By Kevin Chen

As my Facebook feed floods with updates about Jeremy Lin, I can’t help but feel frustrated by the reignited discourse on Asian American-ness caused by his sudden emergence.

What does it mean it to be Asian American? Ideally, it should merely describe parentage—It should not be an identity that people so whole-heartedly subscribe to, and it definitely shouldn’t say anything about you as a person, much less segregate you from the rest of America. This entire discourse of Asian American-ness infuriates me, in the same way that I’m annoyed when Santorum claims to speak for “the American people”. To toss around this label, this “Asian American”, and claim to speak for me from the partiality of his experiences simultaneously offends and angers. Unless it’s me speaking, it ain’t me speaking.

This “identity” of Asian American is a completely synthetic construction, and a twofold one at that. On the first fold, it is a stereotype, a [mis]perception by others on assumed qualities of people that look a certain way. On the second, it serves as a double-sided shield that some use to defend themselves from true Asians on the one hand, and fellow Americans on the other.

There is perception, and then there is self-perception—or, in reality, a lack thereof. The need to belong to something, and to create an identity so laden with connotations that it overwhelms any degree of self-perception, is childish and paradoxically unconstructive. There is nothing to be gained from creating artificial barriers around ourselves save ignorance, isolation, and the company of artificiality. Nothing disturbs me more than when I see misplaced pride result from a lack of self-perception.

On the flip side, what makes things worse is that most Asian Americans, in attempting to combat the [mis]perceptions of others, appear to subscribe to this construction of paper tigers, with even those that try to debunk it taking the very argument they try to refute as a given. I cannot in clear conscience allow people such as Wesley Yang to indulge in the royal “we” for all Americans of Asian descent, as if he knows what it means. Not only does he confuse the stereotypes held by others with Asian American identity, but he haphazardly merges the two into something not quite the truth and then purposely rejects the entirety of it.

How can anyone, being a self-proclaimed banana, write about the demerits of Asian values? If that string of ignorant obscenities in his sixth paragraph was written by someone of any other ethnicity, I’d love to see the resultant self-righteous firestorm—but no, he must know what he’s talking about, look at his face! Nonsense. How dare he use the same stereotypes he rants against to lend himself authority. Looks should never convey authority, lest Hollywood be capital over DC.

While I appreciate the core sentiment Yang provides, that people can somehow better themselves, I utterly reject his mechanisms. Discussions of a “race towards whiteness” ring equally false to me, because such arguments simply project another stereotype onto white people in juxtaposition, rather than solving any real problems, and confuse the issue. Why deal with labels at all? Any blanket terms simply conceal reality.

But on to Jeremy Lin. A lot of people have drawn inspiration from him lately, and while that is all well and good, it seems that this inspiration is drawn for the wrong reasons. He’s admirable in his own right, but for people to feel pride in his performance is hauntingly ersatz. To see a slightly closer genetic relative play a game that you’d otherwise care absolutely nothing about should not cause the racket it has been. God, I still cannot get over that woman thinking he played football. Linsanity indeed.

My point is this: The fact that we can do and achieve whatever we want to should be assumed, not affirmed by what other people who happen to look like you are doing. The need to belong, to participate in the game of labels, is juvenile and unnecessary. To forsake this shield is not to forsake the self, but to strengthen it—there is nothing better than to move past the color of the skin, and progress to the content of character.

The Internet is a bit like Plato’s cave. All across the world millions stare at flickering images on a screen, tied down to their seats and slack-jawed instead of living reality. The Internet, I am told, is a wonderful thing. I am constantly reminded, reassured:  We are all connected now. There is a world of information at the tip of our fingers—quite literally.  This and more I cannot deny, but I still have my suspicions buried deep inside.

