As I walk out the School of Communication building by artificially tanned legs and gym-made undergrads (not that I have anything against this, I’m just stating facts here), I can’t help but get distracted.
Jamaican sounds are being played on the patio near the food court. The music is soothing and perhaps the only rebel element around a young architecture, forgetful of times past when kings would wage war for the love of a woman or revolutions would start by a vague disrespectful act. It is practical architecture, the utilitarian type-the epicurean type.
Students bop their heads, some with more confidence than others. It is a recollection of brilliant and clueless foreign and national individuals. As if in a carnival and as if I was a young child, I stare with eyes wide open listening to trivial conversations among people leading comfortable lives who frown upon bodily odors and pop-cultural ignorance. Maybe I’m being a judgmental prick. just maybe.
As I get on the Metro, I listen to accentuated Spanish and I see gloomy, rugged faces with an absent sense of hope. I read signs that offer double-digit rewards to voluntary lab rats for the Miller Medical School and underground potential snitches.