Dana Scully from The X-Files vs. Anita Bryant: The Truth Is Out There...and It's Not Being Told By Transphobes

 

Greta Thunberg vs. Donald Trump, Jr.

 

Eating a bacon cheeseburger in support of Tony Weed: wow, that'll show 'em, Junior!

"They Called Us Enemy" by George Takei

BOOK TITLE: They Called Us Enemy

AUTHOR: George Takei

YEAR: 2019

GENRE: Graphic Novel

SUBGENRE: Political Memoir

GRADE: Extra Credit

In 1942, over 120,000 Japanese-Americans were taken away from their homes and placed into dingy prison camps all over the US. They did nothing wrong, but had none of the legal means to prove it to the racist authorities. They were paying for the sins of their home country after the Pearl Harbor bombing. Classic ignorant thinking at its worst: because a small minority of the group committed the crime, the entire group is guilty. George Takei spent most of his tender childhood living under this kind of oppression as he and his family were among the Japanese-American families locked up in internment camps. Reading about this shameful experience through his eyes makes everything that much more heartbreaking. His young mind couldn’t comprehend the ignorance of those in charge. He tried to make sense of the barbed wire enclosures, deplorable conditions, and abusive army guards. Fast forward into adulthood and George Takei does everything in his power as an equal rights activist and Hollywood actor to make sure this terrifying history doesn’t happen again.

This graphic novel is nothing short of a brutally honest look into the politics of fear. Powerful politicians will use their influence and charisma to rile up their supporters into believing that the less fortunate are what’s wrong with this country. We saw it with the Japanese internment in George Takei’s book and we’re seeing it today with the Muslim ban, the family separation policy at the Mexican border, and black people getting harsher treatment from law enforcement than whites. The one thing we learn from history is that we learn nothing from history. But it doesn’t have to be this way. This book has the power to educate its readers. When you familiarize yourself with your fellow world citizens, you’re less likely to judge them. That’s what “They Called Us Enemy” means to me and that’s one of the reasons it’s getting a perfect five out of five stars. The more educated we are, the better off we’ll be. That means leaving behind comfortable bigotry and thinking about what it’s like to be the other guy, which is often a horrifying reality.

But of course, there will always be those contrarians out there who say, “It wasn’t all that bad!” These same people say it about black slavery, they call Mexican border detention centers “Summer Camp”, and they’ll no doubt say it about Japanese internment camps. Having guaranteed living conditions doesn’t mean those conditions are necessarily good. Did I mention the barbed wire fencing around the camps? Did I mention the abusive treatment from the soldiers? What about the fact that George Takei’s family had to live in a horse stall that smelled like rancid feces? What about the infighting among Japanese prisoners who joined the military to prove their patriotism and the prisoners who stayed in the camps to protest? Had enough harsh reality? But wait, there’s one more juicy detail: institutionalization. Some prisoners were so familiar with the routine life of the camps that they couldn’t imagine getting back on their feet in a normal society. Now imagine a child as young as George Takei feeling that way upon leaving the camp. You get to see all of this through the author’s eyes whether you want to or not. It won’t be pleasant, but it’ll be a necessary kick in the butt for the apathetic and fearful.

Despite the shortness and quick pacing of the book, you will feel as though you’ve taken an entire US history course in one sitting. Let this be a message to you all. Treat your neighbors with kindness and respect. Treat your inferiors with the same level of understanding and love. If you see an injustice happening, don’t stay quiet. Be the activist you were meant to become. Be a passionate enough voice in this battle for equality that those in power will have no choice but to listen. Let your words haunt them like schizophrenic ghosts. Will this change anything? Let me put it this way: we don’t have a choice but to activate our activism. The world can’t survive without making progressive leaps and bounds. That is the nature of time. Any questions?

The Human Hotdog

BEEP! “Principal Simon? Spencer Pyle is here to see you. It’s not good.”

Quinn Simon sighed. “Send him up.” He pulled a bottle of wine out of his desk drawer and took a few quick sips before putting it back where it belonged. He held the bridge of his nose for what seemed like forever. “What could he possibly want now?” he asked to nobody in particular. This would have been the perfect opportunity to venture into the dreamscape and bypass this unnecessary meeting with the anti-LGBT blogger. Or better yet, it would be a good time to put a gun to his own head and pull the trigger. Different dreamscape, same avoidance of responsibilities.

There was a loud knock at his door and before Quinn had the chance to allow him in, Spencer Pyle burst into the room on his own. The activist’s creepy face quivered with anger. His horseshoe hair seemed to be reverberating with every tremble. And yet, Principal Simon couldn’t be upset anymore. In fact, he smiled when he saw the reason for Spencer’s silent rage: he was covered head to toe in mustard and ketchup, like a human hotdog.

