Hide Ya Kids — Not so serious approach to a very serious story
I don’t think this topic is funny whatsoever. What makes this story come across as comical is the tone of Antoine’s voice when he says, “Hide ya kids, hide ya wives, and hide ya husband.” The way he delivered that line caught everyone off guard, and it quickly turned into a viral moment. People started repeating it, turning it into memes and remixes, but in reality, the situation he was describing was very serious. I think that’s what makes this story so complicated — people laughed at the delivery, not the message or the fear behind it.
I honestly feel like the news station chose to focus on Antoine because of the shock factor. The media often gravitates toward whatever will pull in the most views, and Antoine’s emotional, animated reaction did exactly that. They knew it would get people talking, sharing, and tuning in. It’s sad, but that’s how a lot of stories are handled today. Rather than focusing on the actual crime or the safety of the community, the spotlight shifted to the interviewee because he stood out and brought attention to the broadcast.
Even though the coverage blew up online, I don’t think it violated the SPJ Code of Ethics. The interview didn’t seem staged or manipulated — it looked like an honest, unrehearsed reaction from someone who had just experienced something terrifying in his own neighborhood. The reporters didn’t appear to mock him or twist his words, they simply aired what he said. If anything, the public’s reaction afterward did more harm than the news station itself.
So overall, while the video became famous for comedic reasons, I think it reflects how modern audiences consume media, not an ethical failure by the journalists involved.
Beyond the Surface: What Feminism and Beauty Really Mean
Both Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s “We Should All Be Feminists” and Cameron Russell’s “Looks Aren’t Everything: Believe Me, I’m a Model” make powerful points about how society defines people—especially women—and how those definitions hold us back. Adichie explains how girls are taught to make themselves smaller, to be ambitious but not too ambitious, to be likable but never assertive. We grow up hearing mixed messages about what it means to be “enough.” Her message is simple: feminism isn’t about anger or superiority—it’s about fairness. It’s about freeing both men and women from the narrow boxes society places them in.
Cameron Russell takes that same honesty and applies it to beauty and privilege. She admits she “won the genetic lottery,” yet points out how looks are a form of currency that come with both benefits and pressure. She exposes how the modeling industry sells an illusion—perfect lighting, editing, and angles—and how people mistake that for real confidence. Russell’s talk reminds us that appearance doesn’t equal worth, and beauty can easily become another trap built on unrealistic expectations.
What connects both talks is the idea that image and identity are constructed. Adichie calls out gender roles that limit our potential, while Russell reveals the false perfection that media sells. Both challenge us to look deeper—to value honesty, intelligence, and individuality over surface-level approval.
For me, these talks go hand in hand. They remind us that confidence isn’t about fitting the mold—it’s about breaking it. Feminism and authenticity belong together because they both fight the same thing: the need to perform for acceptance. When we stop trying to meet society’s idea of who we should be, we finally make room to become who we really are.
It’s Not Just a Game: The Politics Behind the Players
People love to say sports bring everyone together — that they’re “just a game.” But the truth is, sports reflect real issues in our culture. From Native mascots to sexism and homophobia, what happens on the field mirrors what’s still wrong off it.
Let’s start with Native American mascots. My girlfriend of 3.5 years happens to be First American, she’s Blackfeet and Shyann Aribhio. In her eyes, it’s just sports teams capitalizing on her culture and family’s likeness, and she finds it offensive. Some people claim these mascots “honor” Indigenous people, but most Native voices say otherwise. Turning real cultures into logos and costumes is disrespectful and outdated. Teams like the former Washington Redskins and Cleveland Indians finally changed their names, but it took years of protests to make that happen. If we truly want to show respect, we should listen to Native communities and stop using their identities as entertainment.
Women in sports still face the same uphill fight. Even with Title IX, they’re paid less, get less media coverage, and are often judged more for their looks than their skill. I think of Caitlin Clark, her record-breaking college career brought huge crowds and TV ratings. For once, it seemed like there was real interest in women’s sports. But the fact that her success is treated like an exception shows how far we still have to go. The U.S. Women’s Soccer Team had to sue just to be treated equally, and women journalists still face harassment and doubt. It’s frustrating because women have already proven they belong; it’s time they’re treated that way with fair pay and genuine respect.
Homophobia also lingers, especially in men’s sports. Many players still hide who they are because of outdated ideas about masculinity. Only a few, like Carl Nassib, have come out publicly. Meanwhile, women athletes such as Megan Rapinoe show what true acceptance and leadership can look like. Teams need to go beyond performative support and actually create inclusive, safe spaces for everyone.
In the end, sports show who we are as a society. If we want them to represent unity, then we need to change what’s behind them — retire harmful mascots, support women, and make space for all identities. That’s when sports will truly be more than just a game.
