Olivia Mendonca, Blog #4: Word to Your Mother!

One would imagine that when people look at me, the word “gangster” isn't typically the first thing that comes to mind. Strangely enough, I've been told on more than one occasion (by different people each time, mind you) that I am, in fact, a gangster. It's rather confusing to me. Granted, I have participated in my fair share of drive-bys in my day, but there's really not much else to support this accusation. (Well, that and the trunk full of guns and drug money, but that's it, I swear...)

The earliest time I can remember someone calling me a gangster was when I was in middle school. And back then I was even smaller and more shy than I am now, so I really can't explain where this came from. I'm even pretty sure that people called me “O-Dawg” at one point or another. (That's kind of a fun nickname; please feel free to start calling me that if you'd like.) The whole gangster thing really picked up when I was on my high school's cross country team. If you think about it, that REALLY doesn't make sense; can you imagine trying to run several miles with your pants sagging to the middle of your thighs? It's quite a challenge. I thought the whole thing would finish with graduating high school, but it seems to have followed me here to college. Perhaps I should stop throwing gang signs out the window every time I ride the bus. That could be really dangerous.

Like I said, I'm not exactly sure how this all started, but maybe it has to do with the fact that I didn't grow up watching the same version of Sesame Street as everybody else:



Elmo's not so cute after he busts a cap in your ass. “Tickle this!”