For a mere seven or eight dollars a month I could access hours of relentless television streaming  into my laptop via the magic of Netflix. For some, this might have been a harmless diversion.  In my case it was pernicious. The hours of readily accessible commercial-free television were a source of infinite distraction and refugee from real world problems. As a graduate student, this was nothing short of disastrous. Hours of mind-stultifying images drifted past my consciousness. My thoughts were slower,more confused and the seemingly vast amount of time I had available to devote to my studies disappeared.

So, I got rid of Netflix but filled my time with other distractions: reading what passes for news, or even pseudo-intellectual blogs about my pet interests.  But even delving into the supposedly more edifying aspects of the online world left me with the same screen-staring induced mental fogginess. The constant and easy availability of distractions ensured that my on screen reading remained superficial at best. Something about the light behind the screen hurt my eyes and slowed my thoughts.

During my web-surfing, I couldn’t  escape the nagging suspicion that I was  wasting my time.  As a student I could be studying harder, getting better grades and— here’s a quaint notion—searching after truth.  In the search for truth the medium matters. The online medium changes thought patterns precisely because information is easily available. Barriers to information access liberate readers from distraction. If I am reading Evelyn Waugh and suddenly I am reminded of Flannery O’Connor, the prospect of physically fetching a new book forces me to focus. From this focus something like contemplation emerges, a contemplation which thrives on high barriers to access.

Low barriers to access, in contrast, are inimical to real learning and thinking. Carrie Fried’s 2006 study “In-class laptop use and its effect on student learning” documents the strong connection between in-class computer use, multi-tasking and student learning.  Using laptops in class correlated negatively with several measures of student learning including grades and students’ self –assessments. More interesting still students reported that other students’ computer use interfered more with their learning than their own computer use, other students’ talking, the length of the class, other students’ fidgeting and moving, the time of day, or the classroom environment. Here social science once again confirms the totally obvious: anyone who has ever been in a classroom knows that the Internet  makes learning more difficult. Facebook tempts. Your neighbour’s online gaming seduces. More corrosive still is the general atmosphere of distraction and the tacit belief that what the professor is saying is not as important as Groupon.

This led me to make a choice that many around me found radical. When I went home to see my family at the end of last quarter I left my laptop behind. Now my access to on screen distractions is buffered by a trip to campus computer labs. From my apartment this takes about half an hour by foot.  I suppose my liberation is one of laziness (how is this lazy? Just curious), but it is a sweet liberation nonetheless.  I am more productive, I sleep better, I now do my best  work at my apartment where I cannot access blogs, youtube videos or email. I spend more time to talking to actual people. Occasionally, a day or two goes by when I do not access the web and I experience relief from the near constant assault of images and information that characterize the online world.

What really scares me more than anything about my relationship to the series of flickering images we call being online is that the very things I decry about it are what draw me closer to my digital Plato’s cave. A cave Christopher Hedges describes in an interview with Media Roots News, “We are awash in electronic hallucinations, and the worse it gets the more we retreat into those hallucinations—which is what dying cultures always do. They sever themselves from reality because reality becomes so difficult to face. And we’re no exception from that. ” I want inside the cave of electronic hallucinations when I see an economic order that exists to serve the entrenched interests of elites. I want inside the cave, when I see the prospect of an endless “war on terror.” Most of all I want inside the cave when I think about the day to day, humdrum problems of my ordinary life. Ordinary life can be scary enough.

 By Annie Pei

I first ran into Omar when we were both little monsters at a Lady Gaga concert. Tightly wrapped in chains and fluorescent yellow Caution tape, Omar’s enthusiasm and joie de vivre drew me towards him. He told me he was a 19-year-old film student at the Columbia College of Art who loved art in all its forms, and who hoped to make it big. The confidence with which he spoke made me believe that Omar knew exactly what he wanted to do with his life, and how exactly he was going to do it.

But what I didn’t know was that Omar was facing a dilemma. Months prior to the concert, he had begun questioning if he loved film enough to continue, or if he should pursue his ultimate dream: A career in fashion. Torn between going through with his original plans and taking a leap of faith, Omar was trying to sort out his innermost desires and understand the consequences of whichever option he chose.

