And, statistically, they are right to do so. But when cops are frequently exposed to the filth and scum of society, over-generalization occurs. They apply the attributes of ne’er-do-wells, vagrants, murderers, rapists, burglars, and thieves to the entire population because their encounters still linger in their minds. And remember they have distanced themselves from general society, which makes it easier to apply these over-generalizations because they don't interact with people that could refute their beliefs. Police brutality is a problem that exists with all races and all classes. It is not just about black lives, though they do matter. Like I said, the situation is not that black and white. It is easy to dismiss racism in court and even harder to prove it. By attempting to solve a situation through curing its super-subjective cause, chances of change are slim. The problem is not in racism but in training. Everyone is racist because everyone sees race. You can’t correct this. Not now and not ever. Humans are naturally wired to pay attention to differences, if you want to know why this is then read a blogpost I will be uploading very soon titled “Why We Will Always Hate We.” So point the finger at the very training that the police academy offers. The training that teaches officers to asses, judge, and discriminate against all member of society (but especially lower-class members). The kind of training that harbors over-generalizations. WE CAN’T KEEP BLAMING MELANIN, THIS IS A SOCIAL PROBLEM NOT A BIOLOGICAL ONE. It is statistically accurate to assume that a black man is below the poverty line and, thus, probably a criminal. This is true but wrong. Not because it is racist but because it is classist (whoa, I didn't know classist was a word. Thanks spell-check for teaching me something new!). If we disintegrate the dogmas that hold together the stigmas, then actual change is possible. Right now, nothing is being done. People are simply antagonizing the police. By protesting, people are furthering the false binary. This dichotomy is what is causing all of these injustices. If cops saw themselves as part of regular society, then they would treat black, blue, orange, yellow, mahogany, light blue, red, and white men with respect. It is essential to remind officers that we are all just humans. In this sense, think biologically and not socially. Behind the badge there are blood vessels and inside the handcuffed hands there is blood. We are all the same, cops and people are very aware of this fact. The only problem is that social roles distort this basic truth. We need to solve this problem socially through a biological emphasis. This is not about the color of one’s skin, but rather the color of one’s clothing. Blue or not, we are all humans.

Chris Vinan's Writer's Manifesto

also... here is a link to my short novel if you would like to read it: 

INSPIRATIONAL QUOTE for everyone to read before they continue:

"The world is ticking and you are tocking."

"You can laugh at anything...yes...anything."

-Chris Vinan (ME)

HIGH STAKES: The Race Against The Curb


Back then I remember how easy it was to stone a person. Witches, thieves, even black people. I don’t know what’s happening with society now; we should go back to stoning, there would be fewer problems. Sure I’m old, and I know what you’re thinking, but I’m not racist, I have a black neighbor. Sure he tries to steal my things every once in a while, but he can’t wash off his blackness, I cannot blame him. I even had a black friend once, Jimothy. He was more brown than black, but what’s the difference? We became friends because we equally hated our boss: an Asian.

Mr. Tagasoki was skinny, black-haired and rude. He felt so powerful because he successfully bombed the crap out of US. His people had killed my son, sent planes right into his heart. I remember the pictures of his body that were sent to me. Blonde hair wet with blood and his skin pulled back by fire, I cried like a baby. I didn’t go to work for two days after I saw those pictures. Mr. Tagasoki fired me.


Today is Tuesday, another day of dying. I don’t work anymore I just wander around, slowly pacing myself so I don’t run out of things to see. Everywhere I look my world has been ruined by races. The Japs bombed my son and the Mexicans spray painted my town. I don’t have the guts to shoot myself in the head, so I just keep living.  I have this itch to die that I can’t scratch; I’m too much of a coward. Wrinkly hands, wrinkly shirt and wrinkly demeanor, I hate myself. I’ve only been proud of myself twice in my life. When my son was born and when I was awarded for shooting the shit out of the Germans. I used my gun like a hammer, smashing the tiny inferior nails.

Today is Tuesday and helicopters still blow me back. I’ve decided that today I will have breakfast at a diner, a little break from the old-man routine. I tried to make breakfast for myself today, but it was pulled back by fire. Burned toast is proof that black is terrible. My legs hurt now and I’ve only walked one block, I hate being old. I remember the younger days, when you could stone your problems away. Now it’s all complicated by stupid laws, loud cell phones and yelling teenagers. I think I’ve aged because the world is so loud now; it makes it so hard to sleep. I’m tired as hell and its only 9 AM.  I don’t know how many blocks are left, each step is a risk.

