Fear of the Flu Video

By Peter Glagowski
Arts & Entertainment Editor

Special Delivery

Last Friday, the Women’s Center’s emergency food drive for the Bridgeport Rescue Mission ended. HCC students brought the collections to the mission; the recipients were all extremely grateful.











Photographs by Brandon T. Bisceglia

Did you Ever Love Me?

By Shadaya Montgomery
Horizons staff writer

We were together for four years. You lived across the street from me, and I never thought you would be the guy I ever fall in love with. I never thought I would fall in love period. How we met was really awkward, and I never thought we would last because of your reputation around the neighborhood. Something about you captured my heart and you had me for the long run.

Me and you were new to this and neither of us knew what to expect out of this love thing. We so didn’t know what we getting into, but as we got further into it, it wasn’t an easy thing to go through.

Trust and honesty are some very important factors of the relationship, and they hold together and make the relationship strong. The trust in our relationship just wasn’t there, I didn’t trust you and you didn’t trust me. Our non trusting relationship led to a downfall. A downfall that gave us more problems that was ongoing and kept resurfacing. And its not like we solve the problems either, all we did was sweep them under a rug and pretended like they were dealt with.

Then you went to college, and I became really insecure in our relationship. Stereotypically relationships do not last when you try to pursue a long distance one. I had trust in you, but I can’t say I didn’t have that thought in the back of my mind that you were cheating. But I knew you loved me way too much to do that to me so I just brushed the thought away. You told me over and over how you weren’t feeding into the temptation of the wild college life, and I believed you because I loved you and your words seem so sincere and heartfelt.

After your first year a college, I guess you felt that you had to come clean about your experience. It hurt so bad hearing the words flow out your mouth saying how you gave in to temptation so many times as if you couldn’t control your actions. And your reasons of doing those actions were so stupid. I asked “why didn’t you just break up with me?”

It was so hard swallow; I couldn’t believe what you told me. You say you held these secrets from me because you were protecting my feelings and didn’t want to hurt me. But if you love me like you said you did why you would bother to put yourself in those predicaments and follow through with the actions that would eventually lead to my heartache.

But I can’t say that I don’t love you still , but I’m not really sure if you really loved me it’s like way before you went to college I believed your love for me was true. So did it fade? Or did you realize that you wanted to be free? So many questions runs through my mind, and yet you cannot answer the majority of them.

Love sometimes can have a bittersweet feel to it. By falling in love with you I put my heart at risk of heartache. And heartache isn’t a feeling that anyone wants to feel, and it happens way too often in relationships no matter how much love there is in the relationship.

Father-to-be or Not-to-be

By Adrian Agosto
Staff Writer

Many people like to enjoy life; it is not a statistic but a fact. People enjoy life in many different ways; different hobbies like swimming, biking or hanging out with friends—who put smiles on their faces—and others even enjoy (oddly enough) working. Young people enjoy life by going out to parties, drinking and having sex. But what happens when fun goes too far for young people and they make a mistake that they will have to live with for the rest of their life. Example having a child from a female whom you had a one night stand with!

When I was 17 years old partying seemed to be the only way to enjoy life. Once I was done with work and received my check, I went out the door, into a car, and on my way to a party to get hammered. My friends and I always competed to get the most numbers from the many fine females that would be around. One night, I met this one female, we started to talk; talking led to dancing, dancing led to kissing, and kissing led me to a hotel room.

The next morning my new friend and I woke up, got ready to leave the room and went for breakfast at the hotel. We chit chatted for a while and laughed at stupid jokes. Once breakfast was over we went our separate ways. I knew her name and her phone number but that was all. I didn’t want a relationship with her since I did not respect her as much as a female with whom I would take my time getting to know.

A month had gone by and I was still being a guy/dog. After my night at another party I went home to sleep off everything I had just drank. When I awoke my head felt as if someone hit it with a sledge hammer. As I was trying to get rid of my hangover the phone rang, it was a call from a friend; he told me that one of the girls I hooked up with was pregnant. The phone immediately dropped from my hand and I sat on my bed wondering “what the hell do I do now?” Meanwhile, my friend was trying to get my attention since he was still on the cell phone—really, I didn’t have a care in the world for him at that time; it felt as if someone threw a grenade my way that was seconds from exploding. The main concern of mine was the child on the way in 9 months.

A couple hours had passed, and the friend who told me of the pregnancy was incessantly trying to get into contact with me. I just kept ignoring the calls. I wondered what would be said to her when I made the call to see if what was told to me was true. Finally I got enough confidence to make that phone call that would change my life forever. Fatherhood here I come.

While the phone rang I kept telling myself “I can do this, it’s my mistake and I have to live with it.” The phone stopped ringing and I heard a hello on the other side of the line. It was not a depressed hello; instead, it was a I-am-happy-that-you-called hello. I asked how she was and then dove right into the question in mind, “are you pregnant with my child?” She started to laugh. “Why are you laughing?” I asked, I thought it was cruel to laugh when someone asks such a serious question.

When I heard her response, I took a DEEP breath and screamed “THANK YOU GOD!” It was “no,” she was not pregnant. I told her that a friend had said he had found out she was pregnant and she said no. She never was and was not planning on having a child until she was around 25ish. My heart was beating heavily with joy. That one day scared me half to death so for all those who read this article a few words of advice. Enjoy life to the fullest, never live a moment in regret, but always keep in mind that you have to be prepared to face your consequences for your action.

The Perils of Love, Pt. 1

In the first episode of this two-part series, host Brandon T. Bisceglia chats with Horizons Outreach Editor Deb Toresso, News You Can Use Editor Stephanie Mallozzi, and Distribution Manager Shadaya Montgomery about their experiences in relationships, as well as their views on communication, independence, and compromise.

Stay tuned for “The Perils of Love, Pt. 2,” to be released next week!

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Your Mother Doesn't Work Here.

Photographs by Brandon T. Bisceglia

The above photographs were taken in the bathrooms of Lafayette and Beacon Halls over the past week.

Do you think that most students at HCC have enough respect for their campus? What do you think motivates the kinds of behaviors depicted here?

Italianish

By Susan Smith
Staff Writer

Are we who our culture makes us?

It was only about a month ago that I sat across from my mother, over the linoleum countertops of a sticky downtown diner, who -only upon finishing her third glass of red wine- leaned over the table to reveal to me a family secret that had laid dormant for over 85 years. It soon became clear, (between regular intervals of "I shouldn't be telling you this") that the birthright of my grandmother held less water than the Titanic in its final hour. Over several minutes my previous pride toward my strict Irish/Lithuanian culture faded as I was told that my Grandmother's Irish background may have been a little falsified. It turns out that her father was not 100% Irish but Italian, a fact that was so frowned upon by family during that time that she was only able to be raised by a distant aunt, a woman who had claimed to be her mother until her passing. She, therefore, never knowing her parents and accepting what she was told to be the truth, raised her children under the false beliefs of an Irish upbringing. Generations passed, and eventually the secret was lost in the seams of time. Until a bottle of wine decided to speak up.

After looking around for reality show cameras and concluding that the only audience chuckling at my disbelief was the neighboring table, who shot a smirk of distaste, I sighed and began to regroup my thoughts before releasing on my mother a surplus of questions, “Who are my great grandparents?! When did you find this out?! Do we have ties in the mafia? What copious amount of alcohol did Grandma have to drink to tell you this in the first place?! Why aren’t I tanner?!” It was only after her silence and attention turned its back to my wonder and changed to the empty glass before her, that I asked myself the real question I needed to know: “Who am I?”

We see it everywhere: distinct demonstrations of cultural pride. The shamrock tattoo, the Puerto Rican flag adorning the rearview mirror, family dinner on Sundays, down to the refusal to alter a family bloodline (a problem dating back to Montagues and Capulets). Nationalities have defined people since the start of humankind. But should they? Should I be categorized by the nationality that lies in my chemical makeup, or is there something else defining my existence?

It’s the question of nature vs. nurture. If humans walked around with shirt tags, what would they say? “Made in Sicily” or “25% sarcastic, 75% well-natured”? What does my DNA have to say about my personality? Can a doctor know who a person really is by studying blood work?

I thought so at first. That was why I was so mad at this kept secret. I assumed that I was born who I was, and that while personality and character may change and shape a person, it was your background that really defines who you are. I even found myself sympathizing with Jason Bourne, bitter that my identity had been kept from me (and a little eager to idolize myself with a fictional character).

However, weeks went by, and I realized I was no different a person than I was a month before. I wasn’t just a 5’6” Italian/Irish/Lithuanian 20-something. I was a friend, a sister, a daughter (finally clean of resentment), and a million other little things I had grown to be throughout my lifetime. I was bits and pieces of experience, of life, of people. Sure, I may be made up of genetically specific blueprints, but I’m also made up of childhood memories, of a love for books, of good advice, of friendship, of sardonic humor, of a susceptibility to chocolate, of extreme skills at Mario Kart, of a warmness towards strangers, of years and years of stories, of scars from love lost and found and memories made and forgotten. But most importantly, I’m 100% unique from everyone else. And so are you.

Don’t Let Your Secrets Control You

Nick Geiste
Staff Writer

Everyone has secrets. Whether the secrets are trivial and the individual does not feel it necessary to share, or substantial secrets that they are ashamed of because of fear of rejection. Either way, everyone is hurting inside by some sort of feeling; their secret is the front they put on.

It seems that the media and what the general public expects from us causes people to lie and carry out activities that they wouldn’t normally do without any influences. This makes it hard for us to open up to others knowing that society is so engrossed with being perfect. After all, why should we feel the need to spill our secrets when we are run by a bunch of people that keep the biggest secrets from us?

What is striving people to not share these happenings or feelings, is what makes keeping secrets interesting. Maybe it's a secret that provokes the past so it is easier to not talk about it. It could be a secret that you keep because you don't want to hurt others feelings. It could be curiosity towards something that causes you to secretly do a task and not tell. However, rejection I feel is one of the main reasons why a person should feel the need to keep secrets. Whether the person has done something discouraging and they are ashamed to tell someone or they feel they are different and afraid of what people might think of them.

You don't have to be afraid of rejection if you tell someone close to you what has been causing all these problems. The longer you hold in a secret, the harder it is to find the truth within you.

I’m not saying that this an easy task to accomplish, I have kept harmful secrets from my friends and family and have told them harmful secrets. Telling your friends and family something that you know they will be ashamed of, hurts. The last thing you would want to do is hurt someone close to you because of something that you have done. For instance, I have had three surgeries on my knee in two years, the third one coming around my senior year. I was hopeful going into my senior year that I would be able to play soccer again for the first time since freshman year. Also, if that went well I was hoping to play basketball on our woeful basketball team. So bad, I could possibly start. Disappointingly, none of this happened. During the second soccer game of the season, my knee dislocated and I tore my MCL and meniscus yet again. I had to get another surgery. This time the doctors decided to put stabilizers in my knee causing me to rest it more. After the cast was off and all the pain medication was gone, I felt depressed. I wasn’t sure why. The summer was coming, my cast was off, I was more mobile, but yet I was walking around like a zombie. It felt as if I needed the medication just to be myself again even though my knee did not hurt that much. With no thanks to the valley, I started getting pain medication to get through my days. It wasn't long until people close to me started noticing that I have changed. I became much more irritable when I either had the pills or didn't have them, it didn't matter. When my friends and family asked me why I have been acting strange, I acted like I didn't change at all. After a while, I learned that this is not the lifestyle for me. I did not want to spend my day waiting on someone else, or being rude to people that I'm always nice to. As difficult as it was, I had to spill my secrets. I had to tell everyone close to me what was wrong with me and that I was sorry. I told my girlfriend, my best friends, my brother, and my mother. If I had told my father, I probably wouldn’t have lived to talk about it. My mother was the hardest to talk to. She didn't understand why I would take pain medication without having any pain. I didn't want to get too far into the reasoning with her, so I said, “I’m sorry I was dumb. It didn’t take me long to realize that I’m better than that.”

They were all upset that things turned out this way, but all of them also wanted to help. At a time where I felt so low in life, they didn't criticize me or turn away from me. They stood their ground. The same ground I would stand on for them. This showed me that I could tell them pretty much anything and it would be okay.

No matter how big of a secret you are hiding, someone that loves you wants to know, needs to know, and most importantly wants to help. So why not relieve your stress and let it all out.

A Call Lightens the Past

By Victor Rios
Co-Editor in Chief

It has always been a fleeting but inescapable thought, one that would present itself when his identity and whereabouts would be put to question either by strangers—who would later become my friends—or the parents of friends whose unselfishness so often guided them to teach me about the respect I never learned at home, once they found out.