Since then, the little monster has become a fashion star. During a summer gathering in July, Omar ran into 21-year-old Gordana Rasic, founder of Chicago-based GOCA Designs. Inspired by her drive and creativity, Omar made the trip to the University of Illinois in Urbana-Champaign that weekend where he and Rasic discussed designs and planned their first event: a show at the RAW Artist exhibition.

It was there that Omar met Kristen Miccoli, an up-and-coming photographer based in Chicago. Impressed by her work, Omar and Rasic invited Miccoli to collaborate on photoshoots featuring Goca’s collections. Miccoli’s introduction was, according to Omar, the key to GOCA’s initial rise as she demonstrated the professionalism necessary for the label to gain respect and credibility.

Now Omar, as Vice President and Creative Director of GOCA, has made fashion a lifestyle. Between attending classes as a full-time student and spending time with his family, Omar is always on the run. Whether he’s brainstorming designs for GOCA’s next collection or booking events and venues, the little monster I know journeys all over Chicago, living his dream even if the going gets tough.

But Omar’s used to tough. Originally from California, he was born into a family of 5 brothers and 2 sisters. Omar’s parents, both immigrants from Mexico, worked night and day to provide for their children. The family lived in such dire circumstances that Omar’s mother made a point of locking the fridge so no one would be tempted for a snack. Despite the harsh conditions, the Villalobos siblings did learn many hard-earned life lessons, especially about hard work and appreciation.

“If we were good, every week [my siblings and I] would get 25 cents for allowance money, which we’d use to buy toys at the flea market that treasured for such a long time,” Omar remembers. “We earned them out of pure hard work, and when you live like that you learn to grab onto every opportunity and never let it go.”

The same philosophy drives Omar to leave home at seven or eight in the morning, only to return at eight or nine at night. His weekdays are packed with classes, homework, and meetings. Weekends are reserved for events, mixers, and shoots to put GOCA’s name out in the open. It’s an exhausting lifestyle and Omar’s had his fair share of crises, but he does everything to make sure his dreams come true and so his hard work for GOCA is noticed.

“Even when you’re too tired to stand, you need to find some kind of energy within to attend all of these events. Not just to find new talent, but to also meet people,” says Omar. “All industries revolve around networking, but especially creative fields like fashion because it’s so hard to become a big name. You have to find models, photographers, and more.”

“I’m so grateful to have met the people I know. I don’t see them as acquaintances, I see them as good friends of mine and that’s how I want to keep it.”

Omar’s ability to build such a team has contributed to his success, especially in the wake of social media marketing. The rise of social networks like Facebook has levelled the playing field in the fashion industry. Now, professionals and amateurs alike can post their creations online for all to see, making them more accessible.

The result, according to Omar, is that talent alone isn’t enough. In a world where designers are easily discovered, success demands “60% talent, but 40% network”. To keep up with the competition, designers have to become a jack of all trades and learn skills – especially those related to marketing and business – outside the creative realm.

“Most of my work is actually administrative,” explains Omar. “I obviously still need to design, but if I wasn’t business-savvy I wouldn’t be very marketable.”

“It’s honestly a balance of creativity and personality; you have to be willing to talk to everyone and do everything that is asked of you. If you aren’t up for learning more than how to design, then you won’t be able to keep up with everybody else.”

So far, that philosophy has done well for Omar. In the beginning of October, Omar and Rasic were selected to present their collection at Latino Fashion Week where they received rave reviews. To top it off, GOCA was featured in the Spanish-language newspaper Hoy, testament to Omar and Rasic’s hard work and entrepreneurship.

As GOCA becomes more prominent on the fashion scene, so too does Omar’s personal emphasis on teamwork. But aside from Rasic, Omar also refers to support from a more personal source as instrumental to his success: His family.