Representation and Responsibility in Media
The Finkbeiner Test is a checklist for journalists to make sure they’re not being biased when writing about women in professional fields, especially science. To pass it, the article has to focus on the woman’s actual work — not her family life, appearance, or how she “balances” everything. It’s basically about giving women the same serious coverage that men automatically get. Their success shouldn’t be treated like a surprise just because they’re female.
The Bechdel Test is kind of the movie version of that idea. A film passes if two named women talk to each other about something other than a man. Sounds simple, right? But you’d be shocked how many movies still fail it. Take The Dark Knight — it’s an amazing movie, but every woman’s storyline ties back to Bruce Wayne. Compare that to Hidden Figures or even Barbie, where women actually have their own goals, conversations, and impact. That’s when you start to see real progress in representation.
I think the same standard should apply to how we portray people with disabilities, unhoused people, or those from lower social classes. Too often, media makes them into “inspiration stories” or tragedies instead of showing them as real people with voices and opinions. The film CODA nailed that — it showed a deaf family living, laughing, and arguing like anyone else. Same with Lead Me Home, which told the stories of unhoused people with empathy, not pity.
Fair and accurate representation starts with actually listening. Journalists and filmmakers need to talk with people, not just about them. When stories are told with honesty instead of stereotypes, that’s when people start to understand each other for real.
Buc-ee’s and the Art of the Billboard
The other night, I was driving back from Austin late at night, and I couldn't help but notice how well Buc-ee's advertises on their billboards. So I decided I wanted to do a blog post about this topic. Billboards have been seen as outdated and "Old-School," but in my opinion, as long as we have to drive on the freeway or 35, we will always use billboards as advertising. I work at Robson Ranch, and they even have a billboard. Seeing Buc-ee's ads along the highway reminded me that billboards can be just as eye-catching today as they were decades ago — you just have to be clever about it.
Billboards are extremely effective if they are used correctly and stay relevant, and Buc-ee’s did just that. With Gen-Z slang like "Slay," "Beaver fit check," or "It's giving potty time," these billboards seem to be catered to younger audiences, making people in my generation smile while our parents squint and wonder if they’re being trolled or taught the new lingo! Some billboards are simple, some are hilarious, and some are downright ridiculous, but all of them grab your attention. I can’t remember the last time I didn’t notice a Buc-ee’s sign as soon as it appeared on the horizon.
Buc-ee’s reportedly spends upwards of $30 million a year on its billboard campaigns, which is wild when you think about it. But it makes sense — the investment pays off by creating buzz, brand recognition, and a little roadside joy. My personal favorite is the one in the middle of Airzona/New Mexico — a simple Buc-ee’s logo with a U-turn symbol and 979 miles. It’s clever, minimal, and makes you actually stop and think, or laugh, as you drive past. Another one I love says “Beaver Nuggets Inside,” making drivers grin no matter what kind of day they’re having.
The bottom line is that billboards aren’t going anywhere. As long as people are driving and looking out their windows, they’re going to notice. Buc-ee’s shows that with humor, creativity, and understanding your audience, even old-school advertising can feel fresh, exciting, and totally shareable. I honestly can’t wait to see what they come up with next.
Harassment in Politics: Why It Still Happens
Representative verbally attacking Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez shows how deeply rooted the problem still is. Even men at the highest levels of government sometimes act this way because the behavior is tied to long-standing ideas about power, gender, and who gets to speak without being challenged.
One major reason this continues is power and entitlement. Harassment is rarely about attraction—it's usually about control. Some men who hold powerful positions feel shielded by their status. They’ve often spent years in environments where their behavior goes unchecked, so they learn that they can get away with talking down to or intimidating women. In politics, where reputation and alliances matter, people sometimes protect their colleagues rather than calling out harm, which only reinforces that sense of safety for the offender.
There’s also a heavy layer of cultural conditioning. For generations, women who speak up, challenge authority, or simply refuse to be talked over have been labeled as “difficult,” “emotional,” or “out of line.” When a woman steps into a place historically dominated by men—like Congress—it can trigger resentment. Some men react by trying to put her “back in her place,” whether consciously or not. These patterns don’t magically disappear just because someone wears a suit and holds public office.
Another factor is the current tone of public and political conversation. Politics today is full of shouting matches, insults, and personal attacks. When the environment rewards aggression, it becomes easier for someone to cross the line into gendered or demeaning remarks. And when those moments get brushed off as “just politics,” it gives people permission to behave badly again.
Stopping this kind of behavior in the future requires a mix of structural and cultural changes.