Who was my father? Up until a few days ago I knew verbatim his name, the very stoic left side of his face, that he was a drunk and other insignificant “facts.”

More often than not, throughout the very turbulent years during which I developed—except when I was pissed off at them—I would ascribe the role of father to whomever lent their core selves to be considered my mothers husband (though as they would say in Mexico illegitimamente). I always enjoyed that pretending game. That is, up until I gained my first brother, whose existence justified—unjustly—a furious and heavily repressed (thanks in part to many ass-whoopings) jealousy that would take years to boil over and, not unlike a psychological improvised explosive device, explode with hatred directed at the one whom the rest of the human family generally loves: my mother.

Once in the US, I gained a new father, and a new set of step brothers and sisters. Once again, this helped to cement jealousy as part of my very being. Looking at my stepfather play with his children; carry the smallest on his shoulder while holding the other two’s hands on the way to mass, and me walking next to them intently paying attention to the other fathers and children—I tried to pass it off as a mark of coolness for a long time.

It never occurred to ask about him (my father) for fear that…well, for pure fear. I also knew that she (my mother) would tell me he was a drunk, a violent person and worst of all, gay—the root of a prejudice I held tightly until Professor Chance pried it away from my cold, still-living hands.
While I generally dismissed any profound wondrous sentiments, I did build (on top of many other unrelated negative aspects) a resentment towards him, for, despite the ten years I lived in Mexico, in the same residence only three blocks away form his mother’s house, he remained incognito and incommunicado.

More recently, (about two months ago) the curiosity that had yet to kill the cat returned, and resumed the nearly overbearing quest to find out more about the man I almost hated but had yet to meet. So I squeezed my balls really tight so as to not let any testosterone out of them, and asked—in a nice and kid-like squeaky voice—my mother to please find out his whereabouts. Surprisingly, she agreed—but unfortunately she never did get back to me. To her, I am just like my father: un alacran (a scorpion) who has lost his way much like his father did. Many times she related this to me (through loud explosive yells) and my ex-girlfriend (in a nicer way). In fact, she trusted my girlfriend so much more than she did me that she related to her the nature of my father’s untimely end.

“He died of a rare disease,” said Maribel, my ex-girlfriend.

“What? First of all, why would she not tell me to my face?” I responded fiercely. “Second of all, what does she mean, ‘a rare disease?’”

Without a second’s thought, Maribel’s saddened face (which as she later mentioned was expressed it for me) responded, “In Mexico, they usually refer to a ‘rare disease’ when people die of sexually transmitted diseases.” My mother was once again invoking my father’s supposed sexual preferences as the reason for his death.

A can of curious worms had definitely been opened, but extracting information from my mother’s “Pandora’s box” would be the most difficult aspect of the ongoing venture toward finding out more of my father. During the scant future meetings before the start of the semester, I would make simple attempts, not to pester her about my father—but I knew I had to somehow ease her into a comfortable state in order for her to talk to me about that. Instead, I asked about her family tree, of which she had such an ornate intimate knowledge. But when she got to the end of all she had to mention it—a venting that she had not gone through in a while. Like a squirrel that ungratefully runs from a human after having taken an M&M, she quickly recoiled and said her goodbyes. “We’ll talk some other day,” my mother said. “Thanks for calling.” (Of course, calling her, too, is something I barely ever do).

Coincidentally, after combing frantically (as I had done many times after finding out about my father’s death) through many directories in Guadalajara, looking for someone who may be even remotely related to my father, I gave up, as I had done before. It was 3 a.m. in the morning (and yes I was going crazy), but out of my—as the hot-head Glen Beck would say—gut, I said “let me check facebook. Hell, it’s the world biggest social networking site, my odds may be better there, and plus I can leave one of my meaningless messages.” I punched in the words “Rios Zubieta,” my father’s two last names; sure enough, the results brought with them one person—Luis Enrique Rios Zubieta. Before any attempt at asking whether he held any relevant information, I spied on his friends; it turned out that he had only 25, of which all but one were beautiful females of all sizes and shapes and backgrounds. But no one other person held his last name. I heeded no mind to this, the most looked at this man’s face—his flat forehead, his slanted eyes, and his serious face all added to the aura that he may be in some way related to my father.
The only way to know was to again to squeeze my balls and send him a message in Spanish, which read:

Hello, my name is Victor Javier Rios Lopez, I am from Guadalajara Mexico and I am looking for someone who has, or has had a very similar name to the one I have. If you know of anyone, I would appreciate it if you contacted me. If not, then, I am sorry for taking your time and, without a second’s thought, please discard this message. Thank you.

At that moment only one hope persisted, “this guy better get my message!" The chances that he would read it were very much diminished, since his last update to his facebook page had been on June twenty-third. Much to my surprise he did answer, though brief in content—“apparently you are my brother’s son, contact me at…”—it was enough to get those butterflies in my stomach rolling. For three days the thought of calling gnawed at my brain’s innards, “should I call? What if it turns out to be he is not?” At school, a surprise quiz which involved writing for the entirety of the class put whatever resolve to do well to the test, my fingers were jittery and I could not stop thinking about a person that may turn out to be someone else—in the end I got a meager B.

Around 7 p.m. while staring at the phone and unconsciously tossing and bending the phone card I obtained earlier that day, curiosity got the better of me; I picked up the phone to make the call of a lifetime. Dialed the card’s access number, the pin code, and the phone number to my uncle, and expecting the tides of enlightenment to pick up, I heard a disastrous and impersonal computer generated “you have dialed an invalid phone number.” “No!” From the other room I heard, “What happened?” It was Maribel, after explaining that I meticulously dialed every character, she said “let me try, I do this all the time.”—quite the comforting exaggeration for about two minutes when she too received the incessant response.

Ten minutes passed trying to figure out what we were doing wrong; finally we decided to call customer service—this turned into waiting far longer than expected, but finally the unusually nice lady on the other end related what we were doing wrong and connected the call. Within seconds someone did answer, “Bueno?”

Every nerve within me flinched into a brief pause, and then finally my lips broke through that mold and after what felt like a quaint introduction, I reminded him that I was calling as a result of his response on facebook. With hesitant sternness Enrique said, “Well, I am your father’s brother, ah…” as if searching for words he went on “well Victor, I would like to see you face to face.” My newfound uncle initially perceived my broken Spanish as a sign of inherent Americanism which included the availability of enough funds and time to travel to Mexico—of course, his idea could not be any farther from the truth. A brief intro into the current endeavors I am currently embarked in and hinting at the ‘funding’ issues Enrique related his own situation “I understand, I work as a paramedic and I am hurting too, like the President [Calderon] said, ‘When the US catches a cold, we get pneumonia.’”

“As for your father, well…how should I tell you…Your father, Victor, died three years ago,” Enrique said; though expecting some kind of grief to pour out he continued, “sorry, to have to tell you this over the phone, this was not my intention.” Despite the intense seriousness of the topic I shrugged it off and said to him in a composed and nearly happy manner, “I already knew that tio; mainly, I would like to know more about him, his family, and anything else that you deem important for me to know, seeing as I never met him in the 19 years that he was alive.”
The most revealing of conversations ensued; I held the phone closer to my ear than ever, pressing it hard and hoping that my eardrum would take account of every vowel, vocal expression and perhaps even give me a picture of what my uncle looked like and what he was doing. My father apparently had died of stomach cancer and complications from drinking too much alcohol in a Tijuana hospital—far from the rare disease account previously related to me. Victor remarried and had two more children; my uncle giggly said “you are the legitimate one.” Expecting never to see me again, he named the older of his kids Victor Javier Rios (8) and my young sister Irene Rios (5)—“I hope you are not offended because my brother named his kid the same as you,” my tio said. There is nothing that I could do or say to change that fact, what certainly does hurt is that they lost their father far too early in their lives, even if they did enjoy his presence more than I ever could.

Victor Javier Rios Zubieta was the youngest of 7 kids in a family that prided itself in the intellectual; two engineers, two doctors, two lawyers, and my tio, as he said, “well I am the least well-to-do of the family, I am a paramedic, but I love what I do.” My tio, coincidently spent my father’s last hours, by his bedside. While working in San Francisco, tending to artists needs while on tour in San Francisco area, he received a call from one his sisters; one of his brothers was in Mexicali, and needed someone to treat stabilize him, “I went with the though of stabilizing my brother and sending him to Guadalajara, where my sister would treat his hemorrhaging brain—which I did, but two days later, your brother’s wife called me, after years of not hearing from him, I immediately went to Tijuana, that’s where he went to look for you, obviously, he never did find you, but he stayed there, long story short, I got there three days before he died. Again, the plan was to stabilize him, and take him to Guadalajara, where again my sister would treat him—but it was too late,” said tio Enrique.

Father was an imperfect person—drunken spates of violence define the memories mom remembers him for—but my uncle knew that he loved me, in spite of all that he did (which he did not deny, and in fact, he added womanizer to the list of adjectives that describe my dad) tio says that he tried to get in contact with me, but every time he tried, my uncles (my mother’s brothers have more than just a screw loose) kicked his ass. “I remember your dad would go to your mom’s house and ask to see you, and between two of your uncles would fight him, he would then go back to the house, clean the blood off his face and go drinking again, after that, he would again go back for more, and again return empty handed, until he finally gave up. Years later, he would ask me whether I knew of you. Other times he would ask me to go ask for you. And then he completely fell off the earth, no one heard of him until his last days,” added tio Enrique.
Twice I returned to the store to buy new phone cards after being unexpectedly cut off—apparently, giving the caller a warning that the minutes are about to expire is too much to expect from any of the countless phone cards at the store (not even a beep). The talk of my father dominated merely a quarter of the conversation, the rest was a galore of discursion of each other’s lives which at time’s seemed like parallels. He turned out to be a gallant who loves talk of metaphysics, lover of books as well as of news of all kinds (with the exception of gossip), and of films from all over the world. “Do you like the movie ‘Déjà vu?” tio Enrique asked with a now usual and comforting mijo (my son). I never did watch the movie, but suddenly that place in time and the exact feelings running through my innards felt impressed the thought I had been there before; at the mention of this tio Enrique replied I felt the same exact way mijo.

The last time that he felt that way was a few years back, before he had to tend to both of his brothers illnesses while at San Francisco International Airport. There tio Enrique was stopped by immigration for carrying a friend’s baggage; in it were panty’s bra’s and other womanly garments. “Why are you carrying these clothes?” said the immigration officer. After explaining to him that his friend had forgotten the clothes one year earlier in Guadalajara for nearly two hours tio Enrique finally gave up, and told the immigration officer that he would no longer speak in English and that he would require a translator if immigration wanted to continue the very same line of questioning. Obviously exasperated by the constant interrogation tio Enrique gave up. “You know what officer, I am going to be attending the Gay Pride parade”—which coincidently happened to be the day after—the officer angrily responded with another question, “are you questioning my intelligence?” Soon after, a translator arrived and the officer retrieved to his office. After explaining to the translator the situation and relating to him the gay pride story, after a hysterical laughing session, the translator talked to the immigration officer, and had to resign to stamping my tio’s passport.

“Welcome to America…I hope you leave soon,” said the immigration officer; he then took tio Enrique’s baggage and dropped it on the floor. “You know what I did, I took all the clothes that fell out, stuffed them back into the baggage. I took my card out of my wallet, I gave it to the officer, I looked him right in the face and told him “Next time you go to Guadalajara make sure you call me, I will go to the airport, pick you up and show you what the meaning of hospitality really is,’” said tio Enrique. “In spite of all the bad things your dad and mom did…there is no more time available for this call,” said an automatic message.

I hung up the phone, sighed and went on to work on chemistry homework. Two weeks later I finally asked my mother again for some answers.

Continuum 14: Hit and Park

HCC’s garage is extremely crowded this semester, but some students are too distracted to pay attention to their surroundings. Host Brandon T. Bisceglia speaks with Sarah, a student who was a victim of this behavior, about the accident she had, courtesy, and the rules of the road.

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High and Mighty

By Peter Glagowski
Staff Editor

Headaches and frustration are about all have around my friend…

Hanging out with friends can be the pinnacle of one’s night. Ending a particularly rough day with people who accept you and will lift your morale definitely hits the spot. But I’m sure we all have that one friend who just doesn’t know when to be quiet or just doesn’t understand that his personality is demeaning to others.

This can be one thing when they are slightly immature or just want to fit in badly, but when you’ve been friendly with this person for close to 5 years and they still have a superiority complex, you know something has got to give.

