When I embarked to New York City yesterday to attend a rally for the people of Darfur, I planned to see a microcosm of the Big Apple condensed into a ten block by four block area of Central Park. I expected to see people of all races, religions, colors and creeds united for a cause that few would question.

Save Darfur Rally in Central Park, 9/17/06 (Click to enlarge) [Ruth Stein]

But after a lengthy bus ride from Philly, with some 35 other Penn students on a Hillel sponsored coach, I didn’t see the American melting pot I expected to see.

First, I saw a sign that said “Never Again, Again”–a clear reference to the Holocaust, and the UN’s creation of the Genocide Convention of 1948. But, it has happened again.

My problem was the sea of white faces who were rallying in Central Park against the injustices of the Sudan. In every corner of the field I counted no more than 20 minorities among the tens of thousands of people who were packed into the park.

I also observed (not scientifically, I must admit) that the majority of the crowd were Jews.

What does this say about our society?

I approached each black person I saw throughout the+A33 day. The scary thing was that I saw but one person the entire day who was African-American, rather than an immigrant from Africa.

This event was a disgrace. It was not a unified America. It was a majority of Jews and some Catholics from their faith-based organizations, and a contingent of hippie liberals from Amnesty International. There were no Muslims there.

Imam Talib Abdur-Rashid, 9/17/06 (Click to enlarge) [Ruth Stein]

When I asked people like Representative Chris Smith (R-NJ), headlining singer and Amnesty International supporter Suzanne Vega and former Canadian Attorney General and current House of Commons member Irwin Cotler about the demographics of the crowd, they each acknowledged that my observations were correct, but they could not explain to me why this rally turned out this way.

Cotler, the only Canadian speaker of the day is himself a Jew and the founder of the Save Darfur Parliamentary Coalition.

When the Save Darfur coalition announced Imam Talib Abdur-Rashid as a guest speaker, I initially rejoiced. However, the Imam turned a crowd that was previously cheering into a solemn group of individuals with no emotion. This is because he accused those trying to save Darfur of being “wolves dressing up as sheep” trying to convert the Muslims of Sudan to Christianity.

Not even a performance by OAR to end the event could help the crowd overcome such harsh and dismal words.

Save Darfur Rally in Central Park, 9/17/06 (Click to enlarge) [Ruth Stein]

This event was an utter failure. Chris Smith of NJ was probably the only Republican in the place, and there were no more than fifteen American blacks, Latinos and Asians in sight. The only Indian I met was a cop assigned to the outer gates. What will it take for people to actually put the phrase “never again” into practice?

American Jews stepped up to the plate this summer to help their brothers and sisters in Israel. When will African-Americans do the same for their brothers and sisters in Darfur?

I’ve never had as much respect for people who work in the service industry as I did after the Class of 2008 Welcome Back picnic last weekend. As a new member of the 2008 Class Board, who hosted the event, I had only just found out that part of my job description was, in addition to helping to plan fun events that included delicious food, actually helping to actually serve that food.

The picnic attendees seemed thankful for the free food, but were also incredibly demanding. I was surprised–we were giving them free lunch, and they were complaining that they were going to miss the Eagles game. I gritted my teeth, sliced more pitas, and as I washed cherry water ice out of my hair that night, I swore never to be rude to anyone who served me food ever again.

Regardless of how true or false the generalization may be, Penn students are widely stereotyped as rude and stuck-up. According to Sociology professor David Grazian, many service workers in the area complain that Penn students are notoriously bad tippers and that we treat those that serve us as if we are superior.

Class of 2008 Picnic (Dramatization) [seykota.com]

Luckily for us, many Penn students are lucky enough to have no experience working in the service industry. According to Grazian, it’s “very easy for affluent people to–forget the humanity of the people that are serving them,” and he also pointed out that in an urban setting like Philadelphia, the customer-employer interaction is one of the few instances when people from different socioeconomic classes interact.

In a class I took with Professor Grazian last fall, he declared that every American should have to work six months in the service industry before they should be allowed to vote. While he obviously wasn’t serious, he made a strong point about the key lessons that can be learned by serving others that many Americans are too lucky to ever have the chance to learn.

