Robert Wohner

I didn’t listen to rap music. The first rap song I heard was the theme song to The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air. And I loved that song.

I could walk to Celebrate Brooklyn all summer along. I’d learn how to start running. I’d eat meals of happy chickens at the commune across the street.

Few people want to look at “21 pleasant photographs that will make you feel slightly better for 30 seconds.” Instead, we need “21 pictures that will restore your faith in humanity.” That’s silly.

The advent of the iPhone and Instagram has convinced everyone that they’re amateur photographers. That’s beautiful. But at some point, your shaky footage is more of a distraction than meaningful documentation. Believe me, there is going to be footage of the show on YouTube afterward.

This country isn’t solely defined by people whose concept of it was cemented centuries ago. This defining process is still evolving.

The Chinatown bus didn’t try to convince anyone into believing that riding the Chinatown bus was anything more than a miserable experience.

It is possible that I will become utterly and fabulously super famous in the future and you, being the kind of person who feels compelled to explore such places, will visit my childhood home.

Your journey will not begin until you swipe your Metrocard and enter the system. Stall as long as possible above ground. Remember, once you’re in the system, you won’t come out.

The stakes are too high for emotionally-driven posturing.

Additionally, I took no responsibility in making someone change his or her understanding of blackness. Above all, I reasoned, I represented only myself. I represented my character. I was responsible for my choices. I refused to be tied down to popular ideas of blackness.

Too often, “first world problem” is used to dismiss the earnest confessions of our peers. Along with its more intellectual cousin, accusing someone of ignorance of their “privilege,” these phrases are said with two intents: to belittle another while propping the accuser as an enlightened participant of Real Life. That’s wrong. ?

Yet I am that Robert, a name worthy of leading the Confederacy but dateless at prom; ready to be quarterback of the Washington Redskins or play your favorite Hufflepuffian vampire but never scribbled inside marble notebooks, adorned by hearts and kisses. It’s sobering.