My friend pretty much views himself as Christ Jesus, so anyone else is below that image. We can’t make fun of him, we can’t offer advice to him and we always need to listen to his complaints about person A, B, C and D.

I have a hard time trying to figure out exactly where his behavior came from. I remember meeting the kid back in 2002 and he wasn’t so high and mighty, but in the past year he has become intolerable.

One of my older friends recently met this kid and suddenly they were enemies. There is no real reason behind this fracture, but hell if my friend doesn’t see fit to run his mouth every time he’s near me about my older friend. He even expects me to take his side, especially when my older friend is much closer to me.

What really brings my piss to a boil is how my friend not so subtlety brags about his girlfriend. He thinks he is disguising his comparisons cleverly, but we all know that he is simply saying, “HAHA, I HAVE A GIRLFRIEND AND YOU DON’T!” First of all, I don’t want to know about you and a girl together and second, why does having a girlfriend matter? Are we suddenly lesser people because we don’t have significant others?

On the subject of girlfriends, what I don’t need to hear is someone’s sexual history, or more specifically, their present sexual activities. While I’ve blocked out a lot of what my friend says, I can’t shake things like, “I enjoy foreplay a lot!” or “I think I pulled my groin last night.” Why is that proper discussion for friends?

Another thing that I’ve never understood is how my friend has to belittle his brother at every step. His brother says one word incorrectly and suddenly he needs to be thrown to the wolves. We even played a prank on him that ended up resulting in, “I WILL POISON YOUR DRINK!” What makes matters worse is that when we revealed it was a prank and gave him his actual food, he never apologized. So now he’s not allowed to make mistakes?

My friend’s poor brother probably has to be on the brink of suicide. I’ve never seen any actual fists go flying, but my friend may be close to that. I remember one night when my friend asked for his brother to retrieve his laptop in the other room, yet his brother refused. My friend stormed out and dropped so many curse words that a sailor would blush.

If you get this kid started about something he enjoys (like a particular movie or video game series) and you will never hear the end of it. We all have no clue what he is even talking about, but he’ll drill it into our heads until blood is flowing from our ears. Then if we say anything bad about it, we get instant retaliation.

So what is my secret exactly? Well, I’ve never brought these complaints to my friend’s attention. While I have tried stopping him from condemning his brother so much, I’ve never been able to just out right say, “I can’t stand your behavior you inconsiderate ass.” I cannot stand being around this kid, yet I’ve endured this torture for 5 years because I’m weak.

The only real solution to this kind of problem would be to confront the person. If they really are boasting at every turn, there is no reason to sit there and take it. You can also try and avoid the person, but that is only covering up the problem (even if it seems to work).

Is there any absolution in this? Possibly, but I do need to write these feelings to at least let others know that it is okay if you are having mixed thoughts about one of your so called “friends.” No one is perfect and we all have someone we just cannot stand to be in the same room with, so do not feel awkward if this same situation has happened to you.

Carpe Diem, Housatonic

By Dan Otzel
News Editor

Don’t let this happen to you.

Image courtesy of emptyeasel.com.

“I will die in my grave dreaming of things I might have been.”

WARNING: Do not let this become you.

“Time is passing me by and I am letting it.”

Or this.

“Sometimes I feel like my college education was a waste.”

These three quotes were taken verbatim from postcards currently residing on the first floor of Lafayette Hall.

After my moving experience viewing the PostSecret exhibit that’s being housed here at Housatonic, I was left with a true feeling of remorse for some of the poor souls who had let their opportunities slip so gently through their fingers.

According to the HCC website, “PostSecret (is) an exhibit of people’s innermost secrets sent to, and organized by Frank Warren. The exhibit, which has traveled the country since opening in Washington, D.C. in 2004, consists of anonymous postcards, many of them handmade, on which people have written their innermost secrets. Warren has culled some 400 postcards from the more than 250,000 he’s received for the exhibit.”

It will run at the Housatonic Museum of Art until September 13, 2009.

Many of the postcards in the exhibit are from individuals who have had a front row seat watching their life float meekly by. They are not happy with the people they have become and, it seems, their life, up to this point, has been shallow and depressing, at least on some level.

At HCC, we are students committed to the proposition of furthering our educations and becoming better people – in all facets of life. We have the golden opportunity to come as close as possible to mapping out the life we want to live. We have the golden opportunity to avoid regretting our life’s path.

“Carpe diem” is a Latin phrase meaning “seize the day.” Originating from a Latin poem by Horace, The Columbia Encyclopedia describes the expression as “a descriptive term for literature that urges readers to live for the moment.”

With the Housatonic Community College student body swelling to over 5400 students, I would like to urge each and every student to “live for the moment” and make the best of the opportunities that present themselves here.

“I always wonder how my life would be different if the littlest things hadn’t happened. And if I had the guts to do half the things I wanted to.”

Do not let this become you.

“I’m trying to figure out exactly what it was that made me lose my voice.”

Or this.

For, as one anonymous postcard advises:

“If you’re waiting for a sign…this is it. Do it. It will be amazing.”

Carpe Diem, Housatonic.

The "Secrets" Issue of Perspective

Over the coming weeks, we'll be sharing some articles that some of our Horizons wrote with the loose theme of "Secrets." These personal essays were inspired by the recent PostSecret exhibit at the Housatoninc Museum of Art. You'll see that these essays cover a wide range of topics and offer a range of approaches to the basic assignment.

Enjoy, and feel free to offer your own perspectives by clicking on the "Comment' button.

Student Senate President Kirk Wesley’s Welcome Back Address

At the first general meeting of the Student Senate for the fall semester on September 17, 2009, President Kirk Wesley gave a Welcome Back address to those in attendance, laying out his vision for the representative body going forward. Listen to the audio version of the address, or read the transcript below.

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Kirk Wesley, 9-17-09:

All right. So, we’re going to move on to the first order of business.

I would like to welcome everyone back to school, and back into student activities. This is, obviously, our initial meeting of the Student Senate for the Fall ’09 semester.

This, in my opinion, will undoubtedly be one of the greatest, eventful semesters in Housatonic’s history in regards to student activities and events, because of the dedication and commitment that the student clubs have already shown early in the semester in getting things together and getting things organized. It is evident from the Welcome Back party that the Student Senate is focused on trying to promote a good on-campus lifestyle for the students here, outside of academic purposes.

Now, for those who aren’t familiar, I would like to just state what the Student Senate does, and what work we do here.

“The Student Senate” – this is coming out of the Constitution of the Student Senate – “The Student Senate serves to promote good citizenship and harmonious relationships throughout the college and the community, serves to provide a forum for student representation, and to provide orderly direction of college activities. The Student Senate assists the office of Student Life in the allocation and distribution of the Student Activity Fund.”

Now, the Student Activity Fund is what we all pay when we register here as students, whether part-time or full-time. And as that sentence says, we help with the Student Activities Director to help allocate the funds to the student clubs.

Now, what I would like to say is that we are right now in a very opportunist position, because we have the chance right now to right a lot of wrongs that have been…that have happened in the past. Things that definitely, that I’m not going to go in depth with…but those who are familiar know, and who don’t know – thank God you don’t know.

So, we are in a very good position right now to set a very good tone for future students, future activities, and future events that will take place here at Housatonic. I want everybody to step into that role, and let’s set the pace and pave the way for future students here.

I also would like to say that we are the Student Senate, so we are students here at Housatonic Community College, and we are here in a forum to represent the students. So it’s essential that we are looked upon as that. As students, we are all here learning and growing as individuals. So we’re not going to always get things right, and things are not going to always go perfect as we would like. That’s part of the process of growing and learning as human beings, and especially as students.

So, with that being said, I would like for all members of student clubs and all student clubs to try to work with us as we work with you, be patient with us as we grow and continue to get comfortable in our positions, and we will do the same with you.

I really think right now, at this point in time, that’s it. I mean, we’re here for you guys: the student clubs, the student reps, the student leaders of this great college. So please help us as we try to help you.

And that ends it. (applause)

Continuum 13: The Lab Wiki

Dr. Kathleen Cercone, Professor of Biology at HCC, talks with host Brandon T. Bisceglia about her flagship project to develop an online safety lab manual written by students using the collaborative internet software known as the wiki. She also describes her own background with computers, and the importance of being familiar with internet tools for students.

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Continuum 12: Slater for City Council

In the first episode of the Fall 2009 season, host Brandon T. Bisceglia is rejoined by Horizons Opinions Editor John Slater to discuss Slater’s bid for City Council to represent Bridgeport’s Black Rock district this November. Slater discusses his entry into the formal political realm, his campaign so far, and how his experiences at HCC have helped him along the way.

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Continuum 11: The Tables Are Turned

Co-Editor in Chief Brandon T. Bisceglia takes on the role of interviewee to answer some questions about what running a student newspaper entails with special guest host, Opinions Editor John Slater.

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Continuum 10: Feeling the Eco-Muse

On April 22, HCC students and faculty gathered in the performing arts center for a poetry jam in celebration of Earth Day called “Feeling the Eco-Muse.” The event was a joint effort between the Friends of the Environment (FOE), the Performing Arts Club (PAC), and the Music Club. These are some highlights from that night.

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Continuum 9: Steve’s Contingency Plan

Staff Writer Stephen Miller discusses why he believes that the U.S. government’s plans to stimulate the economy will fail as well as what he thinks students should do about it with host Brandon T. Bisceglia.

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Review: Ultimate Spider-Man Vol. 20: And His Amazing Friends

By Andrew Mathieu
Contributor

Ultimate Spider-Man was the very first comic book I ever read. I first got interested in it when gaming studio Treyarch released an Ultimate Spider-Man (USM) video game. After reading an article about the comic book on Gamepro, I decided to go to my local library and give the series a shot. I loved the first volume, “Power and Responsibility,” and I have been reading the series ever since. Eighteen volumes later we come to one of my favorites, “Spider-Man and His Amazing Friends.”

“Amazing Friends” is the latest story arc from long time writer of the series Brian Michael Bendis and relatively new artist Stuart Immonen. The story takes place a little while after the events of “Death of a Goblin.” This previous arc saw the death of Peter’s first super villain as Spider-Man, along with the death of one of his closest friends. After mourning the loss of their friend, Peter and his friends try to get back to their somewhat normal lives.

The volume starts off with internal monologues from some of the cast of USM, including Ultimate Fantastic Four member, Johnny Storm. He returns to the cast after a short hiatus and contacts his only friends after a bad date with a pop idol. Meanwhile, Liz Allen, Mary Jane’s best friend, has not been feeling well and runs into Johnny at Midtown High. Johnny and Liz had a very brief romance a few volumes back, but it ended when Liz found out about Johnny's powers. She seems to have gotten over it, however, when she agrees to go with Johnny, Peter, and the others on a trip to the beach. That night, in front of a bon fire, one of Peter’s friends turns out to be a mutant, and it’s up to him and one of the X-Men to help her in her time of need.

This volume also contains two one shots in addition to the three part “Amazing Friends” story. In the first one shot we see Spider-Man defend J. Jonah Jameson against Omega Red, while the second features the Shocker kidnapping Spider-Man with Mary Jane and Kitty Pryde desperately trying to find him. While not as strong as the “Amazing Friends” story, both have great character moments and even some character development.

I truly enjoyed this volume. I wasn’t really sure Immonen’s art could beat out Mark Bagley’s record-breaking run on the series, but Immonen really hit his stride. The colors are nice and vibrant and the characters are starting to look like they belong in this style. Spider-Man’s costume is all but perfected in the final issue.

Bendis continues to make this book the best the Ultimate line has to offer. He has a knack for teenager’s dialogue. I actually believe these characters are 15. They not only handle everyday drama, but super hero/villain drama as well. USM’s cast sets the bar for teen super hero comics.

This volume is a nice break from the seriousness of the previous arc. If you have not picked up an Ultimate Marvel comic before, this is a great way to start. It is different enough to justify the Ultimate line, but familiar enough for Spider-Fans to pick up and enjoy a good story. Bendis and Immonen have crafted a truly “Ultimate” classic.

Hearing Loss

iPods Beat the Eardrum Senseless
By Sania Mathakutha
Staff Writer

“Huh? What? What did you say?” Maybe your kids can’t hear you after all. Unless you have been trapped under a polar bear in the Yukon for the past four years, you’ve probably noticed the iPod insurgency in America. One can hardly walk ten feet on campus without spotting a dozen POD People. But recent concerns over hearing damage could force chronic iPod users to unplug and take notice.

According to the Center for Hearing Health, there are three basic types of hearing loss:

1.Conductive Hearing Loss- Conductive Hearing Loss is when the outer or middle ear is disturbed, causing the inner ear unable to receive sound.

