Category: The Fordham Observer

Eating meat is about as American as apple pie, drone strikes and — quite literally — fast food hamburgers.

However, a new threat looms on the horizon: vegans and their non-committal friends, vegetarians, are going mainstream. At first, the plant-based eating movement seemed harmless enough, quarantined to communities of rich people with nothing better to do and too much time to think about the morality of their actions. It was once a passing fad, relegated to subheadings in “Women’s Health” and fond memories of ex-hippies. But times have changed. This new unhealthy obsession with health and unamerican aversion to animal products is tearing down our shared culture as we know it, and it must be stopped.

Unfortunately, American fast food chains, fingers ever-present on the sluggish pulse of the nation, have been quick to respond to the plant-based craze. Today, vegan depravity is everywhere; worse yet, it’s affordable. We shook our heads in dismay when McDonald’s tested a “McVegan” in Europe. We watched aghast as TGI Fridays debuted a “Beyond Meat” burger in January. But will we stand by and let the greatest mainstay of American culture fall to the radical vegan agenda? Will we allow the hallowed parapets of freedom to crumble under the weight of a couple kale-consumers?

Too late. As of April 12, 2018, White Castle has fallen. The Impossible Slider is here.

On April 12, the fine eating establishment famous for its classic sliders colloquially known as “belly bombers” and “rectum rockets” welcomed a sinister addition to its menu: a burger sporting a patty of nefarious origin. White Castle’s Impossible Sliders pack onions, pickles, lies, deception and the Impossible Burger — a misleading meaty masquerade — between their buns. The amalgamation of plant protein is produced by the startup Impossible Foods and is meant to imitate and replace the classic beef patty. This is preposterous, impassable, inconceivable, unthinkable, impractical, insurmountable and downright improbable. Much like the steam engine, iron lung and self-checkout kiosks, it will never be the same as good old flesh and blood. 

This beguiling burger was made available in all New York, New Jersey and Chicago locations, including the White Castle mere steps from the gates of Fordham University’s Rose Hill campus. As a faithful Jesuit institution, we know God gave us cows because they’re so delicious. Are plant-based cultists really trying to one-up the Big Man? One look at White Castle’s menu says yes. Surely, just as Frankenstein’s monster sought revenge on his creator for his unnatural, cursed existence, so too will humanity face its $8, two-sliders-fries-and-a-drink comeuppance. The Cursed Castle is playing God, and we’ll all pay.

What’s worse, our arsenal of comebacks and self-justifications against the vegan menace is dwindling. With White Castle’s meatless sliders, gone are the days of the anemic, emaciated vegan stereotype. What’s more, the rich, twig-eating suburban strawman is a thing of the past. The diabolical anti-meat powers-that-be have used White Castle to widen the scope of unnatural meat alternatives, and in their quest to make plant-based food more accessible, an $8 Impossible combo may sadly be too enticing for many red-blooded Americans to resist. How ironic that a greasy, alabaster castle now stands to symbolize accessibility, progress and lower blood pressure.

That being said, the fact of the matter remains: a meal without animal cruelty just doesn’t feel right. Eating red meat and processed meat without the exhilarating knowledge that you’re ingesting known carcinogens just isn’t the American way. Feeling like a piece of garbage for pulling into a White Castle drive-thru at 2 a.m. and ordering a Crave Case containing 30 all-beef sliders is a bona fide rite of passage for citizens everywhere. Impossible meatless sliders soften the pointed, useful life lessons contained in this experience, and consuming the flesh of sentient beings in the parking lot under the dirty glow of a White Castle sign is a constitutional right. Vegans should not meddle with this delicate ritual. It is downright sick to disallow a cow to die a noble death for the benefit of a self-hatred-fueled 2 a.m. burger binge.

Alas, the damage is already done. In the game of carnivorous chess, the vegans are always one move ahead. Americans may feel helpless to stop the flow of alternative meats into their favorite eating establishments, but they’re certainly not alone. The vegans have blood on their hands, and dutiful omnivores worldwide will continue to resist — in the name of freedom, tradition and the pursuit of cholesterol. Unlike other Missions Impossible, it must be ensured that the sequels end here. Thanks, but no thanks, radical plant-munchers, we’ll keep vegetables in their rightful place: the wilted, flavorless eighth of the plate that gets scraped into the garbage bin when nobody’s looking. 

We’re very content with our current worldviews, thank you very much. Meat is meat, change is scary and nutrition is just about as legitimate as vaccines. The plant-based community can’t waltz into America now and expect us to dance to their repulsively ethical tune. White Castle is on the wrong side of history. You can’t tell America to eat less meat; it would be downright impossible.

But, then again, so are those sliders.

Ask anyone at Fordham: they’ll tell you they don’t see color.

I do.

There’s a problem at Fordham College at Lincoln Center. It’s stained into our very walls and confronts us no matter where we turn. It has painted our school as a place of confusion, turmoil and discord—and it’s a veritable rejection of our history. It’s time someone said something.

Fordham has a color problem. Maroon, to be exact.

