In high school, I was a weird child. I wasn’t popular or an athlete or a nerd. I was a theater kid. You know, plays, musicals, miming (yes, miming), choir – the works.
When I found myself in an English class filled with jocks and “popular” kids, I felt like I was in a drama kid’s living hell.
We had the same idea about each other – the popular kids and the drama kids – they thought we were freaks, and we thought they were idiots. Being the obnoxious and stubborn kid that I was, I played up the part of the weirdo who mimes and sings for fun.
So when our teacher told us we had to write a speech about something we believed in, I did not want to ruin their preconceived notions about artsy kids.
While everyone else wrote about summer, football and family, I chose to go a different route – a route that no one else would even consider because of the humiliation that would most likely follow.
I chose to write about bologna.
I believe in bologna. Although it’s pink, a color that no natural food could possible be, and its contents are unknown to its consumers, I believe in bologna. To put it in familiar terms, if steak is a successful, tuxedo-type, bologna would be the red-headed step child. That’s one quality that makes bologna so lovable to me. People may tease it, mock it and claim that it’s “synthetic meat” or “unhealthy” or “made out of leftover animal parts,” but to me, it’s a delicious combination of all animals compressed neatly into a tube of synthetic casing. Bologna accepts every animal. How’s that for a non-discrimination policy?
To me, bologna is a fond memory. My grandma always has one meal ready for me when I go to visit her: a bologna sandwich, chips and dip and an RC Cola.
It may seem like a trivial snack to everyone else, but to me, it’s a memory of times spent with my grandmother, and that’s something special.
Thank you, bologna.
A lot of people treat bologna like it’s something to be ashamed of. If you were eat a bologna sandwich and your friend caught you, what would you say? You’d give them some excuse about how you’re making it for your dog or you’re doing a science experiment about pink slime.
I challenge you: next time you think about eating a bologna sandwich, shout it to the world. “I’m eating bologna and I’m proud of it!”
I think Oscar Meyer was onto something when they marketed bologna with cute little kids and a clever jingle. Maybe they knew that the ingredients of the “mystery meat” were in fact bologna (pun intended), but nevertheless, they were sitting on a gold mine of deliciousness.
Oscar Meyer most definitely has a way with b-o-l-o-g-n-a.
My teacher didn’t really appreciate the fact that I made fun of her assignment and preached to the class about bologna for three minutes. But at the end of the day, I don’t care what any of the bologna-haters think, anyway.
Column by Madison Wepfer, Assistant Features Editor