2.Sensorineural Hearing Loss- Sinsorineural Hearing Loss is when the nerves of the inner ear are damaged and no proper signals are sent to the brain.

3.Mixed Hearing Loss- If the hearing loss is caused by both the sensorineural and conductive components, it is known as Mixed Hearing Loss.

When asked if she knew that listening to an iPod at high volume could be damaging her hearing, Seyissa Maule, a student at HCC said, “I will keep listening, probably turn it down more.” People often use headphones on trains and buses while commuting, walking through a city or college and in airplanes. They might have the volume on too loud just because they want to drown out the noise around them not noticing the damage they might be putting on the inner ear and risking hearing loss. Our culture likes a big sound. The louder our Hip Hop music is the better we think we are going to “feel” the music. It comes at a cost though, legendary guitarist Eric Clapton told the Britain’s Express newspaper that he suffers from mild tinnitus and thinks his excessively loud performances with Cream back in the 60s is to blame. He said, “My hearing isn’t ruined, but if I stop and listen I’ve got whistling all the time which I suppose is a mild tinnitus.”

Whether you front for a rock band filling stadiums with screaming fans or making music is your business, you might be at risk of going deaf without even knowing it because you are being bombarded by loud sounds. According to WebMD, hearing loss is a gradual process that may not be noticed for years. When it does happen people generally notice that speech is mumbled and unclear. People may report a ringing (or tinnitus) in their ear or head. By that time, the only thing that may help is a hearing aid. To protect your hearing you could spend less time in a very noisy environment, turn your television volume down, wear hearing protection at all times if you work in a noisy environment and cut down on the number of loud appliances running at the same time. Never stick cotton swabs or hairpins in your ears when trying to remove earwax. Stop smoking, if you smoke you are likely to have hearing loss.

Continuum 8: President of the PAC

Kevin Green, a theatre major at HCC and president of the Performing Arts Club (PAC), talks with host Brandon T. Bisceglia about his club’s performances and the experience for a future in the performing arts he’s gained from college.

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HCC Co-Sponsors Health Fair

By Eric Peterson
Staff Writer

Housatonic and the City of Bridgeport Health & Social Services Department are hosting the 6th Annual City Wide Health Fair. The event is April 2, 2009 from 10:00 a.m. to 3:00 p.m. in the Event Center, Beacon Hall Room 214.

Linda Griffin, Coordinator of H.C.C. Health Services, is responsible for hosting this event. “Our Motto is ‘Building a Foundation for a Health America,” she said, adding that there will be over 100 different vendors at the fair.

The biggest of them will be Bridgeport Health Services, Southwest Community Health Center, Bridgeport Hospital, and Saint Vincent’s Medical Center.

All vendors will be providing free health screenings such as for sickle cell anemia, blood pressure, cholesterol, blood sugar, breast cancer, and kidney screenings.

Chiropractor Dr. Ricard will be providing scoliosis screenings and message therapy.

There will be a variety of other vendors such as several insurance companies and vendors that will help with addition to drugs and gambling, and parenting.

Music and entertainment will be provided by Fairfield University’s radio station WVOF.

There will also be raffles and prizes, including a $50 gift card for the Housatonic Book Store.

Overcoming Adversity

By Michael Litzie
Staff Writer

Everyone’s had an experience that has changed their life forever. Some experiences could have bettered your life, but some could have become an obstacle to forever overcome. When I was only two years old I was struck with an experience that became an obstacle that I am still fighting to overcome.

On one regular summer day, my brother, father and I decided to take a ride in my father’s truck over to my uncle’s house where my father was going to help him fix something. With my father and uncle preoccupied, my six year old brother and I took it upon ourselves to find some source of entertainment. Looking around I’d seen my brother had climbed into the back of my father’s pick-up truck and began playing on this old broken down bicycle. Feeling left out, I wanted in on the action and climbed my little two year old body up there. Now it begins to get kind of fuzzy to recall what had happened next, but I remember sitting on the side of the truck, leaning over and bam lights out. The last thing I seen before I blacked out was my elbow sticking out the skin starring me straight in the eyes. From there I remember waking up scared to death on this rock solid board in the back of an ambulance.

Now you would think everything was going to be okay since I was in the care of Bridgeport Hospital but that couldn’t be more wrong than two plus two equaling ten. After the surgery and sometime into the intense therapy my parents had realized that I was making no progress and my elbow would not open past a ninety degree angle. This is where the real problems began to occur. Going back in for x-rays my doctor notice the bones were growing back together wrong due to a mess up in surgery. I was rushed to Yale New Haven hospital to undergo more intense surgery, but for the first time from a doctor that knew what he was doing.

A year past and I was in the first grade when another catastrophic event happened. I began to get extremely sick and my left arm turned completely red and started forming these little bumps everywhere. The metal pins used to hold the bone in place had a negative reaction with my body and caused a nasty infection, where I needed extreme treatment. What my doctor needed to do was run a tube through my chest and into my heart to pump medicine through my veins to reach my elbow. Seeming easy enough they decided to do it the strangest way, while I was awake. This I recall clear as day; being held down by five nurses and my mother, while they tried to run a tube into my chest. Of course I did not let this happen and the nurse’s hand that was trying to hold my head down has my bit scar to prove it. After twenty minutes of this circus they finally decided to put me asleep.

After a few months of treatment I was finally cured of the bone infection. I was beginning the second grade and I did everything in the world to make sure this injury didn’t hold me back from anything. For the remainder of grade school I played recreational basketball and little league baseball. For four years straight my basketball team never lost a game and for four years straight I made every baseball all-star team as a pitcher/shortstop. Thinking back these accomplishments I realize how amazing it is to have overcome such extremities. However, my elbow today is only getting worse. The degree to which I can open it is dramatically dropping. A normal arm extends to a hundred and eighty degrees but I can only extend mine to about a hundred and twenty degrees. By the time I reach about thirty-five years old I more than likely will need an elbow replacement. Trying to not let it affect me, I am gaining in knowledge what I lack in arm extension. You have to play the cards that god dealt to the best of your ability and no matter what obstacles stand in your future learning to overcome them will make you a stronger person.

Continuum 7: Shake-ing Things Up, Pt. 2

Kaitlyn Shake is a student activist at HCC who ascended to the presidency of the Student Senate this winter, but then left just as suddenly.

In the second half of our special two-part series, Shake talks about the controversies that tore her away from the Student Senate, some of which remain issues to this day.

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Job Outlook Bleak for HCC Students and Faculty

By Stephen A. Miller
Staff Writer

Desperate times require desperate solutions. The American depression of job losses and home foreclosures is in no way similar to any of the previous recessions including the great depression of the 1930’s. America is now in a class war.

The good news is that the low class would easily win the war against the high class if the low class becomes aware that there is a war. That is the purpose for writing this opinion.

Jeff Faux was the founder of, and is now distinguished fellow at, the Economic Policy Institute. His latest book is The Global Class War. Dr. Faux said this,

“For two decades, leaders of both political parties have assured members of Congress and the public that de-regulating imports and exports would make the typical American working family richer. It was said to be Economics 101: Americans were better educated and harder-working than other workers and had access to the world's best technology. Therefore, they could easily overcome both the advantages of cheaper wages in poorer countries and the government subsidies for health care and pensions in other advanced economies. Indeed, free trade was said to be "win-win" for workers all over. Americans would go up the wage ladder and workers elsewhere would get jobs on the bottom rungs.

When skilled blue-collar jobs started going overseas, policy elites told workers that they -- or their children anyway -- would get better jobs providing services in the new "information economy." Then the call centers, computer programming jobs, and routine technical positions of that very economy left the country too. Soon, accounting, design engineering, and radiology work began to be shipped overseas to places where college graduates could be hired for less than half the U.S. price.”

The massive, endless Wall Street welfare bailout has transferred more than a trillion dollars to 214 financial institutions while millions of average people have been forced from their homes and their jobs. The Boards of Directors of the financial institutions have looted $18.4 billion in full view of law enforcement. They call their embezzlement of funds a “bonus”. President Obama called it shameful. Media broadcasters call it corporate irresponsibility.

"Globalization is a cover for American imperialism, but the beneficiaries are not the American people at the expense of foreigners but corporate executives at the expense of the working class. Jeff Faux offers a comprehensive and devastating analysis."

Faux, founder of the Economic Policy Institute, critiques both Democrats and Republicans for protecting transnational corporations "while abandoning the rest of us to an unregulated, and therefore brutal and merciless, global market."

The issue that needs to be raised to the entire HCC student body and faculty is to learn if we collectively want to fight the class war or do we want to continue losing the war without ever knowing any war exists.

In the past, American workers had nothing to fear from cheap labor abroad. Americans worked with superior capital, technology and business organization. This made Americans far more productive than Indians and Chinese, and, as it was not possible for U.S. firms to substitute cheaper foreign labor for U.S. labor, American jobs and living standards was not threatened by low wages abroad or by the products that these low wages produced.

Outsourcing jobs is the common practice that has been destroying entire industries, occupations and communities in the United States. The devastation of U.S. manufacturing employment was waved away with promises that a "new economy" based on high-tech knowledge jobs would take its place. Education and retraining were touted as the answer.

As the tidal wave of job losses and home foreclosures continue to grow, there will be growing desperation that will result in burglaries, muggings, and other forms of crimes in the Bridgeport area. If the students attending classes here at HCC prefer to ignore the demise of our great country, the future outlook for jobs will keep shrinking. If students decide to fight the class war we need to register a response. Students are encouraged to join in this discussion and tell us their opinions by joining us on FaceBook as well as our online paper “Perspectives”.

A Forced Vacation: Three Days in Ohio

By Brandon T. Bisceglia
Co-Editor in Chief

My girlfriend, Val, and I were keen for adventure as we set off southward from her Newark, NJ apartment onto the Garden State Parkway. My white Daewoo Nubira was stuffed to the brim with everything we could possibly need for life on the road: a closet’s worth of clothing, CDs, various snack foods, books, games, and an assortment of random items that we figured might come in handy. The midday April sun shone down over the black pavement, which seemed to stretch forever ahead of us, beckoning.

We had decided to spend the nine days of our vacation driving out to the Ozarks in Missouri for a weeklong writers’ gathering. Several old friends would be there to greet us, as well as some new faces we were eager to meet.

Even though the trip would take two-and-a-half days, we had opted to journey by car so that we could experience the great American landscape in a tactile way that faster forms of travel couldn’t provide. Besides, I hadn’t taken a real road trip in over a year. I needed to scratch my itching wanderlust.

By early afternoon, the crowded swarm of Jersey license plates had given way to the open expanse of rolling Pennsylvania pastures. We crossed onto I-76, stopping for lunch at a Subway in a tiny town near Reading. We reached the edge of the Allegheny mountain range several hours later. As the car wended its way around the slopes and valleys, the setting sun bobbed into view and then out again.

It was well past dusk when the last of the foothills fell away from the sight of my rearview mirror, but a constant influx of coffee kept my foot flat on the accelerator. We had driven in darkness a quarter of the way across the flat expanse of Ohio before Val convinced me to find a motel and rest for a few hours. We pulled off in Zanesville at one in the morning, and collapsed.

When we awoke, we felt a renewed lust for exploration. We decided to explore the local attractions. It was a Sunday, so almost everything was closed, but after a few minutes of aimless driving we came across a dusty flea market. The vendors were housed in what appeared to be a small abandoned storage complex; it looked more like a group garage sale than anything else. After scrounging through some of the wares, I bought AC/DC’s album Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap on vinyl and a framed watercolor of some lilies. Val picked up a Bee Gees album.

Our spirits were high as we sped down I-70 towards Columbus. We were going to stop there for lunch at a café I had found on the Internet that sold vegan fare. The city approached, and Val guided me through the various lane changes I had to make to get to the café. At one junction, I accidentally missed our turn. As I veered the car over to the correct direction, something dreadful occurred.

It sounded like this: scruuuunnnnnck!

Almost immediately the car began to lose momentum. I pressed the pedal to its limit, but could not move over 40. A loud whirring sound emanated from the front hood.

We pulled into an empty business driveway and opened the hood. The noise was frighteningly loud, but neither of us could see a problem. The belts all seemed to be whirring. The engine was putt-putting. Nothing was out of place.

“How far are we from the café?” I asked.

“Only about two miles,” Val replied.

I scrunched my nose at the car’s innards. “We can make it that far, as long as I don’t go fast. We can eat and ask them where the nearest repair place is.” She agreed, and we lurched back onto the road.

