I’ve never taken the LSAT, but I have taken a lot of breaks in diners. Waffle House, Huddle House, Joe’s Diner, Lena’s Diner, Friendly’s when they still had the booths with jukebox buttons. Once, I watched a man in Alabama write his resignation letter on a napkin while drinking five cups of coffee and eating a slice of lemon meringue pie he didn’t seem to enjoy. He looked calm. Maybe calmer than I’ll ever be.

(For context: tech entrepreneur Alexis Ohanian famously decided to abandon law school plans after walking out of the LSAT and heading straight to a Waffle House. Reddit was born soon after. I’m just saying.)

There’s something about diners. They’re less judgmental than cafés, less chaotic than Sheetz, and more permanent than fast food. They sit still while the world spins around them—open late, open early, and open to everyone. And if you sit long enough, maybe over hash browns and an existential crisis, you start to realize that diner menus aren’t just food lists.

They’re records.

Notebooks of regional identity, economic history, culinary defiance. Why does this place serve grits with everything? Because it’s the South. Why is there still liver and onions on the menu? Because someone out there still wants it. Why are the prices in Comic Sans? Because nobody told them not to. And why do so many menus feel like a mash-up of grandma’s handwriting, local tradition, and a mid-’90s Photoshop experiment? Because that’s exactly what they are.

In a world that often erases itself and rebrands every two years, diner menus are holdouts of American self-definition. They’re imperfect, sincere, and strangely trustworthy.

And maybe that’s why tech founders have epiphanies at Waffle House. Not just because of the hash brown bar (although, bless it), but because diners make space for ideas. For overheard conversations. For being alone in public. They’re like coffeehouses, minus the pretense, plus biscuits.

And here’s something else: diners don’t try to manipulate you. You can sit there for hours with a black coffee and a side of scrambled eggs, and no one’s pushing neon ads for triple-bacon stacks or discount cigarettes in your face. You’re a guest, not a target. That matters.

Philosophy majors should hang out in them more often.

Until next time, keep braking for historical markers—and laminated menus.

At the core of our societal structures lies a carefully maintained illusion: a rigid Black-and-white (and often Black/brown-white) framework meant to sort, separate, and subjugate. This binary system didn’t emerge by chance—it was crafted through policy, propaganda, and prejudice to keep power consolidated and communities divided. Yet, the lived truth of identity almost always defies such neat categorization. In my own experience, that truth surfaced unexpectedly through subtle changes in skin tone—a physical manifestation that led me to question the validity and implications of racial labels as historically and socially constructed entities.

Historically, groups like southern Italians, Greeks, and Eastern Europeans occupied ambiguous racial spaces in American society—sometimes perceived as “not quite white” due to their darker complexions and unfamiliar cultural practices. My own ancestry, roughly 30% southern Italian, reflects this complexity. With Mediterranean features and skin that tans deeply, I found myself questioning the contemporary idea of “whiteness” and its connection to legacies of colonialism and slavery. This category often felt at odds with my personal values and family history.

The change in my appearance was purely coincidental, stemming simply from spending more time outdoors. However, over time, it became clear that these natural shifts had profound implications within the simplistic racial binaries of American culture. The more my appearance changed, the more uncomfortable I became with being neatly categorized into a single racial identity.

One critical nuance I’ve grappled with is understanding my ancestors’ historical position within global structures of oppression. Unlike those whose ancestors were either actively involved in the propagation of slavery or subjected to colonial oppression, my ancestors were largely poor agricultural laborers in Europe during the peak of American slavery. Though they were politically part of the societies that wielded colonial power, they possessed no meaningful agency in those oppressive structures. This historical ambiguity further complicates my relationship with the racial categorizations imposed today.

Yet, despite this historical nuance, my ancestors were eventually integrated into the racial hierarchy of the United States, gaining the advantages associated with being categorized as white. This creates a troubling ethical dilemma: by remaining categorized as white, I continue to implicitly benefit from a system whose foundational values I fundamentally oppose. This awareness leaves me pondering the extent of my responsibility and the ethical choices available to me—whether it involves consciously reversing racial homogenization or incrementally working towards distancing myself from this problematic identity.

Furthermore, I’ve wondered to what extent this historical observation remains relevant. Although my ancestors lacked direct involvement in systems of oppression, their eventual inclusion into America’s racial hierarchy makes disentangling my identity from historical complicity difficult, if not impossible. Given that historical separation is unattainable, perhaps the only ethical decision is to strive for reversing the homogenization imposed upon my ancestors. Alternatively, failing this, it becomes necessary to incrementally detach myself from a system fundamentally at odds with my values—even if this means contemplating leaving the country altogether. Yet, returning to the lands of my ancestors presents another challenge; after several generations in the U.S., I would likely be viewed as an outsider there as well.

The notion of whiteness in America has always been fluid and politically charged. Immigrant groups—Italians, Irish, Slavs—were gradually assimilated into whiteness to reinforce existing social hierarchies. Reflecting on this history, I recognized parallels in my ancestors’ experiences as they navigated imposed identities versus their authentic lived realities.

Understanding this has allowed me to see racial categories as inherently unstable and historically contingent. My shifting skin tone became symbolic—a visible expression of the freedom to define oneself beyond rigid societal boundaries.

Openly discussing these reflections can feel risky in today’s emotionally charged atmosphere. Still, identity is not fixed; it is a deeply personal journey shaped by experience, heritage, and everyday interactions. Sharing these thoughts anonymously allows for thoughtful reflection rather than divisive debate, emphasizing that identity is a continuous, dynamic process.

Ultimately, authenticity comes not from conforming to rigid external categories but from aligning life choices with one’s inner values and lived experiences. For me, that means embracing my Mediterranean heritage and appreciating the intricate, evolving nature of identity—always personal, constantly changing, and fundamentally human.