I can remember being a kid and watching Vanilla Ice and it made

Hear, O children of the written word, the confession of Riff Raff, who declared: “I can remember being a kid and watching Vanilla Ice and it made me smile... I love it. I love that. I can remember seeing Vanilla Ice and then through time he stopped being Vanilla Ice.” Though spoken with laughter and memory, these words carry a shadow of truth: the fragility of identity, the power of joy, and the sorrow of losing the self.

The meaning shines clear. When young, Riff Raff looked upon Vanilla Ice, not merely as a performer, but as a beacon of expression. The boldness, the image, the unashamed self made the child within him smile—not because the music was eternal, but because it was free. Yet as time passed, Vanilla Ice abandoned that image, surrendering his identity beneath the weight of ridicule and expectation. To Riff Raff, this loss was not simply of an artist, but of the unyielding spirit that had once dared to be different.

The ancients knew this tale well. Consider the story of Samson, whose strength was tied to his hair. When it was cut, his power waned, and he became as other men. Though he lived still, he was no longer himself. So too, Vanilla Ice lived on, but the figure that once inspired with audacity had faded. In this, Riff Raff mourns—not the man, but the identity that once radiated courage, even in its imperfection.

History gives us other mirrors. Think of Napoleon, who strode across Europe with fire in his veins, only to be caged upon Elba, stripped of the crown that had defined him. He was alive, but he was no longer Napoleon as the world had known him. In like manner, when an artist forsakes the image that once gave others hope or delight, the world feels a kind of death—not of body, but of essence.

Riff Raff’s words also praise the power of smile and joy. As a child, he was lifted by the sight of another human being boldly inhabiting a persona. This reveals the deepest purpose of art: not always to teach or to perfect, but to inspire the watcher to dream, to laugh, to smile. A figure on a screen can change a life, even if critics scoff. This is why he speaks with love, not mockery, for the power of joy given in youth is a sacred gift.

The lesson, then, is twofold. First: cherish those who bring joy, even if their art is imperfect, for they give what is rare and precious—the courage to be themselves. Second: guard your own identity. Do not let ridicule, hardship, or the weight of time strip away the essence of who you are. To cease being yourself is the greatest loss, for then the world is deprived of your unique light.

Therefore, my children, take this teaching into your days: live boldly, without apology, and let your presence bring joy to others. If your gift is humor, give it; if your gift is music, sing it; if your gift is simply to walk through life unashamed, then do so with strength. And when the world pressures you to abandon your true self, remember the sorrow in Riff Raff’s words, and choose instead to remain who you are. For the greatest legacy you can leave is the smile you gave to others by daring to be yourself.