Today is Tuesday, but not like any other Tuesday. Today I ran into my favorite slice of burned toast: Jimothy. “Long time no see,” he said as we walked to the diner together, major emphasis on the long.


The Indian waitress sat us at the oldest table and handed us two menus. I already knew what I wanted. “Coffee with a lot of cream,” I told her. Jimothy told me he was watching his weight because his health was aging. He ordered a veggie omelet, “With bacon. Oh, and a milkshake,” he added. While we waited for the waitress we talked about the good old days and ignored that terrible Tuesday.

Jimothy yelled about how much he hated Mr. Nagasoki. I agreed. We joked and laughed about Mr. Nagasoki’s cheap suits and his expensive dental jobs. The Asian had always invested large amounts of money into permanent things, like his teeth. Jimothy recalled a time where we found an invoice in Mr. Nagasoki’s desk for an eye surgery he had never gotten done. That damned chink was trying to widen his eyes for seven thousand dollars! Mr. Nagasoki was trying to be white; he was trying to be me. It sickens me that he was trying to blend into the whiteness of the world. He was trying to fool everyone, trying to fool me.


Jimothy told me that he had ran into the old Asian last Tuesday and that he was hard to recognize. Mr. Nagasoki had stopped him on the street for an old conversation about the weather. “Cold today isn’t it?” Jimothy said in his best gook voice. A nigger being racist, HAH, I never thought I’d see the day; everyone is trying to be white now. Nowadays, children with wet backs run around with American clothing, painting on American makeup and listening to American music. Everyone wants a white Christmas.

The re-enacted conversation went on for a good five minutes. Jimothy opened his mouth and flapped his tongue, each word more offensive than the next, I couldn’t stop laughing. Blacks are funny; it doesn’t surprise me that there are so many black comedians. Jimothy told me that the old Asian had paid for the surgery.  Apparently Mr. Nagasoki’s eyes were as wide as a white man’s.


I ordered another round of cream for my black coffee before I said goodbye to Jimothy and the cash register. I didn’t tell him where I was going, but for once in decades I had somewhere to go.
For the first time in forever I knew how many blocks were left to walk. I knew I’d find Mr. Nagasoki, I felt certain I’d run into him at that same corner where I’d run into Jimothy. I went to the corner and sat there.

Minutes passed, hours passed, people passed. Asian after Asian none of them were him. I never realized how similar they all looked. Mr. Nagasoki is like a piece of hay in a haystack. A chink in a chinkstack. He has about a billion twins, each from different mothers, but from the same motherland.

But Mr. Nagasoki wouldn’t look Asian anymore, he looks like me now. I don’t even know what I look like anymore. I removed every reflection from my house many years ago when I grew old and tired of looking at a wrinkly mirror. How am I supposed to find myself, if I don’t even know what I look like? I started walking in search of a reflection, searching for myself. I kept my eyes wide open on my search just in case he crossed my path. No sign of him.

A reflecting surface caught my attention and my face.


It was worse than I thought. Wrinkles slid down the sides of my reflection, each crevice deeper than the next. A wrinkle for each year that has passed, how long have I been alive? It seems to me that each past tear has eroded its way down my face. A wrinkle for my dead mother. A wrinkle for my dead father. A wrinkle for my dead wife. A wrinkle for my dead son.

My face is a map of sorrows. Time isn’t fair. My eyes can hardly see myself. Squinting and crying like a baby, I pressed my palm against the glass. Why was I so old? I had more wrinkles than a thousand-year-old oak tree has rings. I’m just a thirsty potted plant that doesn’t want any more water. I want to die already. I want god to blow out my candle.

 Looking at that reflection gave me the courage. I remembered where I kept my gun, I began running home. My aching hips creaking with each sprinted step. My back folded like an accordion, I didn’t care. My pain would end soon, with a bang. Street after street and avenue after avenue, each step closer to god.