First, there needs to be real accountability. Congress, like any workplace, should have clear rules and actual consequences for harassment—whether verbal, physical, or emotional. Ethics investigations, public reports, and consistent disciplinary actions make a big difference. People think twice when they know there’s a cost.
Second, leadership has to set the standard. When men in positions of authority openly call out harassment—especially when it comes from their own side—it helps change the culture. Silence sends a message, but so does speaking up.
Third, education and awareness actually matter. Not the checkbox-style training people joke about, but real conversations about power, respect, and boundaries. The more people recognize harmful behavior, the harder it becomes to justify or ignore it.
And finally, there’s power in naming the behavior. When women like Ocasio-Cortez refuse to stay quiet and instead call it what it is, it pushes the issue into the open. Public scrutiny often forces institutions to respond, and over time, that kind of transparency changes expectations.
Harassment won’t disappear overnight, but accountability, cultural shifts, and leaders willing to model respect can make it far less common—and far less tolerated.
Why Our Assumptions Hurt — And What We Can Do About It
Watching Vanessa Vancour’s talk really got me thinking about how often we jump to conclusions about people — just from how they look, how they sound, what their name is, or the color of their skin. That snap judgment, based on background or appearance, digs into prejudice in a quiet, everyday way. And for a lot of folks, that prejudice isn’t just an internal thought — it turns into actions, words, or misunderstandings that keep real connection from happening.
Vancour points out something so basic but so powerful: we’re quick to assume we know someone’s story before we even let them tell it. We expect a person of Mexican heritage to act, think, or speak a certain way. And when they don’t match that stereotype — when they break the mold — people feel confused, suspicious, or even threatened. That reaction says more about our own assumptions than it does about them.
The problem gets worse because these assumptions are part of cultural conditioning. For generations, certain labels have been attached to people based on race, ethnicity, or origin. These labels shape how society treats people, how opportunities are handed out, and who’s “trusted” or “seen.” So when someone who doesn’t match the expected pattern shows up — successful, articulate, unapologetically themselves — it challenges those labels. That challenge can make people uncomfortable, and instead of questioning the stereotype, they circle the wagons, reinforce the bias, or stay silent.
But Vanessa’s talk offers hope — and a call to action. What if instead of judging, we just listened? What if we let people define themselves rather than forcing our assumptions on them? It’s not just about being “not racist.” It’s about being human: treating people like people, not walking stereotypes. That means giving space, asking questions, acknowledging our biases, and being open to surprise.
Turning this awareness into action isn’t always easy. It means calling out assumptions when we hear them — even in ourselves. It means recognizing that judgments based on identity are unfair, damaging, and too common. And it means making room for people’s full stories, even when those stories don’t look the way we expect. Because once those walls of assumption come down, real empathy and understanding can happen.
At the end of the day, this video isn’t just about feeling guilty for having biases. It’s about challenging them. It’s about learning, growing, and giving others the grace to exist as who they are — beyond labels, beyond backgrounds, beyond noise. And if more people started doing that, we wouldn’t just change a few minds — maybe, slowly, we’d help change a culture.
What “Mickey Mouse Monopoly” Reveals About Disney, Power & Childhood
Watching the documentary Mickey Mouse Monopoly shook me in a good way. It made me realize how childhood icons—cartoons, movies, and media we soak up young—shape more than just what’s “fun.” They shape ideas about race, gender, class, and power. What felt like innocent cartoons growing up suddenly hit different when I saw how messages were layered in those stories.
As kids, we accept what’s on the screen with open eyes. We laugh, we cry, we cheer for cartoon heroes without questioning what’s behind the scenes. But this film shows that behind those colorful stories are often complicated assumptions: about who gets to be the hero, whose voice gets heard, and who’s left out. Media isn’t just entertainment — it quietly teaches us what’s “normal,” who matters, and who doesn’t.
That’s the scary part: these messages stick. If you’re a kid watching this stuff constantly, you might grow up thinking the world is shaped a certain way — even if that “way” is unfair, biased, or skewed. Maybe it privileges some people over others. Maybe it normalizes stereotypes. And because you grew up with it, it feels natural — even when it’s not.
But knowing how media affects us gives us power. It opens our eyes. When we look back and question those childhood icons — when we ask “Why is this the hero? Why does this look the way it does? Who’s missing from this story?” — we start breaking patterns. We start recognizing how messages influence our beliefs, often without us even realizing it.
That kind of awareness matters, especially if you care about fairness, equality, or just seeing the world — and yourself — honestly. It means rethinking what gets accepted as “normal.” It means supporting media that challenges stereotypes instead of repeating them. It means demanding stories that include different voices, different perspectives, and different truths.