Those that have worked in the service industry are typically nicer to those that serve them. After working in many service jobs, including a delivery driver and an ice cream server, College senior Matthew Dintenfass said that he has “definitely” changed his behavior toward those that serve him. He is now more careful to leave big tips because he understands the frustration of tip-based wages and tries not to get frustrated if the service isn’t perfect. After my own experience working in a clothing store my senior year of high school, I am now careful to refold anything I take off the shelves, and I never leave unwanted garments in dressing rooms.

Sure, Matthew, I or any of the other Penn students that have had similar experiences might have been just as considerate anyway, but now we really get it. We understand what it’s like to be treated like servants, and we appreciate the value of a customer that treated us with respect.

I’m not pretending that my one afternoon serving food or my four months refolding t-shirts can even remotely compare to the experiences of someone who makes their living in the service industry, but it’s definitely taught me how to treat the person on the other end of my lunch order.

there’s another person on the end of that sandwich, and even if you’ve never worked a day in your life, they don’t deserve to be treated as anything less.

The latest news out of Darfur, Sudan, is bleak.

A report in today’s issue of Science estimates that 400,000 people have died in the region, since the Janjaweed milita–with the open support of the government in Khartoum–began raping, torturing and killing civilians there in early 2003.

Meanwhile, militiamen have threatened and attacked aid workers, cutting off humanitarian relief from those who desperately need it. On Monday, in fact, the World Food Programme said that 355,000 people in North Darfur “had been cut off from food aid last month,” Reuters reported.

And all this is occurring during the “hunger season, the period before the harvest when food stocks run low and prices climb.

there’s little we can do–but certainly not nothing. On Sunday, I and other Penn students will hop on a bus at 9:30 from the Hillel building to New York City for the “Save Darfur Now: Voices to Stop Genocide Rally” at 2 p.m. in Central Park’s East Meadow.

For more information about the situation in western Sudan, visit http://www.savedarfur.org/pages/background.

Check back on Monday for exclusive, on-the-scene coverage from Spin columnists Gabe Oppenheim and Stephen Morse.

I love etiquette. I’m not one of those who thinks that with more rules, things would be boring. If we all had a big book of etiquette, life would be infinitely less confusing.

Life is full of miscommunications, and etiquette is about learning to speak the social language of the people around you. For those who are poor at improv, etiquette is a set of choreographed movements to follow.

I love the joust and parry of societal convention.

At a restaurant, if you haven’t been served, yet don’t mind if the people you are with start eating without you, you may briefly lift your fork to signal your consent. If your companions are versed in etiquette, they will begin eating. If they are oblivious to your obscure mannerism, then they will miss out and must wait until your risotto is served. I find the fork-lift to be extremely elegant, but would it go over well in Houston Hall?

Probably not.

Gradually, etiquette has lost out to the convenience of simply saying what you mean, and probably with good reason. Being straightforward saves time. It’s easier to say, “Hey, you guys can start without me.”

But where is the romance in that?

One standard that I would like to revive is dressing up for class. Last spring, I sat next to two senior associate students (the senior citizens who sometimes sit in on classes) during my history class. They told me that in their day, every man in class wore a collared shirt and a tie, and every woman wore a skirt. While perhaps this would be an extreme dress code for Penn, wouldn’t it be nice if students’ outfits showed they were serious about class.

Since college is most likely the first time that students are living and attending class in the same place, it is their first opportunity to go to class in pajamas.

Dressing up for class, in my mind, is a form of respect for your teachers, your peers and, perhaps most importantly, for yourself. College sophomore Markley Foreman said she’s “opposed to looking like a real slob in class. It’s really unprofessional - not that we’re professionals, but we’re adults.” Dressing up communicates that you view the occasion as a valuable way to spend your time and have made a commitment to put your best self forward - intellectually as well as physically.

Legal Studies professor Stephen Miller said that he doesn’t have a preference for students’ attire, “as long as their dress isn’t distracting for the class or so slovenly that everybody stares.” The College Freshman’s Don’t Book, published in 1910, also expounds on this standard, cautioning, “Don’t think that crazy or odd clothes are necessarily “College” clothes. Lots of College men do wear crazy clothes; but it isn’t so much because they’re College men, as because they’re crazy.”

It’s not so much crazy clothing that has me dispirited, as it’s a lack of effort. College sophomore Morgan Hennessey points out that perhaps getting dressed up is just a waste of time “that you could’ve spent with your friends or sleeping.”

