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  Diner Menus, America’s Quiet Philosophy Texts

  Created by: cheramerica on May 30, 2025, 4:01 AM

  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.

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  Tossed in a Racial Box: Deconstructing a Binary System Made to Divide Citizens & Consolidate Power

  Created by: roberto.c.alfredo on Jun 8, 2025, 1:17 PM

  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.

• 1
  Creeds, Tribes, and Freethinkers: Is America Built to Liberate Our Minds?

  Created by: roberto.c.alfredo on May 11, 2025, 12:54 PM

  From the moment a new immigrant steps onto Ellis Island, America sells itself as the land of limitless possibility—an intellectual blank slate where beliefs are meant to be forged in the fires of reason rather than inherited bloodlines. Yet beneath that aspirational veneer lies a potent creed, one that demands its own form of ideological conformity.

  In theory, the United States should be a paradise for freethinkers: a nation whose founding documents exalt individual liberty, skepticism of authority, and the Enlightenment’s valorization of reason. The First Amendment’s protection of speech and religion seems tailor-made to shelter those who question dogma, tradition, and entrenched power.

  But ideals are one thing, lived reality another. Americans often find that straying too far from the “official” creed—whether by challenging unfettered markets or criticizing founding myths—invites swift social sanctions. In practice, deviance from accepted narratives can brand you as unpatriotic or even subversive.

  This tension stems from America’s identity as a creedal nation rather than an ethnic one. Where many countries lean on shared ancestry or cultural homogeneity to forge national unity, the U.S. leans on a shared set of principles. And principles, as it turns out, can be policed just as rigorously as lineage.

  So does America really want freethinkers? The short answer: it wants them up to a point. Freethinking that reinforces prosperity, innovation, and technological progress is celebrated—think Silicon Valley iconoclasts or academic mavericks. But freethinking that threatens political stability, economic orthodoxy, or the consumerist consensus is often met with suspicion or outright hostility.

  Contrast this with countries that couple strong social safety nets and broad social equality with robust protections for dissent. In Scandinavian democracies—Norway, Sweden, Denmark—high levels of trust in public institutions and minimal fear of economic ruin create a much lower cost for intellectual risk-taking. You’re free to challenge the consensus without fearing that you or your family will lose health care or education.

  Even within Europe, places like the Netherlands and Germany carve out distinctive space for the freethinker. A German public sphere that still wrestles with its authoritarian past often treats rigorous debate as a civic duty, while Dutch “pillarization” historically allowed multiple ideologically distinct communities to coexist under one national roof.

  Yet social equality does not guarantee economic equality. Scandinavia’s cradle-to-grave welfare systems come with high taxes, and Germany’s regulated capitalism can feel stifling to entrepreneurs. But freethinking thrives when your basic security—health, housing, education—isn’t at the mercy of market whims. In America, by contrast, economic precarity forces many minds into survival mode rather than exploration mode.

  Moreover, true freethinking requires not only legal protections but cultural encouragement: parents who model questioning, schools that reward curiosity over rote learning, media that tolerate nuance instead of peddling outrage. Here, too, countries with strong public broadcasting and civic education programs often outperform the U.S., where sensationalism can drown out subtle analysis.

  That said, America remains fertile soil for certain kinds of intellectual rebellion. From the Beats of the 1950s to the cyber-utopians of today, freethinkers have found in the U.S. both their mission field and their megaphone. The challenge is to expand that rarefied pocket of tolerance into the broader culture—so that freethinking isn’t just the province of elites or countercultural enclaves.

  In the end, the question isn’t merely whether America can nurture freethinkers—it’s whether Americans will embrace the discomfort of radical doubt. Other nations may offer greater structural support, but the spark of freethought still needs fuel: personal courage, community backing, and a national willingness to dwell in uncertainty. Until we enlarge our definition of loyalty to include honest dissent, we’ll remain a country that preaches freedom of mind but polices freedom of belief.

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  Bonjour, Plattsburgh? Reflections from America’s Quiet Border

  Created by: cheramerica on May 29, 2025, 3:13 AM

  I stopped for pancakes at a diner just off Route 9 in Plattsburgh, NY (ZIP: 12901, for my fellow map nerds). It’s one of those places where the menu hasn’t budged since about 1983—and neither have the prices, bless their hearts. As I drowned my short stack in syrup, I overheard the table next to me stumbling through their breakfast order in hesitant French, earning bemused smiles and gentle confusion from their very-much-English-speaking server.

  Here’s the kicker: Lacolle, Quebec, is a breezy 40-minute drive north. Cross that line, and French flows effortlessly—c’est naturel. But in Plattsburgh, French feels oddly out of place, like cowboy boots at a vegan potluck.

  Contrast that with Texas, where you can be miles and miles from the Rio Grande and Spanish is as comfy as old denim. Of course, Texas spent a significant chunk of its formative years as part of Mexico—history has deep roots, deeper even than pecan trees. In fact, there's still a quiet undercurrent among some Texans who feel the border never quite landed right, culturally speaking. Texas is practically its own country—Tex-Mex traditions, bilingual street signs, and communities where crossing linguistic boundaries happens every day without a blink.

  Why the stark difference in Plattsburgh, then? Historically, the border between the U.S. and Canada was largely shaped by treaties between distant governments rather than by cultural or economic tides. The northeastern U.S. border, once delineated, hardened into an identity line. Economics played its role too: trade, jobs, and daily life largely stayed separate, preventing cultural blending.

  Meanwhile, the U.S.-Mexico border region remains fluid, economically intertwined, and culturally overlapping. Families and businesses sprawl comfortably on both sides. The flow of goods, people, and especially language has softened that border into something more porous, more natural—more human.

  America’s borders are funny like that. Sometimes they split cultures cleanly; other times, the lines blur beautifully. And as I wiped up the last sticky bits of syrup, I thought about how borders are drawn in ink—but lived in pancakes, language, and the raised eyebrows of a diner waitress.

  Until next time, keep braking for historical markers.

  

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  Diner Menus, America’s Quiet Philosophy Texts

  Created by: cheramerica on May 30, 2025, 4:01 AM

  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.

• 0
  Tossed in a Racial Box: Deconstructing a Binary System Made to Divide Citizens & Consolidate Power

  Created by: roberto.c.alfredo on Jun 8, 2025, 1:17 PM

  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.