Some interminable time later, we arrived at our destination. The café was empty, except for a scruffy, aged man sitting at one end of the bar, and two employees behind the counter. I scanned the menu above their heads. Doughnuts, coffee, pastries…

“Excuse me,” I asked one of the employees, a middle-aged woman with brown curls bound into a hairnet. “Is any of your food vegan?”

She looked at me as if I was from a different planet. “Vegan? What’s that?”

“It’s like a vegetarian, except they also don’t eat milk or eggs.”

“No, nothing like that,” she replied. “We don’t serve specialty foods.”

“Oh.” I didn’t know what else to say.

The woman peered at Val and me. “You two want anything?”

I looked at Val. “You can eat. I’ll wait.”

“No,” Val said to the woman, and then turned to me. “We’ll find somewhere else that has something you can eat.” She was always doing that sort of thing.

“Is there a car shop nearby?” I asked.

The old man in the corner spoke up before the woman could respond. “Not that’s open on a Sunday,” he drawled. “Somethin’ the matter with your car?”

“We don’t know. It’s making some noise, but we can’t see anything wrong with it. It’ll run, but I can’t get up to full speed.”

He pondered this a moment, staring down at the cup of coffee in front of him. “Right,” he said. “I’ll come out and have a look.”

The man limped out to the parking lot with us as we described what had occurred. I noticed that he was missing most of his teeth. He looked under the hood, had us start the car so he could listen to the noise, and finally came to the conclusion that we probably needed oil. He told us to walk down the street to the convenience store and buy four quarts. He also suggested that we allow the car to run for a few minutes after adding the oil, to see if the noise would go away.

As Val and I ventured to the store, I voiced my doubts about the man’s advice. “I don’t see how it could be the oil,” I said. “I just got it changed before we left yesterday.”

“Maybe that noise we heard before was something breaking that caused a leak,” she speculated.

“Maybe. That’d be one helluva leak…we’d better buy as much oil as we can.”

We picked up a total of eight quarts at the store – everything they had. We carried it back up the block, and I emptied two of them into the car. We started the engine and waited. After a moment, the clanking sound did improve slightly, but not enough to make me confident. I decided to let the car run for about 15 minutes, just to make sure things were copasetic.
Nothing changed at the end of that period, but we were both hungry and eager not to waste more of the day. Besides, the car wasn’t dying or exploding. We got in and took once again to the open road.

About a mile onto the highway, my Daewoo expired.

Val called AAA, and we sat in the simmering afternoon sun, discussing how we’d have to shift our plans to make it to Missouri. I would get the car towed to a shop, and have them look at it when they opened in the morning. We would have to spend the night in Columbus.

An hour later the tow truck showed up. In the driver’s seat was a weathered but lively man of perhaps 40. He offered to take us to a place that was a little farther, but honest and high quality. Val and I agreed to pay the extra that the longer drive would cost. As we sat with him in the cab, he asked us about our lives, and told us about his. At one point, his teenage son called him on his two-way radio, and they conversed like old friends. They parted with an “I love you.” The driver proceeded to explain to us glowingly about how his boy was an upcoming basketball star, and asked us about the college basketball scene in Connecticut. I pretended to know something about UCONN’s team, though the only thing I really knew was that they existed.

We dropped the car off at a shop in a suburban neighborhood with small but manicured lawns. Then he asked us if we wanted a lift to a motel at no extra cost. He brought us to a spot about two miles away that he said would be inexpensive. I kept a mental note of the route he took, so that we’d be able to find the car again the next day.

The motel was along a main road, with department stores right down the street. We had nothing else to do, so we walked over in search of food. We passed a Starbucks, but no restaurants with anything that would meet my dietary needs. Instead, we rifled around in a Home Goods. I found some prepackaged Pumpernickel bread there, and munched on that as we headed back to our temporary abode. On the way, we stopped in a gas station and picked up a map.

The afternoon had started to give way to evening. Val and I were both starved, and I couldn’t stand the idea of being trapped in a motel room for the rest of the evening. The best thing we could do, I thought, was to explore this unknown place. So, map in hand, we picked a direction that looked promising and began walking. Several miles up the road, we came across a Noodles & Company restaurant. Elated, we sat down for a customized meal of noodles, tofu, and salad. The place was thoroughly postmodern, with exposed piping painted in catchy colors and Death Cab for Cutie streaming over the satellite radio speakers. College kids filled the booths around us.

It was dark by the time we headed out. We passed more college students on the streets as we retraced our steps towards the motel. I observed that every person we had seen that day was white. Having grown up near New York City, something about that felt odd to me.

“I know,” said Val, who was born in Uruguay. “Since I came to the U.S., I’ve never felt like a minority until now.”

Back at the motel, I realized that I would have to trek out one more time. When we had dropped the car off at the repair shop, we had left almost all of our stuff inside, including clothes and toiletries. Even if the people there got to it right away, we’d probably be spending half the following day in Columbus. Neither Val nor I wanted to wait that long to change or brush our teeth.

I trudged alone in the darkness, taking the same route that the tow truck had taken earlier that day. At times there was no sidewalk, so I walked through the grass. I imagined how I must look: some stranger prowling across peoples’ lawns at ten o’clock at night. At one point, my foot came down on a sinkhole full of half-crusted mud. I slogged on, muttering obscenities to myself. I got to the car, stuffed all the necessary items into a few bags, and dragged them all the way back with me. The trip took nearly two hours.

That night, Val and I lay wrapped around one another in the unfamiliar and uncomfortable bed. As we drifted towards sleep, I told her a story about a man who was following another man because he had been told that he could learn the meaning of life from him. The main character was led into a pitch-dark building, where he found a set of stairs leading up to a door.

“…and as he felt his way to the door,” I whispered, “it opened on its own. A bright light shown from the other side, blinding him. His eyes adjusted, and he saw someone step out in front of him…”

“And then what happened?”

“…I don’t know…I’m too tired. I’ll finish the story later.”

“Kay,” she breathed, and we slipped into unconsciousness.

* * *

I woke up with the dawn on Monday morning. I had to trek back to the repair shop again to give them my key, and I wanted to get there right when they opened. There was free coffee in the motel lobby, which I gladly took advantage of. One thing I’ve discovered from staying in motels and hotels throughout my life is that they often have some of the best coffee around. This was no exception.

At the shop, the owner was more than happy to do whatever he could to fix my car. He spoke slowly, with a thoughtful Midwestern accent. I left with no doubt that my car was in good hands.

Val and I had more time to kill, so we walked back up the way we had gone for dinner the night before. We stopped at a tiny store that sold all kinds of yarn and sowing material. I marveled over the plethora of patterns and colors. In the center of the shop was a large poster explaining how yarn made from camels benefited the nomadic peoples of central Asia. Since they were always on the move, they had little means for survival in the harsh wilderness. Camel yarn was one of their vital sources of income.

We passed the rest of the early afternoon wandering around the area. Around two, the sky started to grow overcast and the wind picked up. Before heading back to our room, Val bought an ice cream from McDonalds. I picked up a newspaper and read about the results of some straw polls for the early candidates of the presidential race. In the middle of our respite, my cell phone rang.

It was the owner of the repair place. He had figured out what the problem was: the idler pulley had snapped. He told me that it wouldn’t be more than a few hundred dollars to fix, but that he’d have to get the part sent to him. Unless he could find a local shop that had one on hand, it could take up to three more days before my car was ready.

“I’ll call around, and get back to you today,” he said.

I relayed this information to Val, who suggested we get the rest of our junk from the car and keep it in the motel room. We called a taxi service from our room, asking them to make sure they brought a mini-van. Once at the shop, we cleared all of the clutter from my car in about fifteen minutes, piling it inside the van. Then we rode back and piled it in one corner of the motel room.

We spent the rest of that afternoon in a kind of nervous suspense. Neither of us was eager to go out again. Val wasn’t feeling well, and I was getting progressively more pessimistic about our situation. We also had to be careful what we did with the rest of our money – neither of us had anticipated all these extra expenses, and they were adding up quickly. There were still six days left to our vacation. We’d need cash for those, too.

Sometime near sunset, the owner called me again. He had good news and bad news.

The good news was that they had found a pulley from someone in Columbus from whom they could get it the next day. The bad news was that the pulley had bent a major engine valve when it broke. I’d have to replace the engine if I wanted my car to work anymore.

“I don’t know what you want to do,” said the owner. “It’ll probably cost you more than the car is worth to fix that. But if you don’t, you won’t have a car.”

“I have to think about it,” I mumbled. “I’ll call before you close.”

I paced around the motel’s parking lot for a few minutes, pondering the ramifications of this development. I suddenly had no desire to go to Missouri. I didn’t want to wait around in Ohio, either. I just wanted to go home and spend the rest of my vacation hiding under my sheets.

Val and I agreed that we couldn’t afford to repair the engine on top of everything else. She called one of our friends who had already arrived in the Ozarks to tell her that we wouldn’t make it. Our friend insisted we come, especially because we had been through so much. She even offered to pay for plane tickets to get us the rest of the way. We declined.

Meanwhile, I called the repair shop back. The owner apologized for the situation, told me that he’d only charge labor for the first half of the day, and that I needed to mail him the title when I got home so that he could scrap the car.

“Thanks for everything,” I replied. “I do have one other question, though. Where is the train station?”

“There is no train station in Columbus,” he answered.

I was shocked. How could a major city not be connected to the rail lines? “Are you sure? I’ve seen freight trains passing over about a block from here.”

“Oh, the railroad passes through here, all right, but they never built a station for a passenger line. There’s no place to get on. Have to use the airport.”

“Okay, thanks again.”

I told Val that we needed to get airline tickets for the morning as soon as we could to avoid having to pay for the motel another day. She searched on her laptop, and found some relatively inexpensive seats on a plane that was leaving in the early afternoon the next day. Then we ordered a pizza.

Outside, the clouds overhead had finally reached their saturation point. The wind picked up again, and lightning darted across the sky. A torrential rain broke out. I’ve always loved storms. I stepped out into this one, reveling in the shock of suddenly being soaked by nature. It momentarily distracted me from everything else that had ensued, and lent perspective to the day. No matter what happened in life, nothing could rob me of the rain. I felt a little better.

The following morning was bright and crisp. Val and I walked to a storage facility nearby to buy some boxes to put our things in. As soon as we were packed, we called another cab to take us to Columbus airport. He drove us on the highway past the inner city area, and I watched the high-rises of the crowded downtown slide by us. I wondered just how much about Columbus and its people we had learned from our two-day sojourn in a suburban corner on the outskirts. Was it the true face of the city? Was there a true face to any city?

At the airport, the first thing we did was check our boxes. We had to move items around between them to make sure they all stayed under the weight limits. Then we found an in-house restaurant for lunch. They put cheese in my salad, but I just picked it out. We sat in the “meditation room” for the remainder of our time before boarding, reading religious texts in relative quiet.

A few hours later, Val and I landed in Newark. Never before had the familiar grime of the metropolis seemed so welcoming to me. We loaded our luggage into another taxi and paid it to bring us to the apartment. It was dusk by the time we finally walked in the door. We had no money, no car, and no energy. We didn’t even bother to unpack the boxes. We headed straight for bed.

As we sank into the blankets, I asked Val, “What do you want to do tomorrow?”

She threw her arms around me, snuggling close. “Nothing!”

I agreed.

Continuum 6: Shake-ing Things Up

Kaitlyn Shake is a student activist at HCC. This winter, she became the president of the Student Senate, but suddenly left as controversies unfolded. In the first of this two-part series, she describes her entry into activism, her rise in student politics, and some of the institutional problems she encountered along the way.

Stay tuned for part two in our series, to be released Friday, March 27, 2009.

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Continuum 5: Plays, Pagans, and Participation

Theatre major Amber Hopper is involved in the costume design for HCC’s upcoming play, “Anonymous.” She is also the president of the Pagan Attitudes and LIfe Studies (PALS) club, an active member of the Gay/Straight Alliance, and a past member of the Student Senate. She discusses all of these things - and more - with host Brandon T. Bisceglia.

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Dad I Miss You

By Gerry Whitted
Senior Staff Writer

Hey Dad,

When I arrived at my house shortly after coming home from school; the words I am about to share with you have echoed in my temporal lobe, since the first time I heard them. Your father has died. How did he die I asked and quickly followed with will I see him in heaven? “He died from his stroke and yes you will see him in heaven,” my mother said. She, who had just been made a widow at the ripe old age of 32 years of age, was the messenger of this devastating news.

I was hurt and I was angry, I felt abandoned and lonely. I was all that and more. The sad part about this was I did not know how to articulate those feelings. How could I? I was 11 years old and in the sixth grade. I know we have not spoken since your death. I have been using God as an intermediary as a way to get messages to you via prayer.