I’m so happy now, I’m going to die. I’m so sleepy and that gunshot will wake me. That loud noise will mute the loud world. I can already feel the bullet traveling through my head, making its way towards heaven. It was so easy for me to kill japs, krauts, and wops, now it is finally easy to kill a white. Now it’s so easy to kill myself. The reflection gave me the courage.

Finally, I grew too tired to make it home but I had to keep running, I was scared I would outlive this brief moment of courage.

I had to rest; I sat down on a curb. Panting and groaning I clutched my heart. Loud buzzing sounds echoed in my ears. My hearing aid was damaged, wrecked by the loudness of the world. My eyesight wavering and wiggling in a haze of craze, I’m so thirsty now.

A light tap stabbed my shoulder. Another wrinkled hand clutching a water bottle. My thirst took its toll and my roots quenched their thirst. I looked up at my ironic savior. An Asian man with wide eyes looked down at me in pity. He hardly looked Asian. It was Mr. Nagasoki and behind him stood Jimothy. I felt like a coyote in a wolf pack.

When my eyesight returned I realized I was sitting at the same curb. The same curb where I ran into Jimothy and where he had run into Mr. Nagasoki. Earlier this Tuesday I had wanted to find Mr. Nagasoki and shoot him in the head, but there he stood now, above me, making sure I was okay. A calm feeling bombed me as I looked into his eyes. The loud buzzing blasted at my hearing aid. An epiphany quenched my thirst: We are all the same, all birds eating from the same hummingbird feeder.

I don’t think Mr. Nagasoki recognized me behind my wrinkles. The buzzing stopped. He turned around and kept walking.


This is a writing assignment for my Creative Writing class. In this assignment I had to follow a technique invented by Nancy Zafris for organizing short story elements. I really enjoyed writing with these guidelines because it helped steer the story in a great direction. This format helped push me to write vital plot points and characters. I liked the formula because it strung format and free will together. I was able to be creative and experimental while still adhering to the strict guidelines. Zafris clearly knows what she's talking about.

This assingment and its guidleines helped me bring out the critical thinker within me. I was able to think critically about Zafris' structure before adhering to it. Analyzing Zafris' structure and studying its progression helped me grow as a critical thinker. Thinking critically about this assignment helped me apply its rules and regulations better. Knowing about the formula inside and out really came in handy during the project. I knew where the story would veer off to next, so I prepared as I wrote. 

Writing this story was a little hard because of its content. I was constantly worried about the critical reception of what I was writing. Will I offend anyone? Will people understand that these words are a characters, not my own. I enjoyed writing stories that I was scared to write. The language I used alarmed me, but when I became the character I just kept writing.

Underneath all this writing there will be a few pictures. These are pictures of where I got my idea for this story. I picked out my character from a freewrite and decided to surround my story above him. I used this description of an old-man as a jumping off point for the entire story. I really liked how it came out.


HIGH STAKES: Hugging Hurts

Hugging my hunting gun, I step forward. Inches away from me stands a beast, a big beast, a big beast with big feet. “Just a deer,” I tell myself, I know I’m lying, I know what it wants, I know what it is.
Kill the killer before it kills. Little heart and little hands won’t bring the beast to the dirt. Mighty arms and mighty fists will smash the man in me.
Neck hairs rising and chest falling, I am scared. Only once have I felt like this before, when I was waiting outside the theatre. Pounding chest and sweaty palms, I stood there waiting for her.
Quick and reluctant. Rapid and frightened. So pathetic. Tiny man and towering beast, side by side, in confrontation. Under its chest bones I know there is no heart. Veins pump my fear, bulging and strangling my own neck. When will it go away, when will it leave me be?
Xena, the warrior princess, wouldn’t be afraid, and she doesn’t even have a rifle, I do, I am a man. “You have to man up,” I tell myself. Zeus wouldn’t be afraid, and he doesn’t even have a rifle, I do, I am a man.
All around me I hear the silence bellowing from the trees. But above me growls a growling monster. Cock my gun and point my eyes. Dying doesn’t seem easy.
Everyone I know and everyone I am won’t matter in a bit, in a few minutes I’ll be gone, in a few seconds my rifle will have met its match, I’m tired and exhausted, tired of trying, tired of waking up, tired of tiring ties, in a few beats my heart will retreat into silence, my being will fade into the silent trees, silenced and ashamed my rifle will retreat into the dirt, the soil doesn’t want me yet, the clouds aren’t ready for me, but the frightening fury wants me, it wants my flesh, it wants my bullet, it wants my everything, everyone I know and everyone I am, I am a dead man.
Forget me if you can’t. Gone.