A quick trip to Fordham’s website (or asking the nearest Jesuit) will quickly reveal that Fordham’s school color is indisputably, undeniably maroon. Not orange, not purple, not burgundy, not cordovan, not even claret. However, a quick trip through the Lincoln Center campus suggests otherwise, and the problem is only getting worse. Discordant color combos abound. We’re losing our identity shade by shade. It’s a difficult truth, but it must be said: we look like Bootleg Fordham.

Take the front façade of the Leon Lowenstein Center, for example—and how it’s bafflingly, bewilderingly blue. Prospective students gathered for tours must be constantly confused: is this Fordham, or some azure knock-off? Of course, the color dysphoria compounds as any comprehensive Fordham visit continues through our more updated underground passageways sporting the latest in inoffensive, wall-to-wall gray hues. The deafening assault on the senses is truly exhilarating; a visual representation of Fresh Air with Terry Gross played at full volume.

Or perhaps consider Lincoln Center’s infamous stretch of barren hallway affectionately nicknamed the “Green Mile”: walls behind the Law School lobby painted a head-scratching pistachio. I misspeak—only one wall of the corridor bears the offending pigment. The other side, blindingly white, reflects the green in a way that gives the casual passerby an impression that he or she has entered a minty liminal space between two dimensions.

I cannot paint this more heavy-handedly—the situation is bleak. The colors are careless. The last remaining stalwarts of maroon languish in the floors of Lowenstein, and cracking open a Sherwin Williams and vigilante-painting in the dead of night doesn’t seem so bad anymore. 

But mere weeks ago, a spark of hope emerged: a chance to turn the tide in the Fordham Color War. The renovated sixth floor reopened, undoubtedly redecorated and repainted that quintessential Fordham maroon. Right?

The sixth floor, styled in the sterile, office-building chic we’ve come to know and tolerate, was in fact smattered in green. Disgustingly verdant accent walls and upholstery stretch as far as the eye can see in this sparkling slap in the face to everything Fordham purports to stand for. Great risk accompanies falling asleep in the new classrooms; one may awake under the impression they’ve been teleported into a hospital waiting room. The powers that be have gifted us glittering classrooms, natural lighting and all the fancy Dyson hand dryers we could ever want. But they’re not fooling me. I stand against the Green Agenda.

We’ve forgotten our school colors. It’s time we remembered them. Any semblance of cohesive identity (while bolstered by our single Ram statue) is gone the minute the last wall is graced in green. There are no intramural sports at this campus. We have no pool table. The school pastime is staying indoors. If all we have to cling to is paint swatches, so be it.

The raucous cacophony of color must end. Fordham has what it takes to reconcile with maroon and make a full recovery. But if fears that maroon is too far gone—that an official color change is in order—we are equally lost. Do we retain the azure signage of the main entrance or the verdant walls and accents of our newer additions? The grimy beige of Lowenstein classroom walls or the vaguely white hues of cinder block tunnels?

Only time will tell. We await the fate of the Fordham color palette with a fervor of college students with nothing better to do. Until then, I beg of you: resist the Green Menace. Reject the deep blue scene. Pray the gray away. End the Fordham Color War.

We are neither an office building—nor a waiting room—nor a minty interdimensional hallway. We’re a university—a maroon one, no less. Let’s act like it.

You can admit it. You’ve seen the headlines. Wildfires. Hurricanes. Droughts. You’ve glanced and skimmed and swiped and scrolled and, at long last, you did one thing we humans are really, really good at: you sent your Thoughts and Prayers™ and forgot about it. With the sheer volume of natural disasters in 2017, I can’t blame you.

But allow me to speak in a language we all can understand: at the end of 2017, after flood waters receded and fires finally fizzled, we tallied a bill worth paying attention to.

Last year, Mother Nature dealt the United States of America its costliest recompense to date: a string of hurricanes, wildfires and other natural disasters totaling $306 billion in damage. The runner-up: 2005’s $215 billion price tag, thanks in no small part to a certain Hurricane Katrina. Moreover, the top three disasters of 2017—a murderer’s row of hurricanes Harvey, Maria and Irma—alone smashed 2005’s record, dealing $265 billion of destruction.

It’s times like these in which one starts to suspect our nation just might be built on a Native American burial ground.

It’s safe to say that last year, America was hit hard. Three storms category four or higher made landfall last year, the California wildfires were the costliest on record and our country experienced billion-dollar disasters in six of the seven categories the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA) tracks: tropical cyclone, wildfire, severe storm, flood, freeze and drought. A costly winter storm in 2017 could have completed the set (and my natural disaster bingo card).

I’ll direct those who saw 2017 as a fluke to the very first days of January 2018, when we were introduced to the terrifyingly-named “bomb cyclone.” Weaponized winter came with a hefty price tag as well, and might just indicate that—unlike liquids, waning crescents, and emo teens—it’s not just a phase.

Do you yearn for the old days? Do you pine for simpler times when “polar vortex” was the scariest-sounding buzzword on the Weather Channel? Do you look fondly on the years gone by filled with only one or two devastating hurricanes per year?

There’s good news: the good ol’ days when every natural disaster didn’t cause Bill Gates’s net worth in damage aren’t gone forever. That being said, even to begin to sidestep this snowballing yearly insurance claim, we first and foremost have to take accountability.

In the current world climate—political and otherwise—it is easier to pretend that everything is more or less going to even out. Hurricanes Harvey, Maria and Irma delivered their refutation loud and clear: this is not normal.

Is it a result of global warming? Climate change? Aliens? Who cares? Debate over terminology and politics bring us back to square one: partisan squabbling that goes in one ear and out the other of a nation that skims and swipes and scrolls and forgets. It’s time to break the cycle.

Some push for greenhouse gas emission reduction, others push for fortifying vulnerable regions against future disaster. These opinions are often pitted against each other on party lines when, in reality, they are both helping. They are both valuable solutions. It doesn’t matter what party you cheer on like some football team—hurricanes don’t just flood Republican homes, nor do wildfires exclusively torch Democrats’.

It doesn’t take a liberal or a conservative or an anarcho-capitalist to tell that this is not normal. And our insurance bill will keep getting bigger every year we will twiddle our thumbs like our lives depended on it. As natural disasters are made into talking points and ammunition against another group of people who live on the same Earth as everyone else, the implications of 2017’s $306 billion slap in the face get lost in the details.

And what’s left? Thoughts and Prayers™. And the world keeps spinning.

And warming, I might add.

For some, the word “Thanksgiving” conjures rosy memories of food, friends and family. But we all know the unavoidable, uncomfortable main course to any true family Thanksgiving: no-holds-barred political debate. 

You may have forgotten why you left for college. As you gear up for your holiday trip back home, prepare to remember. After months of polite discourse and general open-mindedness, it’s time to unlearn everything. You are about to approach a forum unmatched in hostility, a jury of your peers that get their news from social media and hate the term “liberal arts” because it has the word “liberal” in it. 2017 is a year steeped in controversy. A battle of wits and raised voices with your closest relatives is a dangerous game.

It would behoove you to come prepared.

What follows is an unofficial news briefing on the topics most likely to fill the air around the Thanksgiving table. I will offer my best advice on how to address each issue. If you don’t get damned to hell by your elder relatives before dessert, I’d consider it a good year.

The discussion might start innocently enough, perhaps referencing a relative’s recent Facebook post of Ewan McGregor, clothed in brown robes as Obi Wan Kenobi, with a caption prompting viewers to like and comment “amen” if he’s their savior. Did you comment “amen?” Did you? Don’t tell me you kept scrolling. 

The conversation may swing to the pros and cons of vaccination. Beware Auntie Anecdote, a reliable font of plausible stories that just happen to fall right in line with her arguments. Sure, a flu shot just might have turned the baby of a woman in her spin class into a homosexual, but don’t bother pressing for proof. Be careful not to let your guard down—Polio was, indeed, that bad. 

Pros and cons of veganism will be touted, and warnings of your untimely demise from a red meat and cheddar cheese deficiency will be abundant. I know you’ll be itching to pull out your well-worn “Earthlings” DVD and play it. Eat your tofurkey and keep your head down.

To those who suggest their great-grandparents didn’t travel all the way to America to see it overrun by immigrants, a brief history of intercontinental ocean travel may be necessary. Start in 1492, just to cover all the bases.

No Thanksgiving is complete without a football game, and your challenge is twofold: parry indictments of disrespect and outright treason on the football players engaged in peaceful protest, and counter someone’s inevitable claim that the sport just isn’t tough anymore with all the increased safety rules. For the first, express curiosity as to the whereabouts of this place where people can actually demonstrate their discontent and everyone is happy about it. For the second … well, they say many types of brain damage are irreversible. Might not be worth your time.

Gay marriage may come up, even though it’s old news by now. Do what I always do and pose this question: Isn’t it kind of gay to think about all those gay people marrying all the time? 

But as surely as big, inflatable Charlie Brown will loom ominously over the New York skyline on Nov. 23, the elephant in the room will have to be addressed at some point. Thanksgiving 2017’s most controversial topic of discussion is unavoidable, deeply personal and unequivocally orange. I’m sorry—I don’t know how to prepare you for this one. 

It deeply saddens me that half of the United States of America could be so callous as to continue to support marshmallows on sweet potatoes. It’s a tragedy, but sweet potato partisanship in our country is worse now than ever. George Washington was right; it never should’ve come to this.

By now, the tryptophan will start to kick in, and you’ll finally get a break from the debates you never asked for. Talking to people we’ll only see a couple more times a year and defending our every last conviction to the death is the perennial struggle; beyond the classroom, the Thanksgiving table is the true proving ground. After leaving the politeness and thoughtfulness you’ve been taught in the dust, you don’t feel dirty. You feel alive. 

Flinging mashed potatoes, threatening divorce and narrowly dodging disownment is what debating current events is all about. Execute your rhetoric mercilessly. Make your opponent’s submission quick and painful. 

And have a happy Thanksgiving.