Fifty years ago, people used to dress up for class.

“Yes,” College sophomore Ryan Jones said, “but they also used to dress up for airplanes.”

Some traditions, I suppose, have flown away for good.

People do different things when they feel vulnerable. Some do reckless things like drink too much. Others take their unease out in more constructive ways like burying themselves in the library.

The worst insult someone can pay me is calling me “jappy.” But my unease manifests itself in a jappy habit. When I feel vulnerable, I hail a cab.

I moved into school by myself this year. I arrived at 30th Street Station for new student orientation armed with my two large camp duffle bags. I was mildly terrified at the prospect of hoisting them up the two flights of stairs to my room so instead of walking 14 blocks, I scurried to the cab line.

As soon as closed the door, the taxi driver struck up conversation with me. His English was good but the combination of his speedy cadence and heavy accent made his speech hard to understand.

But it was worth it. Turns out my cab driver was a doctor from the embattled Darfur region of Sudan. He has lived in the United States for more than a decade but most of his family still lives in the war torn area were the government sponsored Janjaweed militias are accused of committing genocide against the non-Arabs citizens of the region.

As soon as he figured out that I was interested in international affairs and had knowledge of the atrocities going on in his homeland, he eagerly shared some very astute observations about the prospects for peace in Darfur.

For once I didn’t notice the Philadelphia traffic. In 14 blocks I got more of a sense of the situation in Darfur than I had from several years of reading newspaper accounts.

But this taxi teaching wasn’t a onetime occurrence. Yesterday I was late for a friend’s birthday party. It was cold and wet outside and the party was downtown so I jumped into a cab. I ended up learning about the effects of nutrition on aging from a Pakistani cabby.

This got me thinking. Since I normally pay Penn tuition to take classes on Africa and South Asia, maybe cabs are a bargain after all!

When I was little, someone told me that sneakers hanging over a telephone wire means you can buy drugs nearby. Thenceforth, I felt extremely streetwise whenever I walked below a dangling pair, knowing that I was in the presence of sin and urban decay. As I got older, I figured out that probably, if this were always true, the country would have long won its “war on drugs,” just by following the trail of All-Stars and Air Force Ones.

There is a pair of Sperry topsiders hanging on the telephone line outside my window on the 3900 block of Pine Street. If Nikes, Reeboks and Converse mean drugs, what does the preppiest shoe in the world, hanging outside my window, mean is going on in the street below? Maybe it signals to West Philadelphia-wary Penn students that the block is a safe environment where their

Topsiders means some serious business.

wealth and privilege will be recognized and matched. The topsiders on the line are the Penn student way of saying, “I’m a gangster, too, I just deal in stock options.”

There is one other pair of shoes, but while they are tied together, they aren’t matching. One is a men’s sneaker, and the other is a woman’s platform heel. What the hell does that mean? You can use your imagination.

Even if it is composed of short-term residents, the population of a neighborhood will leave its mark. My block is unlike the one to its west, or one to the south.

Other myths behind “sneakers on the line” include delineating rival gang turf, celebrating the last day of school, proclaiming a loss of virginity, or just plain being a bully. Whatever the intention behind those shoes, I’m sure they mean mischief’s a-brewin’ in my hood.

As I was walking down Spruce Street near 34th, I noticed this new monstrous electronic sign in front of Irvine Auditorium.

Upon investigating where this sign came from, I realized that my own observation skills weren’t up to snuff. The sign has been in place since 2000, when Perelman Quad was redesigned.

However, the software for the electronic lettering was never able to function–until this summer when Facilities administrator Tom Hauber brought in a team to fix the half-decade long software glitch.

What irks me is that the sign faces onto Spruce Street, between 34th and 35th streets. So, unless you’re a doctor in the midst of surgery on the second floor of the hospital or a passer-by stuck at the red light at 34th Street while driving eastbound- there’s no chance you’d be able to read the sign. You’d have to fully turn your head 45 degrees to be able to read the sign at all.

The idea of an informational electronic sign is great–but the logic behind the placement of this behemoth is certainly flawed. I’d rather President Gutmann hire a town crier to deliver me news, because I’m certainly not going to risk neck problems for the rest of my life while trying to look at the information on this sign !