I am writing you to let you know how I was affected by your sudden and all too soon demise. Every year on September 23 , the day of your birth and March 1968, I am reminded on how much I miss you. That day and year are indelibly etched in my mind and soul forever. A matter of fact that year is one most Americans will never forget. Reverend Doctor Martin Luther King and Senator Robert Kennedy were both assassinated in that year. The world lost three irreplaceable human beings, tragically and all of sudden.

Daddy! Why did you have to die? I know if you would not have died my life would have been so much easier, and it is your fault why it was not. I became closed, frightened and alone with no one or nowhere to turn. You taught me never to show fear or to be afraid of anything or anyone, God will protect me. You told to me say my prayers every night and eventually they will be answered. God loves you. Well it is hard to tell. It seems as if my prayers have fallen on deaf ears. I do not ask for a lot, matter of fact all I ask for is one thing prayer after prayer after prayer, night after night after night, week after week and year after year after year. I pray for all of this to be a dream and when I awaken you are alive. As I recall these events I begin to cry, after every word I write I wipe away the tears that are streaming down my face and at times obstructing my vision.

I can see clearly now that you and God have both abandoned me. This is not a dream this is reality. I guess I have to wait to see you in heaven as Mom said I would. I just hope my fate is different than yours. I do not want my to son to experience witnessing the effects of a stroke as I did. I found you on the floor after you had yours, and for years wondered if I could have done anything to prevent this from happening. When I went to the hospital for my one and only visit It was something I will never forget. The sight of the four inch scar on your neck attributed to the removal of the blood clot, and your inability to communicate due to your speech being reduced to that of an infant making sounds, ba ba da ta se vu. I could see the frustration on your face as I continually guessed wrong on my interpretation of your words. These images along with questions of my own mortality stagnated and curtailed my growth for some 25 years.I wondered and feared that my fate would be similar to your brief and short 32 years of life.

How could you be so selfish and cowardly to leave and never return to help and guide me through the maze of manhood. I know you taught me how to read, write, play chess, iron and fold my clothes. Also you were my basketball and baseball coach and taught me how to run, paid for swimming,tennis lessons and my Boys Scout uniform and supplies, all these things before my 10th birthday. Most of all you were a great father who showed me how much you care and loved me. The value of honesty, family, pride, hard work and education were staples that I still hold true today. It was as if you were giving me a cram course in manhood as a way to prepare me for your early death.What more could a kid ask for? Simple a father to finish what he has started and you did not do that.

Me, you and mom moved to Hollywood from Harlem after I was born. The plan was for you and your singing group to have a hit record. Being the owner of the publishing and songwriting rights you would be able to quit your job at the post office and live off the royalties. This would be a family business that I would inherit when I graduated college and passed down the same way to my kids. After you died that too died, along with life in Hollywood, California.

Mom has no family here so back to New York we went. The Flight attendants were great as we transported your body to Washington D.C. to be buried. Your mother, brother and two sisters were there to meet and greet us. I never felt so uncomfortable in my life, and being forced to go someplace I did not want to be did not help.

I was being punished for your death and I do not know why. I wanted to graduate with my friends and go to the junior high school. I have been looking forward to doing this since I was in the fourth grade. But you so selfishly died and so did my dream.

Once we were settled in New York the transition was one for the ages. It seemed as if everybody had a father except me.Those who were fatherless appeared to take the most abuse. They were picked on, laughed at for no rhyme or reason other than being fatherless. Relocating from Hollywood, California to New Rochelle, New York did not help either. I was an outsider and the new kid in the neighborhood, with that comes rights of initiation. My defense was to run home fast after school and lie about you being dead. I never talked about you and I never was asked about you. I finally graduated and gradually my problems increased and you were nowhere to be found.

I continued with the charade. I told everyone you worked at the post office as if you were still alive. Than I was given an award for being an honor student and I had to answer a questionnaire and be interviewed by my guidance counselor. It just so happened he retired from the same post office I said you were working. I was busted, there was not to many things worse than being caught in a lie .Although it was the best thing to happen to me and afterwards a burdens seemed to be lifted.

I was afraid, ashamed and missed my father and for the first time I spoke to my mother and adviser about it. They let me know that it was alright to cry and you teaching me otherwise was wrong, it was just your way to make me tough and that you meant no harm. From that point on I had no problem of saying that you were dead but that did not eliminate the burden that I still carried.

How do you kiss a girl? How do you make love? How do you ask a girl to be your girlfriend? What do you do to keep a girlfriend.? How do I know she likes me? How do I protect myself from the bullies?
What college should I go to? Should I go to white Ivy League school in the area that is recruiting me or black college in 1500 miles away in Dallas, Texas? Should I drop out of school and work? Should I get married? How do you deal with how a woman feels when she is pregnant? My wife lied to me about her fertility, I found she can not have kids what should I do? I think my wife is having affair what should I do? Our pastors niece is pregnant and I am the father. I am unhappy and lonely.

I would follow these questions with another question. What would my father do? How would my father act or say in this situation? I still was unhappy. I would not have had all of those situations if you were here. Life would have been so much easier and happiness would be a common occurrence.

I could not tell my mother because remember you told when if you died I would become the Man of the house. Well the man of the house does not come home and let his family know that he is coward, who is afraid to talk to girl and needs alcohol to have courage to even ask a girl to dance. Looking back I do not know how I got through it all and kept all that stuff a secret.

A mother can only do and have the answers for only so much. I needed my Father and you were not there, at times I wish I never met you. You made me believe that if I needed you, you would be there and you were not. You and God definitely have a few things in common. The most significant one is when I call on either of you the invisible man shows up.

Funny how things happen, about 25 years ago I met my current wife. She taught me I was only as sick as my secrets. That the past was a learning experience not a burden or weapon to inflict unnecessary harm to one's self. I could not remember ever being as happy in my life-other than the birth of my children.

I stopped blaming you and God for my transgressions and circumstances. I accepted the eleven years I had with you were eleven more than a lot of people have ever had with their Father. I understand and accepted that I created the burden and it was for me to release it. Once I did this I became a man with a positve and strong outlook upon today. But in order to make this journey complete and fulfilled, there is one more thing I must say and this cycle will be complete and that is... Good Bye.

Oh, the Places You’ll Go

By Victor Rios

Co-Editor in Chief

Guadalajara, Mexico—Home to the second largest metropolitan center in the country, Las Chivas, Tequila and last but not least, mariachi, is the place where I was conceived and given birth to by a suppositious absent father and a 15 year old teenager.

The marriage inevitably failed and my mother—who had married to simply to get away from a small house with six brothers and sisters and an alcoholic dad, got fed up with my father’s abuse, stole money from him and bought a bust ticket to Tijuana, taking me (6 months old) along for the ride.

Once in Tijuana, Motorola employed her at a television assembly line. My mother left me in what she described was a prison for kids, where I stayed five days of the week and acquired the lifelong nickname of el topo or “the mole.” To this day no one has explained why and who gave me the name. But my aunt who soon followed my mom to Tijuana and often picked me up from the hellhole, loved it and branded me for life.

It was as ‘el topo’ that I returned to Guadalajara three years later. Mom yielded to my grandfather’s requests for her return from that decrepit place that was and still is Tijuana.

There are very few memories in my thought-hoard, but I do remember my grandfather teaching me to swim in Manzanillo (one beautiful beach) and often going to outside colorful rustic towns where he still had family, riding on the backs of giant pigs, falling off a donkey, visiting balneareos (hot springs).

I enjoyed grandpa’s company for two years; he died of a stroke in ’91. Unfortunately, I got to see the man fainting and people around trying to pick him up. I was not allowed to see him at his wake because I had a scab in my hand (superstitious bull).

Inevitably, everything changed drastically, my uncle (an ever furious mechanic) made the miniature patio his workplace; my other uncle, who was four years older than me, picked on me constantly and broke the sad news about Santa Clause; and my aunt, who was four years younger than my mom, began sending me on errands and forced me to do chores around the scorpion infested house.

A few months after grandpa’s death I began attending elementary school which was four blocks away: Alfred E. Nobel. The curriculum was not at all different from an American school. Later I would come to find out it was better, with the exception of abusive teachers —and was home to the only two computers I ever saw before traveling to the US (someone stole them, they made a hole in the ceiling and took everything).

“El topo” was well known in the school for being a troublemaker who did surprisingly well in school. This was due to my mom’s rigid rules when it came to school, even though I barely ever saw the lady; she still kept up with the teacher’s notes and would not hesitate to use corporal punishment.

It wasn’t long before mom introduced me to her boyfriend and his family. He amiably took on the responsibility of fatherhood and his family took me in as one of their own. I would go on to make the Cuellar’s house my second home.

The Cuellar’s owned a small corner store. In the back was a large terrace whose bare adobe walls were topped with broken glass and a centered giant guava tree provided solace from the sun to dozens of wandering chickens, a handful of colorful and easily irritable roosters.

Every so often, my new grandfather would take me to the various palenques to showcase, bet on, and fight his roosters. It usually turned out to be daylong bloodbaths in which the cocks were fitted with blades on their talons and pitted to death. The losers were quickly retrieved, cooked and served a few hours later. Depending on the health of the top cock, he would either get cooked or live to see (if they had eyes left) another day and be bred. In many occasions headless chicken would be seen frantically running and flapping their wings as if to escape from the grasp of death.

This leads perfectly into ‘93, when Mexico reduced the amount of zeros in the currency: 1000 pesos turned into 1 (shiny) peso. I remember my grandpa telling me everything would get better now. I, of course, did not have the cognitive abilities to know what he was talking about; the food served was always great and homemade—generally just beans, rice, fresh baked tortillas and a small amount of meat served along with fresh tomato and jalapeno sauce. Mmmm…!

Also in ’93 my mother gave birth to my brother. As a result of this, I had free rein to be the last one of my friends to be home. And as things got “better,” my stepfather could not find a job. Two of his brothers had previously made the jump to the US in the mid 80’s, it was a natural jump.
Late in ’95 he headed north; my mother followed two months later.

Both of them left with hopes of returning for both my brother and me. They had high hopes, lots of people had “made it;” it was their turn to ride the American dream to its full potential.

During their hiatus, Mortal Kombat and Killer Instinct arcades were my best friends. I would hang around establishments with arcades just to watch others play; until regrettably getting kicked out of the arcades for reaching over the counter to get coins.

Coin scarcity forced me to make a choice between staying home with the grandparents (I did not go to school while my folks were away), or find a job—which I did for a few months.

It was simple, get up every morning, get a red dolly with a crooked wheel, and go around to small business’ to pick up their garbage and take it to a dump behind el mercado. I made enough money to go to the arcades and buy myself a small pizza every once in a while.

The ten months my mom was gone for were wonderful—I had none of the usual yelling and ass whopping sessions—then for better or worse, she came back. In protest, I decided not to go to the airport, and instead I played Congo’s Caper at a friend’s house.

Coming to America

Two weeks later, I would go on to leave the country—the prevailing thought was for some reason the Statue of Liberty. Crossing the border was as easy as Rush Limbaugh’s drug pr. The coyote paired me and my brother with an older lady who would pass off as our grandma. Our instructions were simple, “say ‘US citizen’ and that’s it.”

Surprisingly it worked. The first blue eyed, blond haired person I had ever met actually fell for my lie (Even today I ask myself “what if he had asked for my papers?”).

There could not have been a more stark contrast than that particular border crossing: on one side there was a dusty desert city, sheet-metal-roofed adobe and brick homes with hundreds of thousands sappy foreign faces. While on the other side (San Diego), well, the first store I saw was a Burger King sitting on a small mound with perfectly manicured green grass and tall trees around it. The taste of the air itself was of a different nature, cleaner and most of the folks were white.

After a brief stay at my uncle’s house in LA, where I celebrated my 10th birthday and received more gifts than I had in the whole previous year, we set out via plane to NY. As the plane began its decent, the land gave way to millions of moving lights as well as to the bright tall buildings seen only in movies and news in Mexico. The trip home was even more spectacular; we rode on the White Stone Bridge and like a fly continued to stare at the bright lights.

The astonishment was not to last too long. Two days after my arrival I found myself at a red bricked school (Jefferson Elementary) in New Rochelle, NY. First order of business was inoculations; I—like a maniac—had to be strapped down by a couple of people for that to happen.
Next, I was tossed in a fifth grade classroom with only three other Spanish speakers. For a while, they would become my guides, they too had only been in the US for less than a year. Logically, I gravitated towards the other Spanish speakers and the only thing I did know, and knew well, was math. For that reason, the teacher came to like me, and during lunch she would help me with my ESL work.