The fact that Omar’s parents even supported his foray into fashion is huge given their familiarity with poverty. Their encouragement demonstrates the amount of trust and belief they have in Omar, motivating him to continue working hard. Though one of Omar’s main goals is to transform GOCA into a fashion powerhouse, his ultimate dream is something very different: To one day tell his parents that they no longer have to work.

“Both my parents have been working since they were 16 to support themselves and their families,” Omar tells me. “One day, I want to be so successful that I can look at them and say ‘you don’t have to work anymore, I can take care of you so go relax and enjoy life.’”

In Omar’s eyes, nothing would make him happier than to see his parents break free from their hardships and not have a worry in the world. Following the end of Latino Fashion Week, Omar got a glimpse of this dream when he presented a copy of Hoy to them.

“After a couple really busy months, I finally came home. My parents were sitting in the kitchen and I placed the newspaper on the table in front,” says Omar. “There was this moment of silence as they stared at the copy; I wasn’t sure how they would react.”

“Then suddenly, my mom comes over and gives me a hug. And then my dad stands up and does the same. To me that meant more than words. My dad is a very reserved man who doesn’t really express his feelings, so to see his eyes water when he realized that his son’s designs were on the front page of a newspaper…well, that was one of the happiest days of my life and I hope there’s more to come.”

Keeping that memory in mind, Omar currently spends his day planning GOCA’s next big show in March and an additional show with the University of Chicago. The events never seem to end, signaling the start of a busy year for Omar and GOCA. But despite the non-stop commitments and continuous morning to night workdays, all that matters to Omar is that his dream is very much alive.

“Before meeting Gordana, I never thought things could work out this way,” says Omar. “I thought I’d spend years in school and then graduate working very small jobs for fashion labels with no guarantee that I’d get far. That’s how it usually is, and that’s what I thought my future would be.”

Clearly, if there’s one thing the little monster has learned it’s that anything is possible.

Check out GOCA Designs at www.gocadesigns.4ormat.com. For more updates, follow Omar on Twitter at @PapaGOCA and Facebook.

The sauce flavors come from different culinary traditions, like Indian curries or Mexican chipotle. Spicy Buffalo, Jerk Honey BBQ, Sweet and Spicy Plum and Cosmic Curry each offered distinct pleasures. Though I am not a huge fan of buffalo sauce, their version is buttery, smoky and spicy. The honey jerk bbq was delicious, sweet but not cloying and with a hint of heat. Cosmic Curry was spicy and savory, almost like a reduced panang curry. The flavor is addictive but you can’t eat more than a couple at a time (unless you prefer the spicy things in life). Sweet and spicy plum was a bit bland, but it was pleasant anyway.

My first visit whetted my appetite for more flavor, so I was excited to go back and try a different set of sauces. I liked the honey jerk bbq enough to try three more jerk-based sauces: fire jerk, mango jerk and honey jerk. Fire jerk sauce was delicious, with an intensely peppery bite. Mango jerk had little mango chunks and a fruity aroma, and the taste delivered a tropical punch. The honey jerk sauce was distinctive because it filled my mouth with the fragrance of honey and only then delivered a kick of jerk spices. I was disappointed by the forgettable sesame sauce, which was a boring version of Korean sesame chicken.

If you want the full experience, you have to order the fries on the side. The fries were addictive, with subtle seasoning that can only come from being fried in the spice-laden chicken frying oil. A combo, with ten wings, fries, and a drink, comes out to $7.99 before tax (only a dollar more than just wings!). WATW also makes shrimp and fish in all the flavors, and though I have not tried it myself, I hear good things about the fish in particular.