This particular piece was very very tough to write. Our assignment was to pick a letter in the alphabet and begin the story with a word that begins with that letter. The challenging task was to have each following word begin with the following letter, according to the alphabet.

Alphabetical order was a difficult thing to comply to during the course of this assignement. I learned that, as a reader, I tend to enjoy a lot of self-diologue. I love books where the narrator contemplates plot elemtns to hiself because he is also the main character. Learning this about myself transcended into this assingenr.

As a writer I learned that I reflect the styles I read. This story was very mental for me. I wanted the story's setting to be inside the main character's head. It is better for a reader to become knowledgeable about a characters external conflicts by listening to their internal debate. This skill that I picked up really helped me explore myself as well. I placed myself into my character's shoes and wrote my thoughts. Learning this new skill was a great writing technique because it helped make a character's reaction more natural. 

Though I enjoyed the outcome of this project I feel I could still improve the skill I mentioned earlier. I want to improve my ability to recognize when to utilize that skill. I feel that I could really become a more natural writer if I knew when to become the character. Being able to recognize what assets and skills to use in various situations is vital to becoming a good writer. Like Batman and his bat utility belt, I want to have my own collected writing techniques and skills ready to use when I want. 

Below these next few sentences are a few images. These images are the first drafts of the story you just read. I wrote them in the back of a car on the way to see Anchorman 2 for a special screening before it came out. Sounds cool right? You'd want to go? If you dont want to go then something is wrong with you because apparently everyone wanted to go! When we got there the line was so long and the wait was too tiring and the theater was too full! We were not able to come in and watch the free special screening of Anchorman 2, months before its theatrical release. Anyways, these drafts are very hectic and premature. They were basically just thoughts exploding onto paper. But it was great to see the draft's shape change so much. It began a caterpillar and ended a final draft. 


Exhibit Z Video

Exhibit Z-Gallerie Di Difformite VIDEO


This piece is a video that I directed, filmed and edited. It is not a writing like the rest of the contents in this ePortfolio. I really enjoyed making this video because I was able to artistically experiment with composition, meaning and framing. The assignment was to copy the work of another author, and then deform it. I did this in this video by writing the original text on a hand, and then having it deform when the water washes it away.

In this assignment we each worked with a  group of students. I enjoyed my work because we all collaborated fairly and equally. We all veered off in our own directions but assembled a project in the end. The process was fun and entertaining and I hope you enjoyed my particular contribution to the overall project.



Old dog relaxing on his fur carpet
Smooth, greasy, golden stained hair
Eyes tired and ears tired

Chest rising and falling in his sleep
Smells of grass and sprinklers stain his coat
Pink tongue colored in wet

The rumble and grumble of a creeping truck
His subtle whiskers jab into the exhaust-tasting air
The mail man creeps and the dog sits

His ears and eyes tired and turned away
Hair poking and folding at the edges of his face
Uninterested and weary, he has forgotten to bark

In his younger years he enjoyed the occasional
Yap, bark and ruff
He is now unexcited about the world

He has seen it all
He has heard it all
His ears and eyes tired

The dog is tired of the mailman


This poem was very fun to write. I tried out a new technique when writing this poem. I found my dog and sat beside him and watched him for a few minutes before I began writing. I tried to study him so I could translate him naturally into words. 

I learned that, as a writer, I have a very tough time articulating my ideas onto paper. Ideas rush through my head before I start an assignment. When I begin, my brain goes dry. Sometimes I have a hard time translating my thoughts, ideas into writing. Writing thoughts is difficult because thoughts aren't tangible. When one writes about an existing item, place or person words form easier. This is because the words simply have to describe. How can one describe what doesn't exist? What description could there be?

I would like to improve my inability to translate thoughts into words.With this ability I could be very versatile next semester. It would be grand to be able to write what I see in my head. This can be achieved through practice and studying. One must learn more words if one cannot say what they want with their current vocabulary. Expanding my vocabulary would be a great way to help me find words to be used in my writing. 