When I found out that I would be passed to next grade (with good grades), I was so excited. So in one of the graduation practices, which took place in the auditorium, I told my buddies in Spanish “Pase! Y con buenos grados.” The girl sitting in front of me, Hope (whom I befriended a few years later) turned around, and with an angry gesture told us “why don’t you go back to Mexico?” Being a smart ass myself, I responded in broken English, “Why don’t you go back to Africa?” The argument ended right there and then. We then proceeded to practice R. Kelly’s “I Believe I can Fly” while holding each others hands (which was part of the show).

Unfortunately, the next three grades I spent 70% of the time learning and convening with other Spanish speakers in Spanish. I was inducted into a bilingual program whose classroom was located in the basement, next to the special ed. class. The effects of which was segregation from the rest of the student population, constant bullying, and an English deficiency right when I needed it most.

At home, the relationship with my mom remained the same as the one we had in Mexico. She continued to give priority to my younger brother, despite the progress I had made in school, so I grew evermore resentful. My stepfather, whose efforts provided the means for a brighter future was, much like a survivor contestant, driven out of the house.

My middle school years were marked by an increase in testosterone and an intense dislike for my mother and brother. I became a cocoon, shielding everything other than Marilyn Manson, Rob Zombie, Korn and most of what K-Rock played back then. The time I spent listening to music was really the only enjoyable time of those days.

By the seventh grade, my mother had met another gentleman who would go on to be my stepfather. He had three kids, and for a while, his older kid and I fought in and outside of school—don’t remember why, probably carrying the torch for both our mothers, they were doing the same thing.

In quite the turn of events, when my mother decided to follow my stepfather to Bridgeport, I ended up being welcomed at my stepbrother’s home. He and I, for a while became inseparable friends; until unfortunately the Board of Ed found out I was not living with my parent and forced me out of a very diverse (mutually segregated) High School in May 2001.

So I transferred to Warren Harding High School in BPT. The experience was unlike any other I had ever experience. I suddenly found myself being considered a bright student; a change from being an average student in New Ro High. The situation there was and still is dire. Students were out of control; I experienced everything from students punching teachers to teachers chasing students down. There were a few unavoidable conflicts I had over stares, a girl
I found solace in smart senior students whom I often hung out and tried to imitate. I was the first sophomore to take AP Bio along with seniors, I often found myself being played the jokes the rest of the student body played on these “smarty pants.” I must admit, I met a handful of true friends and teachers that truly cared for students.

At home, my mother never changed, she never acknowledged any of my accomplishments and treated me much like you would an indentured servant—I can not blame her, all the while she’s been taking orders from yuppies, she had to let it out somehow. Still, I had to move out, and I did at 16.

The following five years were years of self discovery. After graduating from Harding, my life lost its meaning and purpose. After a six month hiatus from education, I attended HCC for three consecutive semesters on my own reconnaissance.

Music (again) and the greatest girlfriend served as anchors, although they were certainly dragged by a ship overloaded with opposing emotions, I must admit: without them, the tide would have led me astray. Instead, a reinvigorated self arose from the limbo I found my self in and finally experienced true unconditional love.

Today, I would like to think that I have grown much. Which is no coincidence at all, for I have opened myself to many viewpoints that help me frame responses to many situations, which in the past, I would have reacted either violently or by give up on tasks. Not perfect, but better.

It took getting lost in this maze called life to finally figure out where I would like to go. The random nature of life itself may divert from green pastures to desolate lands; it can become an utter contradiction.

[Life] It’s just a ride and we can change it any time we want. It’s only a choice. No effort, no work, no job, no savings and money, a choice right now, between fear and love. The eyes of fear want you to put bigger locks on your door, buy guns and close yourself off.

The eyes of love instead see all of us as one—Bill Hicks

Open Your Ears and Hear the News

By Nathaniel Greenhall
Staff Writer

There comes a time in a person’s life when you realize you have no idea what’s going on in the world. That’s when you need to start listening to what people have to say about the world. Read the news, listen to the radio, or watch the news. These are three great ways of finding out things that are going on around you, on a day-to-day basis.

I realized that throughout my life I never cared much about what was going on in the world. I thought that it never concerned me and that the news was boring. After my 20th birthday last year I started to work at a Mobil gas station. While working there I started to pick up the newspaper when business was slow. After reading it for a couple of weeks, I realized what I had been missing out on. There are too many things happening in the world, and it’s an insult not to know what’s going on.

I feel that it’s very important for people over the age of 18 to start reading the news. Maybe when you were younger the news didn’t matter much, because all you cared about was the immediate world around you. Once you are a college student you need to realize that the real world is right around the corner. All of the decisions being made in the world are going to affect you more and more as you age. The news is full of information on changing laws, taxes, job opportunities, traffic, and hazardous reports, all of these things can help you on a day to day basis.

People who pay attention to the news closely see things coming before others do. The economic crisis was something that people thought was coming because certain signs pointed to this happening. My father reads the news regularly and he told me that all of this was going to happen at least a month before it really did.

Especially with all of the important things going on in the world recently that are going to have a huge impact in the coming years. As you start forming your life and a family, all of these economic situations come into play. If you don’t read the news and have no idea at all that there even is an economic crisis, how are you going to deal with life situations appropriately? Not only is the news something that everyone needs to make good decisions, but it is a great wealth of knowledge for starting conversations. Not only can it help you fit into conversations, but it can make you come off as worldly and well informed.

The people out there that are writing the news are doing a great charity by informing us on local and world news, and people are taking it for granted. News used to be something that was only local, news from far away came days if not weeks after it already happened because it took time to transport information. Nowadays news is literally instantaneous, you can hear people reporting from across the world live on TV, or the Internet.

If you are like me, the news is just too boring to watch sometimes. You can join the other thousands of people who tune into the Daily Show with John Stewart, or the Colbert Report. While they tend to exaggerate on certain topics they also give great portrayals of news. The two of them are looking at it from a different point of view than normal newscasters. And to some people this makes the difference in paying attention to what is going on in the world.

So news is something that we all need to pay attention to. And not just for the sake of ourselves, but for our families to come. What’s the point of living in America, if you don’t know what’s going on in it?

High Expectations

By Sania Mathakutha
Staff Writer

None of my family members have ever left their comfort zone of South Africa.I’m the first. I’m going to America; America the great, America the beautiful. So they say. I will confirm that when I get there. My father seems to be more excited than me. He believes that this trip could bring about change for the Mathakutha family. My mother, on the other hand, feels completely different. Knowing her I’m not surprised. Don’t get me wrong I’m not saying she is not a supportive person; it’s just that she can be a bit overbearing at times, but that’s another story.

Almost everybody I know, from my friends, aunts, cousins, and “boyfriends” are contributing financially towards my departure.

June 2003 I arrive in Austin Texas. I’m here to be an Au Pair for the Horton family who have two beautiful girls ages 3 and 7. A month later I realize that I will not be able to live up to the expectations and promises I made my people when I left home. Not with the $124.50 that I was making a week. When I was home that amount a week seemed like a lot of money. Boy was I mistaken. All the excitement about being here now is quickly diminishing. What am I going to do? I promised to buy people cars, houses, and clothes. There was no way in hell that I was going to afford all these things. I had to make a plan, and I had to make one fast.

November 2003 I decided to abscond to Connecticut. I started working two jobs just to make ends meet. Things started looking like they were falling into place until April 2006, when I got arrested. At 7 a.m. I just walked into my apartment from my overnight job, and I was getting ready for my next one. I was startled by a knock at the door. I was wondering who it could be at this time of the morning. I ignored it. That didn’t help because the knocking seemed to get louder and louder. Next thing I hear is, “police, and open the door.” My heart started beating so loud and so fast it wanted to jump out of my chest. I was shaking like a leaf as I made my way to the door. I opened it and everything that happened after that was like a movie; or a nightmare. When the cold handcuffs gripped my wrists I thought I was going to die. “We will be taking you to the Immigration offices in Hartford for some questioning”, said the male officer. His voice was so cold. I cried in the car all the way to Hartford.

I couldn’t believe what was happening. I always new that as I got older I would go through trials and tribulations of life, but never in my wildest dreams did I think I would ever go to “jail”. Was I going to wake up later only to find out I was dreaming?

Upon arrival at Hartford I was placed in a holding cell all by myself. Fortunately I had my cell phone with me, but when I tried making calls there was no signal. I sat on a cold block of cement for four hours. I was so cold I couldn’t even feel my hands or feet. People would go by looking at me like I was some criminal or vicious animal. “I wonder what she’s in for.” I heard a lady say as she went by. I had stopped crying at that point. I might as well save my salt water. There I was in the land of the “free”, but not “free”, caged up. I felt like I was out of my body, looking at myself “behind bars.” I was told that they were following protocol, checking to make sure that my passport and visa were still valid and that I was in the country legally. Fortunately for me my paper work checked out fine. Finally to what seemed like eternity they let me out and sent me home; just like that.

Two months later I hired a Lawyer and he helped me adjust my status. My life was completely changed. I went home to South Africa a year later. I told my story to my family and everybody was very supportive and sympathetic. A month later after I arrived home my father asked me if I would ever go back to America, and I surprised him with a confident “yes”. I told him I was actually planning on leaving in another month. Not to work though, but to get an education.

Without a doubt, America offers very high quality postsecondary education and I’m happy that I’m a part of that. When I left my father he was more proud of me then he was the first time I left. The second time was a charm because I left stress free. The only promise I made was to bring home a degree.

My Brief History of Time

By Dan Otzel
Senior Staff Writer

My first day of college. On the left is my roomate.

How a wasteland of agony led to triumphant understanding.

In May of 2003 I graduated from high school. My four years at Fairfield Prep had been the best of my life. I received a great education, grew into a man, and partied and partied and partied and partied.

The future was looking bright. I was heading to Florida to party – I mean – study, just outside of Daytona Beach at Stetson University. I was young (18), handsome, smart, funny, athletic, and excited. I had a family who loved me, friends who would take a bullet for me, and a gorgeous girlfriend.

What the hell could go wrong?

Yeah, not only do I have the horror stories; I also have stories that would make your head spin. However, most of my semester-and-a-half in sunny Florida was a blur. It culminated in me waking up one Monday afternoon to my father’s voice. When I finally came too, I heard him utter, “We have a meeting with the Dean.” The next thing I knew, I was in Bridgeport taking biology with a man who, to this day, I couldn’t pick out in a line up.

Why couldn’t I pick him out of a lineup?

Because the mistakes which got me tossed out of Stetson were no longer mistakes – they were a way of life.

Every day I drove to Housatonic Community College wasted. When I woke in the morning the drinking started. As class neared I start drinking heavily. The ride from Milford to Bridgeport was usually quick and filled with speeding cars, loud music, a carton of cigarettes, and, you guessed it, more booze. Once in class, the real drinking began. Most students carry textbooks and pens in their backpacks; I carried a bar.

After getting sub-par marks in classes I should have aced, (I was handing in high school papers still saved on my computer, and after a few successful Horizons articles, I decided I didn’t feel like writing anymore that semester) I had, what some call, a “moment of clarity.”

I called my father into my room and told him I had a problem and I needed help before it killed me. The lifestyle I had been living since high school, a lifestyle filled with booze, drugs, women, and insomnia had caught up to me. I didn’t know what to do.

It was hard for both of us, but what was harder was hearing him tell me he didn’t think alcohol was my only problem. He thought there was something else, something deeper, embedded in my physique.

Once I got help, I quit drinking cold turkey. It wasn’t hard at all. In fact, to this day, I enjoy a drink every so often; it is not a problem. As a matter of fact, it was never the real problem. I used alcohol as a crutch, as self-medication for what was eventually diagnosed as manic-depression. I believe the PC term is bi-polar disorder. Whatever you call it, it blows.

The hardest thing I have ever encountered, or will ever encounter in my lifetime, is fighting this beast of a disease. In the summer of 2008 my life was as back to normal as it ever could be. I picked up the shattered pieces of my past, from 2004 until the 2008 summer, and made my most valiant attempt to put my life back together.

I am quite certain the best wordsmith in the world would have a tough time describing what those four years were like. I am no great writer, but I will try anyway.

Being diagnosed with a more dire case of the illness, I became somewhat of a lab rat for my caring doctors who just wanted to help (except for this one prick). I experimented with dozens of drugs, waiting for three years to find a cocktail that worked.

When the drugs don’t work, manic-depression is a terrible disorder.