While this and the other information on the sign (like where to park) may be helpful to some, Penn needs to unearth this monster and make it so it is more useful than helping a few distraught visitors stuck in traffic on Spruce.

The real Philly cultural experience isn’t the trip to the art museum.

If they ever make a hip-hop hall of fame, Philly’s The Roots would be the cornerstone inductee for their innovative sound, their longevity and their expansive body of work. They are a group that doesn’t shy away from controversy and lyrically poses riveting questions reminiscent of the civil right’s movement. Take for instance the punching commentary with which Blackthought opens their new album over the dark drums

played by ?uestlove: “America’s lost somewhere inside of Littleton/ Eleven million children on Ritalin/ That’s why I don’t rhyme/ For the sake of riddilin/ False media/ We don’t need it do we.”

They are the voice of the people. They embody contemporary social polemics and stimulate thought. They’re not afraid to break boundaries and don’t seem to conform to what the market demands.

Yet many fans thought they did just that when they recently signed with Def Jam. Fortunately, their new album, Game Theory has alleviated all fears that they had abandoned their roots. Their main focus remains producing a uniform and organic sound. Game Theory achieves this without resorting to the gimmick of big-name cameos in order to sell CD’s.

“We just wanted to do things with people we had a relationship with. We wanted our cameos to be honest and not for commercial reasons. To keep the record cohesive we didn’t reach out to people who aren’t representative of or connected to us” said Richard Nichols, manager of The Roots.

Fans agree. “I think it’s really interesting to see them bringing up new underground artists. They explore new territory sonically,” said Wharton sophomore Rahul Sharodi. “For me, if they had Jay-Z as a cameo I wouldn’t have liked it–it was very smart and exploratory on their part to feature these new artists.”

Philly’s own up-and-coming “Nouveau Riche” is a group whose members produced or were featured on many tracks of the Root’s newest album (full disclosure: I had the opportunity to work with “Nouveau Riche as singer-songwriter).

Although The Roots don’t need to drop names on their albums, Penn can brag that the band put on a special show two years ago on Hill Field for President Gutmann’s inauguration. The Roots were a natural selection considering their strong ties to Philly and their spot on the top of students’ wish lists for on-campus performers. It was also serendipitous that the Penn freshman summer reading book for the year, The Tipping Point by Malcolm Gladwell, was the title of their newly-released album at the time.

“The performance was absolutely hot,” recalled College junior Andrew Anderson. “The bassist went off for three minutes doing his own thing we were all jamming pretty hard. I’m all for having them come again.”

Although college students from across the country consistently list The Roots as their favorite musical artists on their Facebook profiles, the band is indigenous to Philly. Over the years their music and aura have greatly contributed to the city’s rich culture. Graduating from Penn without having taken the time to listen and appreciate their prolific works is like leaving without ever having visited Old City or tasted a Philly Cheese Steak. To really assimilate everything this town has to offer, it’s essential that you experience The Roots.

See for yourself:

At 9:00 am on Monday I walked outside onto the fire escape in the back of my house. The sun was as bright and blinding as it was five years ago–at least in the Washington suburbs–but the morning air had a bite, the breeze was cold. Eerie, no?

Then I came inside, showered and went to class. Five years is an awkward anniversary to memorialize. I’m not a New Yorker (though I love the city) and I didn’t lose a close family member in the attacks or the resulting wars, so it seems inappropriate to stop my life for a day. However, 9/11 is still so much part of my present identity that to memorialize it through a solemn, historical, D-day-like ceremony seems unsuitable and cold.

Maybe it’s a cliche question, but what really is an appropriate way to commemorate the 5th anniversary of September 11, 2001?

Tough question. It’s easier to find wrong answers than right answers. In her recent post, Liz Hoffman suggested that the two recently released movies about September 11th are wrong answers. I agree.

I too cringe at the thought of movie executives making millions off of 9/11; it’s too soon for the Disney version. I’m pretty sure that it will always be too soon for the Disney version.

I differ with Liz in that I think that other efforts by the media, such as CNN’s real time streaming video of their broadcast five years ago, is a positive development. She asserts that five years is recent enough that it is unnecessary for news outlets to rehash the suffering of the victims because the pain the victims’ families will feel outweighs any benefits of CNN-like programming. We remember what happened.

