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Letters to the Editor >> Opinion
Sagaba: To be misunderstood by the world, even by your friends at times. It means “suffering,” according to the Blue Scholars of Seattle. And yes, I am suffering, to be perfectly honest. I feel like many among me are too, so I have the will to describe it.
Living in Isla Vista, CA shouldn’t be so hard, right? Correct. Men, you should be getting laid every single weekend with any single girl of your choosing. You should be going to parties pre-gamed and pumped, you should be ready to swoop on any bitch that is dancing in her daze. Right? Of course. Pussy is pussy. And good-looking pussy is good-looking. That is Santa Barbara; that is our culture.
You’re right. You’re absolutely right. Here we are, swimming. But it’s funny, I often find myself swimming against the current — like salmon, yo. Fortunately, this isn’t a fish thing. This is just a person; not rehearsing. And when I’m not rehearsing or putting on a mask to go out, I’m real. If it means I’m mean, irritable, rude or unpleasant, then so be it.
Let me be real for a minute. Look, I hate I.V. Being the strong word that it is — “hate” — I use it with caution. But I’m using it. Yes, I do hate Isla Vista and everything it usually stands for and represents. Drunk, arrogant fools walk the streets in hordes, groups and masses to do the same thing: clone each other. It’s the truth, what can I say? Every single time I go out to pick up some single girl with another full, single beer in my hand, I think, “What am I doing right now?”
Well, obviously I’m trying to satisfy my body — my dick, to be more exact. Then, I think, “How important is my dick to me?”
Well, it’s pretty fucking important, frankly. There’s no denying that. But then I think, “Is your mind stronger than that? Are you more than just a clone?”
I respond, “Yes.” Yes, it is. My mind is stronger, and I proceed to go practically flaccid. More than a clone? Yup, I’m a bit more than that too, to tell you the truth. Then I become insecure, out of place and outnumbered. Where am I?
You’re at a party, kid. And this is college, where men stand around a keg and spit the same lines and stories on weekends. You’re in college, where the easiest picking is on the dance floor; capitalize. You’re in a place where “bros” come before “hoes,” where you must say the stupidest shit to make a girl giggle enough until she feels comfortable to kiss you. Then you’re home free.
These are the motions, and we all go through them regularly. Women buy this, take it home to cook, clean and fuck — more “fuck” than “cook” and “clean” — and then move on to the next weekend, the next party and the next man.
“Yeeeah, buddy.” That’s where I am. Take a number and get in line.
“Get me out!” I consider. “Show me someone real!” Yet, there actually isn’t an out, and there is no real. Not until you’re faded, angry and browned-out enough to walk home on your own do you realize, “I hate myself and everyone around me for this. They’re fakes and phonies that don’t deserve my attention or time. This façade I’m living isn’t living at all.”
Then you realize you sound like Holden Caulfield; you realize the year is 2011.
You think, “Shit, maybe I think too much. Maybe I overanalyze and criticize behavior too much,” so you chill out. You become cold and indifferent to the people and world around you. Whether at work, school or parties, you’re frosty and apathetic.
“When this place has something worth showing me, I’ll pay attention,” you think. Maybe an angel will come along one day and grace you with their presence; that’s what you’ll hope for at least — an angel.
But in the world of Isla Vista you’re unlikely to find her. I suppose there are plenty of angels, sure, but they’re almost all afraid and insecure like you. So much so that you’re likely to never know her.
So, now what?
You continue being sagaba: cold and indifferent to the world. You stay jaded and faded in the hopes that you’ll find her; in the hopes that you can find love among chaos.
You might, but you might not. That’s sagaba, baby. That’s the life.
Fabian Garcia is a second-year.