As Quinn struggled to keep his laughter in, Spencer crossed his arms and said, “I’m glad you think this is hilarious, Principal, and I use that term loosely. If this had happened to any one of your PC millennial students, you’d file an anti-bullying report. But since it’s someone who doesn’t agree one hundred percent with your own political views, then I guess it’s pure comedy.”

“I don’t condone violence or harassment of any sort, don’t get me wrong,” said Quinn as he waved his hand defensively. “But if you really want me to punish harassment, I should start by punishing you.”

Spencer slammed his palm on the desk and yelled, “I’ve been punished enough already! You see this suit? It’s going to cost a fucking fortune to get it cleaned! I’m not wearing a Men’s Warehouse piece of shit like you are! I actually pay for the things that I own! I live like a capitalist every day!”

“Fine, then go live like a capitalist at the dry cleaners and hold up your homophobic signs there.”

Sticking a finger in Quinn’s face, Spencer raged, “Colleges are supposed to be places of free speech. They’re supposed to be places where big ideas can thrive. And now your sensitive snowflake students think it’s okay to squirt condiments all over people they have minor disagreements with! You’re doing a great disservice to this generation! You’re turning them into entitled brats!”

Maintaining calmness under fire, Quinn folded his hands on his desk and said, “You have the right to say whatever you want, I agree. Your first amendment rights guarantee you that. However, the first amendment protects you from the LEGAL consequences of free speech, not the social ones. You have the right to speak your mind, but you don’t have the right to be popular. If you had to like everyone’s point of view, that would defeat the purpose of first amendment rights to begin with. You’re not the only one who has free speech rights, Mr. Pyle.”

As soon as Spencer grabbed Quinn’s suit jacket, that was when the principal’s grace under fire gave way to minor nervousness. “Squirting hotdog sauces on people is not considered free speech, you idiot. It’s assault. I’m pressing charges against every single one of those students and you’re going to help me identify them!”

“Assault?” Quinn chuckled. “I don’t see a scratch on you. I’m sorry, but ketchup doesn’t count as real blood.”

“It’s still assault, you jackass! I’m taking them all down! And I’ll take you down with them! You see, I’ve got sources on the inside who’ve told me some interesting things about you. They’re telling me that you purposefully distributed those ketchup and mustard bottles just for this occasion.”

“Really? Who are your sources?”

“I don’t have to tell you my sources. I’m a journalist.”

Quinn batted Spencer’s hand away. “Two things. One, you’re not a real journalist. You’re a blogger with a god complex. There’s a difference. And two, citing sources is something we ask of our students all the time when they write expository essays. When they make certain points, the teachers want to be able to fact check them. If the teachers have nothing to fact check, then the students will get F’s. I’m merely fact checking you, Mr. Pyle, that’s all. So who are your sources?”

Instead of giving a definitive answer, Spencer gave Principal Simon a mustard-drenched middle finger.

“I understand,” said Quinn. “So your sources could literally be anybody as far as I know. They could be other students. They could be faculty. They could be secretaries. Or they could be completely summoned from thin air. Your sources could be Mickey Mouse and Hulk Hogan for all I know. Please say your sources aren’t Mickey Mouse and Hulk Hogan.”

With clenched teeth, Spencer said, “They’re not Mickey Mouse and Hulk Hogan. They’re real people.”

“I’m sure they are,” said Quinn sarcastically. “But until you tell me who they are so that I can fact check you, I’m just going to assume that you’re another crazy right-winger peddling conspiracy theories at random. I’ve heard them all and I’m sure I’ll hear more. Barack Obama was born in Kenya. 9/11 was an inside job. Windmills give you cancer. And Principal Quinn Simon is willing to sacrifice a good-paying job just so he can squirt condiments on some bush league blogger who can only win debates by raising his voice.”

“You do want to silence me, Principal. I know you do. That’s why you’re asking me to name my sources, so that you can suspend them or expel them. Wouldn’t want any free thinkers on your campus. They’re not good for your agenda. Besides, if you know full well you didn’t do it, then why do you need to fact check yourself?”

“The burden of proof is on you, Mr. Pyle. You’re the one crazy enough to peddle these conspiracy theories. You’re the one who believes them to your core. If you can’t provide me with proof, then I suggest you leave my office before I call campus security.”

Spencer swatted Quinn’s phone off the desk, instilling even more wide-eyed, shiver-inducing fear in the normally stalwart principal.

Holding his hands up and quivering through his speech, Quinn said, “Take it easy, Mr. Pyle. You said yourself you don’t condone assault. Think about what you’re doing. You don’t want to contradict yourself, do you?”

“You’ve contradicted yourself enough times already, Principal Simon,” growled Spencer. “You don’t give a damn about free speech. You don’t give a damn about my wellbeing or my rights. You don’t give a damn about this country. So what if I don’t like gay people? Does that make me an evil person? Not in the least. I’m doing God’s work. You and your students are on a one-way ticket straight to hell. But hey, you can at least take your condiments with you and roast your weenies over all those open flames. Roasting hotdogs without a barbecue. That sounds like a party to me.”

