Public Punditry

As a kid, I always dreamed about what it would be like to be... older. Not too old like my parents, but not young like my older sister. I wanted to be older, where you're still cool, but people are willing to take you seriously. Wrinkles hadn't formed yet, but maybe some kind of facial hair was surfacing above the upper lip. For a long time, I didn't know when I would become that old. How would I find out I am having the time of my life? There was no way I could be like Patrick Swayze and last until the end of Dirty Dancing,  only to reflect on the "greatest time of my life."  So, where am I going with this? This is the time. I am at the age I have always dreamed of being.  I can walk to my friend's apartment and watch West Coast NBA games until "past my bedtime." In fact, I don't have a bedtime! I get to choose! No one can tell me otherwise. I can decide when movie marathons are happening, which movies are on the docket, and how long they last.

“This little light of mine.  I’m gonna let it shine.  Let it shine, let it shine, let it shine.  Hide it under a bushel? No!  I’m gonna let it shine. Let it shine. Let it shine. Let it shine.”   Quite the song, isn’t it? I bet many of us can either recite the lyrics by heart or, at the very least, hum the verses and get the chorus close enough. But I wanna think about the idea of a light in the song. Why? The song says it’s tiny, but it’s supposed to shine, and we let it do its job and accomplish its purpose.   When I was little, I sang “This Little Light of Mine” in class, children’s choir, and in Sunday School. It was one of the few beautiful hymns of my youth. But as I got older, the song tumbled away. It would continue to be taught to the younger kids, but as a burgeoning adolescent, I thought myself “too cool” for such a song. It was beneath me.    Where did my light go? Did I overlook the song’s purpose, or was it the dawn of my light’s demise?   No, the problem was actually more

Growing up on the outskirts of Colonel Glenn Road near the Pulaski County line, I heard the booming sounds of the hand cannon in my backyard. Attending classes in Arkadelphia, Arkansas, a community that steeps itself in the middle of southern gun culture, I heard the cracks and pops of modern muskets as I set my course for the library on the occasional weeknight study session.  Did I hit the ground? Did I shudder in fear? Did I stop my journey or game of catch? Not at all. Why? The sound of a gun going off was expected for better or worse. I did not question how it was used or how it was purchased. If I did, the same old adage would roll off my dad's tongue, "They're probably hunting, shooting skeet or something." I grew numb to the sound like a knee slap after any good joke. Lines and Divides The same cannot be said for every American. As thick as the partisan line is the divide surrounding guns. As many people who are opposed to housing shotgun shells and pistol cap

So, we're in the early stages of Summer 2022. It's early June, and it's wedding season if you don't know what that means in the South. Attending a school like mine means that every late May to early August provides plenty of opportunities to put on nice clothes, see some friends, and bust a move. But it also allows you to glimpse an all-too-common depiction of love through a flower girl, rings, and a white dress.  I'm actually going to another wedding this week (shoutout to my buddy Sean), and it got me thinking again about the subject of love. Why does love matter? How does someone get or give love? Shoot, do we even need love at all? But before all that... what the heck is it? We hear love songs all the time, but two favorites are  I Wanna Know What Love Is  by Foreigner and  What is Love  by Haddaway. In the latter tune, the German singer asked his presumptive audience of one the following question: "What is love? Baby, don't hurt me. Don't hurt me,