This is a take out only spot, so ambiance is non-existent. The employees are friendly and helpful enough if you have questions. You will probably want to drive there and I would recommend going at night since traffic would make it quite the journey. Thankfully they’re open until at least midnight every night except Sunday, and until five in the morning on Saturdays. So after a long night of studying, find a (designated) driver and snap up some wings to boost your energy. Call ahead and order, or wait there if you do not mind the pervasive smell of fried food.
Wings Around the World, 510 E. 75th St. 773-483-9120. flavorstoinfinity.com

Each sandwich comes with homemade potato chips in Cajun BBQ or Parmesan Chive flavors while the menu also includes salads, sides and all the regular campus café drinks and pastries. All sandwiches are served on fresh French bread that has the perfect balance of crisp and chewy, a necessity in a neighborhood where only the bread differentiates sandwich shops.

On separate occasions, I have ordered the roast beef and roast turkey subs from their selection of about ten sandwiches. The roast beef sandwich was tasty, with flavorful tender beef, caramelized onions, horseradish and Dijon mustard. I could have done without the roasted red peppers that also came on it, but overall the sandwich was tasty.

Similarly, the roast turkey sandwich with honey mustard, cucumbers and brie spread was fresh and light, yet satisfying. Although I would have preferred real cheese instead of spread. The meat was juicy and thickly sliced and contrasted well with the thin ribbons of cucumber. It reminded me of an English tea sandwich.

The chips that come with every sandwich are savory and addictive. Usually I don’t like barbeque chips, but these were salty, spicy and smoky without the fake hickory taste. The parmesan version is good but I think I’ll stick with BBQ in the future.

The sandwiches come out to $6.05 including tax and chips, making them a good deal. Unfortunately, the shop only takes cash so come prepared lest you miss out on this hidden sandwich gem.

The Folklore Society, an organization of University of Chicago students, ran the Folk Festival. “We are the longest running RSO on campus,” said Spider Vetter, stage manager of the Festival. While there was an audience present for the opening night of the Festival, it wasn’t a large one. “We had a lower attendance number, probably because of the snow,” said Vetter. However, compared to the Festival’s turnout during the blizzard of 1967, the turnout was a good one. “The blizzard of 1967 happened during our 7th Folk Festival and no one came except for Buddy Guy,” said Vetter.

This year’s Folk Festival had all of its performers but one present. Byther Smith was scheduled to play on Friday night, but he ended up not showing. “He seems to have gotten lost. It was worrisome trying to find out what happened to him,” said Kate Early, publicist for the Folk Festival. Despite Smith’s absence, his three-member blues band played on, with Billy Flynn leading them on electric guitar. Either way, the crowd seemed to enjoy the performance, staring with entranced looks on their faces while listening to the deep, soulful blues, or nodding their heads to the upbeat, swinging dance music the band played. The band featured songs from CDs they produced such as “Billy’s Blues” and “Blues in Love”.

Representing the South side of Chicago were the Evening Light Brothers, an a cappella group from the Church of God at 46th and Drexel in Chicago. Singing religious tunes and traditional gospel music, the Evening Light Brothers were an opening act that definitely got the crowd excited. The six members of the Evening Light Brothers poked fun at each other as soon as they stepped on stage in their Sunday suits, looking as if they were about to sing for mass, joking and laughing, creating a comfortable atmosphere. As the group began singing, they encouraged the audience to clap along. Pretty soon the whole crowd was bobbing their heads, dancing in their chairs, and clapping the rhythm (or trying to) to the gospel tunes. The Evening Light Brothers took their name from a verse in the scriptures, and told the audience, “Our hope is to light up someone’s life”. Friday night their goal was achieved, as everyone was smiling and clapping to the Brothers’ music.

Another Southsider who performed at the Fest this year was John Williams, a fifth time returnee to the Fest. However, this Festival was a little bit different for Williams. “I’ve never played on a Friday. It’s also my first time soloing here. I’m usually part of a quintet or trio,” said Williams. On Friday, Williams was a one-man band, switching off instruments between songs, and sometimes during. Williams performed on a concertina, button accordion, piano, and the Irish flute. Playing traditional Irish music, Williams filled the gaps between pieces with some history about the Irish tunes. Creating dance music on his accordion with crescendos, accents, and suspenseful rests between beats, Williams’ foot could be seen tapping to the beat while he moved his upper body, as if dancing, with his eyes closed in concentration and passion. Williams also played lighter songs, such as the “Perdition Piano Quintet”, a tune he wrote for the movie “Road to Perdition”. Williams did not want to leave the stage, as his response to the “five minute warning” was, “I got a parking spot in Hyde Park, so I’m gonna play some music”.

At times humorous and at times heartbreaking, Unveiled brings to life the stories of five Muslim women through the voice and body of one – Rohina Malik. A Chicago-based playwright and performer, Malik is a Muslim-American who immigrated to the United States from London when she was fifteen. She takes fierce pride in her South-Asian heritage and explores Muslim culture through her art.

Dressed in a dark dress and black hijab and armed with a powerful voice, Malik brought her performance of Unveiled to the University of Chicago on Wednesday, January 26.

In Unveiled, Malik inhabits five women and relates their encounters with racism, ignorance and hate in a post-9/11 world. Each woman brims with a distinct personality and a distinct story. She talks directly to the audience, breaking the barrier between speaker and audience, and offers them tea as an invitation into her story. The stories originate from both Malik’s personal experience and the experiences of other women.

In the first story, Malik is Maryam, a Pakistani woman who immigrates to Chicago and finds her love of art nearly destroyed by the racist jeer of one man. Fear and disbelief paints her face as he screams, “Take that shit off your head!”

“Silence is sometimes a crime… Your words, they have power.”

Throughout the play, the hijab plays a central role. As Shabana, a young rapper living in London, and Layla, a thirty-some-year-old woman personally affected by the terrorist attacks of 9/11, Malik fiercely defends each woman’s right to wear the hijab. Though a target of anger and hate, the hijab is each woman’s identity – a symbol of her devotion to her faith and culture – and to abandon it under the pressure of a paranoid world is to abandon her God. It is an act of weakness.
Indeed, Malik argues that it is also un-American.

Unveiled portrays both the best and worst of humanity, examining the hatred that cuts deeply into society, the resilience of the human spirit and the unyielding hope in all of us. “Silence is sometimes a crime,” Malik says as the mother of Noor, an Arab-American who is victim to a violent hate crime. “There is no shame in the truth. . . Your words – they have power.”

And that is the central message of Unveiled.

Malik aims to speak openly about the tremendous effects of 9/11 on Muslims and non-Muslims alike, bringing home the fact that we are all human. The only thing separating us is racism. Those who succumb to it are blinded by hate, fear and misunderstanding. But if we peel away those layers of darkness and remove the veils from our hearts, we will discover a new power within ourselves: The power to love, to forgive, and to understand.

“Four hostile newspapers are more to be feared than a thousand bayonets.”
— Napoleon Bonaparte

Bylines in Iraq are matters of life and death. As “the long war” — as it is increasingly labeled by the Pentagon — grinds on past its fourth anniversary, foreign correspondents and their local colleagues live in an environment of fear and intimidation. Sebti, an Iraqi reporter for the Washington Post, who, like many locals, does leg work for Western journalists, said in an interview for Dangerous Assignments, a journal of the Manhattan-based Committee to Protect Journalists (CPJ), that he is placed in “double jeopardy” by his occupation. Insurgents view him interchangeably as a “spy,” “infidel,” and “profiteer.” He has little doubt about what will happen should his cover be blown: Since 2004, he says three translators for American firms living in his neighborhood have been murdered. Sebti refuses to divulge his occupation to neighbors, and his paranoia compels him to take different routes to work every day. What would ordinarily be considered extraordinary circumstances for any stateside reporter are commonplace for media workers in Iraq.

On May 29th, CBS News correspondent Kimberly Dozier was injured, and her camerman and soundman were killed, by a car bomb that exploded while they were traveling with a U.S. military convoy. After three months of being held hostage by Iraqi insurgents, freelance reporter Jill Carroll was released unharmed on March 30. Sadly, the fate of dozens of other journalists who shared Ms. Carroll’s misfortune tends to resemble that of Steven Vincent, another kidnapped American freelancer who was murdered along with his translator in August 2005. Since the commencement of hostilities in Iraq over three years ago, 97 media workers have been killed. Such circumstances are by no means unique to Iraq. Journalists occupy an increasingly precarious position, working in a post-9/11 world fraught with transnational terrorism, geopolitical uncertainty, and governments intent on controlling the information to which its population has access.

Though reporting is a hazardous occupation, the trends of the past two years are particularly alarming. For journalists, 2004 was the most dangerous year over the past 20 years: 53 individuals died on the job. Despite a decrease in the overall number of deaths in the industry in 2005 (47), the proportion of media workers that were murdered rose to three-fourths from two-thirds the previous year. This tally doesn’t take into account instances of kidnapping, imprisonment by authorities, or forced closures and intimidation of media outlets. Countries on every continent are involved in restricting and intimidating the press, including two of the world’s largest: China and Russia.

China’s government may have embraced free-market capitalism and opened its economy to the outside world, but the authorities still maintain a stranglehold on their population’s access to information. Internet access to news is filtered with the convenient aid of Google, and undesirable articles bring serious repercussions, as evidenced by the imprisonment of New York Times researcher Zao Yan since 2004. Endemic rioting across the Chinese countryside, such as the December 6th, 2005 demonstration in the village of Dongzhou, where clashes between security forces and protestors led to the deaths of at least three people and the arrest of 13 more, is downplayed in the state-controlled print and broadcast media. Currently, 34 reporters are being held by China’s government, two-thirds of the 125 reporters worldwide who have been thrown in prison for their activities.

It was because of my hair.

After spending 2 years growing out my hair, I let 10 inches of it be chopped off in a matter of seconds. Its destination: Locks of Love.

Locks of Love is a non-profit organization that creates custom hairpieces for children suffering from chronic hair loss. This hair loss can be due to a number of diseases, including alopecia areata, scalp burns, and cancer. In many cases, children lose not just their hair, but their self-confidence and ability to resume a normal childhood as well. By providing them with wigs, Locks of Love creates a pathway toward normality and acceptance.

Locks of Love began its operations in the garage of a Florida nurse and has since grown into a nationally renowned charity. Using hair from willing donors, the organization receives up to 2,000 individual donations a week.

As much as 80 percent of the hair, however, is deemed unusable because it is gray, too short, or otherwise damaged. Unusable hair is then thrown away or, more commonly, sold to wig manufacturers to offset the charity’s own manufacturing costs. Many people view this transaction as a scheme for personal gain.

The charity’s efficiency has long been a topic of controversy. Since its inception in 1997, Locks of Love has produced around 2,000 wigs total. It reports receiving up to 2,000 donations per week, but up to ten ponytails are needed to create one hairpiece, according to its website. Theoretically the charity should be producing 10,400 wigs a year, or 135,200 wigs to date. Even if the difficulties of a new charity and the amount of unusable hair are taken into account, there is still a noticeable dearth in the number of wigs produced.

One cannot help but wonder, where is all the hair going? Perhaps more importantly, where is all the money going?

Locks of Love does not produce wigs. Rather, it sends donated hair to Taylormade Hair Replacement, a manufacturer in California, and pays $1,000 for hairpieces that normally retail for $3,500 or more. Locks of Love then sells those hairpieces at discounted prices to disadvantaged children. It is a costly operation that sustains itself by selling unusable, and perhaps usable, hair at a profit. Whether the charity is selling just enough hair to offset costs or more for profit is a question yet to be addressed.