For me, watching Mickey Mouse Monopoly wasn’t just nostalgia — it was a wake-up call. It reminded me that every time I watch, share, or recommend media, I’m part of that bigger conversation. And if enough of us stay aware and hold media accountable, maybe we can shape a world where representation, honesty, and fairness matter more than catchy songs and colorful animation.
So next time you click “play,” remember: it’s not just a cartoon. It’s a piece of culture. And culture matters — a lot more than we often give it credit for.
The Masks We All Wear — Why We Hide, and What Happens When We Take Them Off
Watching “The Masks We All Wear” really got me thinking about how much we hide from each other — and sometimes, even from ourselves. In the talk, speaker Ashanti Branch points out how so many of us carry invisible masks that shape how we act, how we present ourselves, and even how we relate to the world. These masks aren’t always dramatic or obvious: sometimes it’s fear, shame, insecurity, or pressure to fit in. But over time, they become our reality — and mask our true selves.
The problem is, these masks often come from external expectations. Society tells us how we should look, behave, or talk, depending on who we are — our race, gender, background, or even just how others see us. So we learn to hide parts of ourselves that don’t fit, or pretend we’re “strong” when we feel broken inside. What’s even scarier is we may begin to believe our own act. Instead of being real, we become a collection of adaptations meant to survive other people’s judgments.
But what if we stopped hiding? What if we let ourselves — and others — be messy, vulnerable, real? That’s what this video asks. When we begin to remove the masks, the walls start to break down. Real connections become possible. People start to trust. Empathy grows. Pain doesn’t get shoved into silence. Instead, it gets shared, understood, and maybe even healed. That kind of vulnerability is messy. It’s scary. But it’s also powerful.
Branch’s talk made me reflect: how many of my daily interactions are behind a mask? How many times do I edit what I say or how I act because I’m afraid that someone might misjudge me? And how often do I judge others — not for who they are under their mask, but for the mask they choose to show? If we’re honest, the answer might be more than we like to admit.
Removing the mask is more than a personal decision — it’s a step toward authenticity. It means giving yourself permission to feel anger, sadness, joy; to show vulnerability; to speak your truths. It means creating space for others to do the same. And maybe most importantly: it means doing it even when it feels unsafe or weird, because humanity is worth that risk. It means choosing connection over perception. Real instead of polished.
This talk doesn’t guarantee that life gets easy once the mask comes off. Sometimes you’ll be hurt. Sometimes people won’t understand. Maybe you’ll doubt yourself. But the alternative — living forever in disguise — means losing parts of yourself. And that’s a cost too high to pay.
Watching “The Masks We All Wear” wasn’t just a reminder of how life hides beneath appearances — it was a call to live without filters. A call to own your story. To stop pretending. To start being real. And if enough of us decide to walk out without a mask? Maybe the world gets a bit more honest. A little more human. And a lot more alive.
Being Asian in America: Identity, Pressure & the Search for Belonging
The documentary “Being Asian in America” opened my eyes to something I think a lot of people misunderstand — identity isn’t simple. Watching people from different Asian backgrounds share their stories makes it clear how complex and layered being “Asian American” can be. It’s not one experience. It’s hundreds — shaped by heritage, language, migration stories, and what it feels like to grow up caught between cultures.
For some, the struggle is about being understood. As one contributor in the video said, when someone asks “Where are you from?” they don’t always want “America” as the answer — but the follow-up question often betrays what they really meant. It’s a reminder that “being American” and “being Asian” aren’t opposites — but people often treat them like they are.
Others talked about feeling torn between two worlds. Growing up in one culture at home, and another outside. Trying to honor your family’s history while still fitting into your environment. That balancing act can feel like walking a tightrope — constantly adjusting who you are depending on where you are or who’s around you.
On top of that, there are stereotypes — assumptions about how you talk, act, even what you should achieve. Some call it the “model minority” myth, but really it’s a pressure cooker of expectations: excel in school, stay quiet, work hard, don’t complain. When people live under that weight, identity becomes a performance; individuality gets buried under threads of expectation.
Watching their stories made me ask: how often do we pigeonhole people because of their name, their face, or their background? How often do we treat someone as representative of an entire community rather than as an individual? Real identity isn’t neat or tidy. It’s messy, contradictory, evolving.
What stood out most is how brave it is to claim identity on your own terms. To say, “Yes — I am Asian, American, both, somewhere in between,” without shame. To resist pressure to fit into stereotypes. To push back when people assume they already know your story. Identity is yours to define. Not other people’s.
That’s the core message — representation matters, but more than that, respect matters. Letting people define themselves. Listening when they share. Giving space for stories that don’t fit neat boxes. Because when we do that, our communities become richer, our perspectives broaden, and empathy grows.