Quinn was on the verge of shitting his pants upon gazing deeper into Spencer’s psychotic zealot eyes. They were wide. They were bloodshot. They stared daggers into Quinn’s so-called non-existent soul. “You know what?” he stammered. “Here, have something to drink.” With his hands occupied in the drawer, he opened the wine and mixed something in the liquid before pulling out the bottle.

Spencer folded his arms and smiled at his own intimidation tactics. “I had no idea you were allowed to drink on campus, Principal Simon. And here I thought that shit was banned after Brock Turner got his twenty minutes of action.”

“Please, just take a drink and calm down. Your voice is probably dry after all that screaming.”

Spencer yanked the bottle out of Quinn’s hand and chugged half of it before slamming it on the desk. “Oh, that’s some good tasting shit! Nice sparkling red wine. A little too bitter for my tastes, but that’s pretty much what you can expect from all alcoholic beverages.” The sounds of Spencer’s stomach grumbling echoed throughout the room. “Oh dear god…where’s your bathroom?”

“Down the hall and to the left.”

As soon as Spencer booked it towards the bathroom, one of Principal Simon’s secretaries entered with concern on her face, especially after seeing the multi-lined phone laying on the floor. There were also ketchup and mustard stains on Quinn’s own suit jacket, in the shape of someone’s hand, no less. “Is everything alright, sir?” she asked.

“Call the police, Betty. Spencer Pyle’s going berserk. Do it on your smart phone. We need to get everyone out of here before he’s done using the bathroom.”

Quinn’s plan worked like a charm. The most anal activist on the planet was unplugged with Imodium AD. Quinn could be pretty anal too sometimes, but not enough to need the entire packet of pills.

"Cecil's Pride" by The Hatkoff Family

BOOK TITLE: Cecil’s Pride: The True Story of a Lion King

AUTHORS: The Hatkoff Family

YEAR: 2016

GENRE: Nonfiction

SUBGENRE: Lion Biography

GRADE: Extra Credit

When Cecil the Lion was heartlessly killed by a trophy hunter, it sparked worldwide outrage and rightfully so. The subsequent debate on animal welfare and wildlife conservation led to new laws being put in place to protect future generations of lions. But to fully understand how important these new protections are, we must first understand how Cecil lived his life as the king of his pride. He wasn’t just a random animal. He was a loving protector and a social creature at heart. May he rest peacefully and may his pride continue his majestic bloodline.

Instead of just a barebones biography, Cecil’s story was treated as an actual story with a beginning, middle, and end. He was portrayed as a three-dimensional character with his strengths, flaws, and lovability. He fought other animals when his pride was threatened and he ran away only when necessary. And because lions like Cecil are social creatures, they bond with other prides for the sake of protection. This is a classic storytelling technique: two factions banding together to fight off a stronger villain. And when Cecil is eventually killed, the reader will care that much more about him. It was already an angering story to hear about on the news, but to see it in this book is that much more heartbreaking. Cecil’s portrayal as a regal figure and a dynamic character in a much larger story is what makes this book special enough to deserve an extra credit grade.

In addition to employing storytelling techniques, this book also has an educational side to it. Because these two qualities work side-by-side with each other, it’ll be a guaranteed hit with students of all ages. You’ll learn why lions are important to Africa’s ecosystem. You’ll learn why they attract so many mates at a time. You’ll even learn a few statistics about animal extinction and why conservation is more important now than it has been in the past. Education shouldn’t stop when school is over. You can get more out of this book than just trivial facts. You can learn empathy. You can learn how to be an activist. You can do some good in this world with these forty pages shaping your mind. Put down the hunting rifle. Put down the bow and arrow. The only shooting you should be doing is with a high shutter speed camera.

Speaking of which, the lion photographs in this book are magnificent to look at. Cecil looks like a proud king when he watches over his families. His cubs look like little cuties when they practice their roars. His lionesses look seductive when lying about with their mates. Cecil even looks alert and ready to protect his pack when he’s doing something as mundane as drinking from the river. The African landscape is more than just a place for wild animals to do battle. It’s a kingdom. It’s an empire. It’s a society that must be protected from the cruelty of guns and crossbows. These pictures do the lions justice a hundred times over. Even the drawings have that kind of power over the reader.

It’s easy to balk at this book for being targeted towards small children. There are also a few who will contrast Cecil’s death to those of aborted fetuses. There are even those who question why lion lives matter to begin with. To those who would easily brush this book aside, I say give it one chance to change your heart. It’s forty pages and it’s mostly pictures. You’re not sacrificing much when picking this book up for a quick read. If anything, you’ll be better off for the experience. Keep your eyes and mind open and you’ll want to give this book an extra credit grade as well.