Financial suspicions aside, there remain many assumptions about the charity that prove to be false. Most cancer patients, for example, cannot apply to Locks of Love, as their hair will grow back. Instead, Locks of Love primarily serves children suffering from alopecia areata – an autoimmune disease that damages hair follicles and results in continual hair loss. Also, wigs are not normally given for free; rather, they are sold on a sliding scale, based on the recipient’s ability to pay.

It was amid this maelstrom of doubt that I chose to donate my hair to Locks of Love. I do not know if my hair will reach the children for whom it was intended, but Locks of Love has made a very real difference in hundreds of children’s lives, and regardless of bad press and abounding skepticism, I choose to believe in the charity’s ability to help that small percentage. I choose hope.

Try this as a little experiment: turn on the TV or a major news website. What do you see? Chances are, you are witnessing Kate Gosselin cry on TV, Tiger Woods return to golf, or the latest reality TV show that wants to turn YOU into a star. Usually, you don’t follow such programming (I know I don’t). But now that you’re sitting in front of the TV, you ask yourself, what do all of these things have in common?

A couple of weeks ago, I wrote about the inability of the middle-class American to keep up with their own dreams of financial stability in the midst of skyrocketing inflation, wage stagnation and a new apex of social inequality and wealth distribution. These words aren’t mine—they’re iterated and proved by economists and analysts much more qualified than I. But more poignantly, in the ashes of the mortgage boom, and in today’s weak economy, the American Dream has changed. Arguably, the sublime mediocrity we were seeking in the middle of the last century—the home in the suburbs, the white picket fence, the housewife greeting her working husband with an apron and a tray of frosted cupcakes as he walks in after an hard day’s work—has been glossed and whitewashed over by much shinier ideas. And some of those ideas involve lights, cameras, and action.

For a case in point, I give you the most popular television show on TV for the better part of the decade, American Idol. With ratings easily in the Top 3 since its debut (see Nielson TV ratings for exact quotes), and given how much TV the average American watches (up to 8 hours a day, also according to Nielson), there’s no question that mainstream TV can give us some leads on the pulse of the American psyche. One day, as I myself contributed to this statistic by watching an old episode of auditions online, there was something one (somewhat desperate) contestant said in front of the judges that really grabbed me. He seemed nervous and ill at ease, and when asked why he was so nervous, he said something along the lines of, “Well, look at this. All these lights and people. And here I am in front of you, in the Kodak Theatre. This is the American Dream!” One judge agreed (who happened to be Ellen DeGeneres). “It absolutely is,” she said.

And he wasn’t the only one. I can’t tell you how many others auditioning said they were doing this “for their family”, or “to give their children a better life”. One heart-wrenching story, from a father of an autistic child who was auditioning, had the hope that, maybe if he went far on the show, he could finally afford the proper medical care for his son. The point is these weren’t just musicians or thrill-seekerswaiting for their big break. They were pastors and oil-rig workers. They were ordinary Americans, and some of them were out of ideas.

Perhaps there was a time when fame and fortune were sought by those trapped in small towns, or dreadful jobs like Marilyn Monroe at the factory assembly line. But in our age of live fast and die hard, something tells me that time is over.

Call me old-fashioned and naive, but I thought the American Dream was about one thing, first and foremost—work. Just unglamorous, unadulterated work, and the idea that you proved yourself through it.

“I can’t believe this is happening! It’s real!” Idol contestants would say, over and over again. It may be happening, for a short while, but as most of these people are bound to find out, it is far from real. How did we get here? How did the get-rich or die-tryin’ mentality come to represent the American Dream? While there are no easy answers, the TV will always give us some clues. And some of those clues tell us that we’re starting to mortgage too much of what we’ve built for a few minutes under the blinding lights of second-rate stardom. And when those lights do go off, we come to realize that the theatre we stand in—the one where we’ve attempted to pursue our narcissistic desires—has been empty all along. Maybe, I think, it’s time we start on a journey that is about more than just ourselves.