Like I previously mentioned, I had a problem capturing my dog's essence and personality because, well, he is a dog. He doesn't have the same human characteristics that I am used to recognizing. I found myself trying to personify my dog, which was a very amusing task. 
I liked the poem because it helped me focus my writing abilities into capturing reality. Trapping sparky onto a computer screen using text was a tough task that I loved. This poem reminded me of a photograph because my goal was to capture his current essence eternally. 

Below this next conglomerate of words are a few screenshots. They show the thought/writing process behind the poem you read. My steps are clearly shown in the photographs. First I observed my dog and jotted down smal descriptive phrases of him. After I typed down enough I began constructing my poem by putting some of my favorites together.Also, below the first photograph are few pictures of my dog. This is the dog I was trying to bring to life with words. I hope I characterized him well.



HIGH STAKES: The Cat in the Hat by: Edgar Alien Poo

The day was grey and my hands were cold. The warm soup couldn’t heat me up, it was turning cold. I remember hearing wet missiles destroying the pavement. And then I remember hearing a pound. A deep thud on wood. It sounded as though the wooden door was reenacting the sound it had made when it fell to be made into lumber. I heard the pound three times. Three aggressive knocks. Each thud louder than the latter.
I tried to ignore the first two knocks, I didn’t want to move; I was a potato. But that third knock got to me. It had taken me 4 hours to get my blanket into the right position and it was all for nothing. I stood up, planted my toes and then walked down the hallway. I caught a glimpse of myself in the blue reflecting window. My face was red hot and furious, I was a tomato.
I continued my furious fret until a few feet from the door and then I stood there, listening to the rain. I was frozen like a deer, listening and waiting for the next sound so I could run off. But I couldn’t feel a presence at the other side of the door. I convinced myself to open it. With every step I took the carpet seemed to pull me back in reluctance.
Creak! The nervous wind slammed the door open and the porch was empty. I stuck my head out into the icy winded chamber and saw nothing in my yard. The wind slapped me like an insulted woman, I had to retreat. I moved my body from the sub-polar weather to the artificial warmth inside. I felt a presence on my side of the door.
That’s when I met Mr. Phelline Meowsworth, the fanciest cat I’ve ever come to know. He was only six feet tall, but his hat made him seem taller. His fur was marvelous, it was as warm as soup should be. I ran myself through his blanket until my cold hands were warm.  He purred and twirled his whiskers and then said, “Hello child, we are going to have some fun today.” Then he handed me a pill.  A blue pill. A blue small pill.
I twirled it in my hands and then I twirled it with my tongue. It tasted like a bad holiday. But I knew it was good for me, Mr. Phelline Meowsworth wouldn’t hurt me. I finally gathered enough courage to ask what the pill was for, but I don’t remember his reply. I also don’t remember what happened next.


This was one of my favorite stories to write. It was so weird and experimental that it consumed me entirely. I couldn't think of anything else when I began writing. My original idea was to rewrite The Cat in the Hat in a creepy way. I felt that if I drew a sharp contrast between the two very different writing styles I would get an interesting reader's reaction. I hope I was right.

I would like to improve a few things next semester. But if this assignment showed me anything is that I want to imporve my ability to fluctuate my writing voice. I want to be able to tell funny stories and scary stories, I dont want my writing abilities to be restricted to one genre. I think this would be a great improvement for me next semester because I could explore the many types of writing styles that exist.

This assignment was conceived with a few failures. This particular piece of prose was one of the many drafts of possibilites I had for this assignment. I was so indecessive because I didn't have a plan for my writing. Success comes from preparation. A lot of time would have been saved if I had compared outlines instead of drafts of my prose.

Below this text is an image. It is an image of a snippet from my writer's journal. To come up with what to write for this piece I randomly selected a phrase from one of my freewrites. After I did so I wrote a story based off what that phrase reminded me of. The phrase "lightning and thunder, each one compliments the other" reminded me of the beginning of the Cat in The Hat. Also below that image is another of the first page of the Cat in the Hat Book that my phrase reminded me of. This connection in my mind between the two gave me the idea to make the prose "Cat in the Hat by: Edgar Allen Poe".

Also here is the link to a video read of the Cat in the Hat book: