What's In a Name

I have realised, that oddly, I have begun to dissociate myself, my being away from my name. It is odd, I do know, but it seems that Michael is just the name I find on my tests or on my homework or any other official document. It is the repetition of the same name with which i sign letter and emails, thing sent from my being. It is just strange...a series of words, composed of letters seemingly alien from myself. A man is only as good as his name, or is it the other way around. But my name has become something alien to me, a product of the real, not my active thought process. What is in a name as old Juliet implores the sky as ya boi Romeo listens on to this enchanting marvel. What is it, a name is just a name, a label, a classification for the unknown for easy reference, or maybe not. When does a name become an identification, and would that point of soul identification with the name be the moment when the self is completely lost to the language. I do not know. I respond to my nicknames, I respond to my last name, but there is just something so odd about my first. When ever a professor says Michael, it seems to take me some time to realise it is me that they call. I do not know if it is the frequency of the number of those who share my same given name, or it is me beginning to separate from it. I do not know if this makes sense, just a little observation.

Crosston was Mr. G-money at the debate originally titled "Jesus Freaks and Islamofascists," but was later changed to Christan and Muslim Radicalism due to potential backlash from the massive population of Muslims on campus at such an incendiary title. The little talk made, or rather fortified my view of the general ignorance of this prestigious campus' student body. It seems those that have the strongest opinions are the ones who have not read, both the relevant material (ie Postcolonial literature, middle eastern history, history of the us involvement in middle eastern affairs, the Qur'an, modern philosophy especially the ideas on the impact of the 'institution' , but then again thats just me) and studied the area of concern and how their situation affects and is affected by the ongoing conflicts. It seems ignorance is their bliss, alas.

Watched the power hour today. This being Mr. Rodger and Reading Rainbow, much to the dismay of my roomies. I wanted to learn how to grow up and they would teach me, plus it was a blast from the past when everything was so simple, but I watched nonetheless. Aparently you get a chicken for losing your tooth in Africa, write that one down. But what disturbed me most was that Mr Rodgers had a doll, who was black, and when he entered make believe and became "real" at least human size, he danced for the amusement of the white puppets. I do not know if this is intentional, but it was kind of sad. And the Lady came out and yelled at him and made him back into a doll because she did not make-believe. Definitely so racial undertones.