Unfortunately not everyone has those memories. We were in high school in 2001, others aren’t so lucky.

Let me introduce you to Andy. Andy is a super-cool 13-year-old who just started 8th grade (full disclosure: I’m a little biased, he’s my little brother). Andy is pretty aware of current events and a few years ago he asked me to take him to the bookstore and buy him a book about September 11.

You see, he is a part of a generation of middle and high schoolers who have heard about September 11th and vaguely remember it, but weren’t old enough to understand what was going on at the time. Andy remembers hysterical parents running into school to pick up their kids, children of Pentagon staffers trying to find their parents, everyone watching TV and trying to understand what happened.

Andy’s friends don’t remember what the twin towers looked like or what they represented. At the time, they couldn’t grasp the tremendous loss of life and the tragedy.

But it’s important that they do because the implications of 9/11 are significant in their lives. Every time Andy flies, he will be subject to increased airport security. Many of Andy’s generation will join the military and fight in wars catalyzed by 9/11. let’s not forget that in addition to the 2819 killed in the attacks on September 11th, 2,669 Americans have been killed in Iraq and 336 have been killed in Afghanistan.

The 5 year anniversary is a perfect opportunity to give them this history lesson and teach them why these sacrifices are necessary. The CNN video feed, and other reflective features, are good tools toward this end.

So that’s it, That’s how I’ll commemorate. I’m going to have a talk with Andy and his twin sister Becca. We’ll talk about what happened five years ago. Then I’m going to do some research myself, refresh my memory and talk to people who (unfortunately) have a more intimate knowledge of the tragedy.

Certainly my commemoration is inadequate but I think the biggest disrespect I can pay to the victims is to forget what they suffered.

When it comes to bad dad jokes, my dad wins the prize. My dad is also the type who likes to retell his “humorous” stories over and over again.

Eat Philly! (Philly Will Do)

One of my favorites is the tale of his trip to a pricy steakhouse known for its prized prime rib. While the rest of his dining table intelligently selected steak, my father ordered the stuffed flounder. Thick and juicy prime ribs appeared on the table, while my dad was left with a pretty lame attempt at a seafood concoction. The emphatic storyteller that my father is, he always pounds his point home with the same moral: “When you go to the pasta place, you order pasta. When you go to the seafood place, you order seafood. And when you go to the steak house, you order steak.”

I’ve heard this story a hundred times, yet for some reason its moral didn’t seem to stick until I had an identical experince.

Last Saturday, I went to Fellini’s Cafe for a friend’s 21st birthday. It’s a typical Philadelphia Italian BYO, and up until this particular evening, I had yet to find a dish I didn’t enjoy. As my fellow friends all ordered pasta dishes like gnocchi and fettuccini alfredo, I decided to go for the crab cakes. Obviously, my dad’s repetitive story had not been engrained in my mind and my years of not paying attention to his wisdom were going to come back and bite me in the butt.

When my dish arrived, three soggy crabcakes smothered in some kind of odorous sauce stared me in the face. I’m not a picky eater, so I decided to dig right in. By the second crapcake, I was ready to call it a night and go pray to the porcelain god.

It was a rought night. The next day, I journeyed home to the suburbs to receive some TLC from my parents. Even though I was prepared for my dad to tell me “I told you so,” I decided to fess up to my faux pas. When my dad asked how my trip to Fellini’s went, I admitted that I had made an “amateur mistake.” To which he replied, “A what?”

“An amateur mistake!”

“Oh really? An Amatura steak. What’s that like?”

After a five minute conversation stupid enough to be in the plot of a Three’s Company episode, my dad finally tightened the screws in his head and realized that my amateur mistake was actually ordering the crapcakes. Along with a few laughs, I got the “I told ya so” I rightfully deserved.

Yesterday marked the first day of Philadelphia Restaurant week, in which dozens of Philly restaurants offer a multi-course meal at a fixed price of $30. A wide variety of eateries allow diners to choose from many kinds of specialized cuisine at affordable prices. So as you are scrambling to make last minute reservations, I urge you to heed my father’s advice. If you go to Philadelphia Fish & Company, order fish. If you head to Cuba Libre order Cuban cuisine and if you go to Fellini’s Cafe, order pasta. Don’t make an Amatura steak.