The manic side is odd. I would stay up for days with no sleep, working on projects, which, at the time, seemed so grandiose. I would compose the greatest notes ever struck on a guitar. I would write lyrics that made Bob Dylan look illiterate. I would write the Great American Novel, spitting on Huck Finn and Ernest Hemingway. During that time, however, I learned a lot. I was constantly yearning for knowledge; I didn’t care how I got it. But that type of life not only takes a toll on the body, it destroys the mind. An unhealthy body, joined with a disillusioned mind, is a recipe for disaster. I was not Dan Otzel. I had no name. I was an entity who disregarded time and space. I existed, but was lost in that existence. You could not talk to me, converse with me, or relate to me – there was no me, just a false idol, an idol only my mind worshipped.

And then there’s the depression.

I never actively sought suicide, but I didn’t care if I lived or not. Whereas mania lasts a few days to a week, depression is a damned incident, lasting for weeks to months. These days were spent in the layer below Hell. At least Hell is warm and colorful where you can watch miserable souls be tortured for eternity; at least something was going on. Depression, especially when you “crash” from the mania is like nothing you have ever experienced. You wouldn’t wish it upon your worst enemy (well, maybe that prick doctor).

Depression is a black whole. You see nothing, but are totally aware of your miserable existence. But the feeling, the feeling…It is not a feeling of nothingness or remorse…It is a feeling of demise. You can feel death breathing down your neck, and you want to except it, but are too apathetic to do so. It’s a feeling all is lost and it’s all your fault. And what’s scary about it? Nothing provokes it. It just happens. You can’t see it coming and…BOOM! It hits you like a freight train from hell.

My feeble attempts to described symptoms aside, when the drugs do work, you’re at the place I am now. A place where, I’m sure my classmates and professors would tell you, I am completely normal emotionally. But what about when the drugs work too well? When they poison the blood?

Although those occurrences are not as bad as the symptoms, they can delay possible recovery. I have lost my sight, lost my equilibrium, shaken uncontrollably, and gained a tremendous amount of weight. However, I cannot speak for every patient, some get their medication right on the first try.

During that time, I had made my second attempt to earn my Associates Degree at HCC. After receiving an A in my summer course, I had to withdraw from my next 2 courses due to the return of symptoms from the illness. Again, I could not function.

Things were looking pretty bleak once more. But then on July 2, 2007, I checked into Silver Hill Hospital as my last resort. There I was able to get some more help and plan my recovery.

After taking some time off I returned to work. I was working hard, every day, and feeling productive again. Then God looked down and said, “Danny, let’s see how you deal with this,” and blew up the shop I worked at; twenty minutes after I had left (no one was hurt).

So, I decided to come back to HCC.

This is my second straight semester, and I am taking a full workload and excelling. My GPA is up to 2.99 (I’m digging out of a pretty deep hole) and I plan to graduate with honors.

These last six years have been trying times, but it makes the conquests even sweeter.

I have picked myself up by the bootstraps and started over, achieving not only what I could have before, but also learning the depth and magnitude of my character and strength. I feel I have been armed with tools that can seriously help a peer, or even save a life.

I just can’t help but wonder:

When I sit down to revise my story six years from now, what will it say?

Stuck on Repeat

By Gina DellaGioia
Staff Writer

Photo Courtesy of http://www.sciencemuseum.org/

“One, two, three, four…one, two, three, four…one, two, three, four…one, two three, four. Four sets of four. Always even, never odd.”

That’s me every morning, tapping the corner edge of my bedroom carpet with my left foot a whopping total of 16 times, sometimes even 18 just to be sure to ward off any future misfortunes headed my way. Does this behavior hold any logic? I would be the first along with the other 3.3 million Americans with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder to say no, this holds no logic whatsoever.

So then why do we sufferers of OCD feel compelled to flick the light switch on and off 28 times, to tap the fruit bowl on the kitchen table 14 times or to repeatedly check that the front door is locked?

Obsessive Compulsive Disorder is an anxiety disorder. Sufferers experience recurrent unwanted illogical thoughts and fears referred simply to as “obsessions”. In order to counteract these obsessive thoughts sufferers develop “compulsions”, repetitive behaviors meant to soothe the uninvited thoughts and fears. Simply put, OCD is a developed coping mechanism for the many aspects of life that are out of one’s control.

Those with OCD are not delusional, we know our actions lack any realistic sense but are compelled to continue these actions regardless of how crazy we may appear.

Studies have found a connection between Tourette syndrome and OCD with 28-50% of those with Tourettes exhibiting symptoms of OCD. A commonly shared characteristic between the two is Coprolalia, the involuntary vocalization of obscenities or derogatory remarks. Though most of us with OCD would never utter or act on our obsessive thoughts, we feel as though we need to forcefully restrain ourselves from doing so. Taboos fill our heads, thoughts of incest, rape, murder, suicide, and sex run rampant in our brains. Even before I hit puberty and didn’t possess a full grasp on the human sexuality my 7-year-old interpretations of sexual activities and obscenities flooded my mind and left me feeling dirty and nervous; I’d blurt out the F-word during a math lesson or kiss the school nurse because it was in my power to do so.

Most of us with OCD narrow in on the same objects be it doorknobs, locks, light switches, push buttons, electrical sockets, corners or cracks in the pavement. Among us are washers, counters, arrangers, tappers, checkers, sinners and hoarders. Washers fear contamination, counters and arrangers hold superstitious beliefs on certain numbers and colors and are obsessed with symmetry, sinners fear punishment if a task is not performed to a T, checkers repeatedly check, tappers repeatedly tap and hoarders will just not part with that stack of newspapers from ’92 collecting dust in their closet.

Most with OCD are not confined to one specific group. A counter may also be a washer just as a hoarder may also be a checker. Many, including myself, happen to fall into multiple if not all categories.

There are four members in my immediate family dubbing the number four as my favorite. Four has and will always play an important role in my daily rituals but single digits are child’s play, I’ve graduated to the double digits now. As the years go by compulsions change and numbers grow, my OCD evolves and advances right along with me. The earliest memories I can remember of numbers beginning to run my life was around age 10. I despised traffic lights, not because they made me late for appointments or school, which is something at age 10 that I welcomed, I despised traffic lights because of the swallowing. It started out with the harmless number of four times that I would need to swallow before the light turned green and slowly escalated to the number 16. I can’t express how thrilled I am about that compulsion being dead and buried.

With OCD everyday simple mundane tasks become hour-long processes of painstakingly tedious rituals. Obsessive Compulsive Disorder complicates the uncomplicated. Something as absent-minded as having a drink of orange juice is turned into a life or death situation, which requires the purification of the drinking glass and the orange juice however only after the cabinet has been tapped as many times as seen fit, you know, whatever special number wards off evil today. Only then can I take a sip of my hard-earned O.J. but, only to have weighing on my mind, which side of the glass is safe to drink from?

These tasks are certainly anything but mundane. I can’t recall the last time I’ve had a shower that’s lasted under an hour or the last time I’ve read a book without tapping the page 18 times before turning.

I have stumbled across some loopholes over the years however, instead of having to perform the burdening task of preparing for meals, I can now have my mother get me my “special fork” out from the kitchen drawer and my father pour me my glass of milk. Now there’s an upside of OCD for you, I am waited on hand and foot. I once held in my urine for 10 ½ hours to avoid or at least delay the dreaded bathroom ritual, that loophole isn’t as cushy as the previous.

I sometimes find myself giving into the urge to obsessively bless myself even though I am not religious. This makes sense to me seeing as I grew up in a Catholic household and the Church is filled with obsessive-compulsive behaviors. Religion and OCD are so easily intertwined. Well known figures of Christianity like Martin Luther, John Bunyan and Saint Therese of Lisieux are known to have suffered from Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. Although my family was never the strict church-going Catholics my Grandmother may have wished we were and even though we no longer attend, there are remnants left behind in my life.

OCD is truly a well-rounded disorder often peppered with overlapping disorders. Common accompanying disorders range from Hypochondria to Anorexia, both of which I can personally attest to.

Just like OCD Hypochondria turns the uncomplicated into complicated. A simple nosebleed becomes Leukemia; a minor headache becomes a brain tumor; a cough lung cancer. Hypochondria behavior shares a similar pattern of repetition and disruptive thoughts with OCD. Hypochondria’s cycle goes as follows:
1. Intrusive thoughts, i.e. “I think I have cancer.”
2. Check i.e. go to doctor
3. Repeat

My Self-Diagnoses
1. Systemic Sclerosis
2. Dermatomyositis and Polymyositis
3. HIV (Go figure this one out, I’m a virgin and avoid drugs at all costs, I won’t even take Tylenol unless the situation deems it necessary.)
4. Herpes
5. Lupus
6. Lyme Disease
7. Perry Romberg Syndrome/ Progressive Hemi-facial Atrophy
8. MRSA
9. Necrotizing Fasciitis (I have a difficult time listening to The Temptations due to Melvin Franklin’s bout with this specific flesh-eating bacterial disease.)
10. Various Cancers
11. Tuberculosis
12. Schizophrenia
13. Meningitis
14. Multiple Sclerosis
15. Deep Vein Thrombosis
16. Brain Aneurysm

With its excessive preoccupation with food and calorie counting and its strong focus on control, Anorexia’s correlation with OCD can be easily sighted by even the most blind, uninformed individual.

I’ve dabbled in calorie counting, allotting myself a set number for my daily caloric intake. Some days it was 800 others 900, maybe even 1,000…but that might be pushing it. While this may no longer be a consuming factor of my life in the current day, I’d be a liar if I said I didn’t carry around a calculator with me.

While what causes OCD is still not fully understood many theories loom about. Is OCD psychosocial? Biological? Maybe it’s Strep Throat? At least that’s what researches from National Institutes of Mental Health suggest. I’ve unquestionably had my fair share of Strep Throat and Tonsillitis growing up, connection perhaps?

Well, whatever the cause you can bet there’s going to be someone out there who can “cure” you. Once treated with exorcism, OCD in the present day is now treated with medication; I say give me the exorcism. It’d certainly be more fun, I wouldn’t balloon up and I wouldn’t have to worry about Stevens-Johnson Syndrome or any other pesky allergic reactions, because at the end of the day, is either one of these methods really working?

So, I’ve tried the medicated path, not for me. Next came therapy. I’ve run into a couple of therapists who have refused me help because of my unwillingness to work with their partnered psychiatrists and I’ve had my encounters with a snake-oil salesman or two. Where does all this leave me? I suppose a bit cynical, but maybe it’s me, not the therapists, psychiatrists, or medical companies, see Obsessive Compulsive Disorder is hard to let go of, while it may plague my life, I’m not quite sure what I would do without it.

It’s not my intention to knock the psychiatric medical industry. I recommend psychiatric help 100% to those who are left un-functioning and with a ruined quality of life due to OCD. Therapy and medication can work for some but you have to be willing to cooperate. You have to be willing to let go. This is a common fear among OCD patients and a backbreaking one to overcome at that. Call OCD my crutch, my source of amusement, my cure for boredom, a nervous tic, whatever you want, but whatever it is I’m just not ready to let go of it yet, plain and simple. Old habits die hard.

Continuum 4: Cleaning Up in a Recession

Horizon’s Outreach Editor Deb Toresso talks with host Brandon T. Bisceglia about the growth of her cleaning business and her personal gowth as a writer.

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Waiting for a Happy Ending

By Stephanie Mallozzi
Staff Writer

Learning to wait for the right person can teach you a lot about life.

Conveniently placed on my small night stand is my cell phone. The radio waves seem to be keeping me awake at night. There it is, just gawking at me without ringing, singing, or even vibrating. The “Battery Charging” screen is all I see.

Here I am, waiting. I’m waiting for that phone to do something. Maybe I’m waiting for my life to begin, and love is that missing piece to the jigsaw puzzle. I’m independent, right? I steal another quick glance of my phone.

There was one summer in particular when all I did was wait. I had no choice in the matter. My boyfriend was fighting in Iraq. I waited by the mailbox that whole summer for letters from him. The summer dwindled away, and he came home in the fall. Like the flowers of the summer, our love story wilted away with the autumn air. It was like I was cast as “girlfriend” in a love story. There I was, halfway through the script, and the script was just blank pages. I needed to move on, find a glimmer of hope.

There are so many shades of waiting. I was in a relationship that was on and off for a very long time. I was always waiting for less disappointment, the person I met years back. I never found that person again, but I decided that I couldn’t wait for things that just weren’t going to happen.

What is there to say about waiting? There are countless things to be said about waiting, actually. Good things supposedly come to those who wait. Waiting isn‘t something entirely new. Whether we’re waiting for a commercial to end, or a relationship to finally work, it’s not usually something we enjoy. See, when we are “waiting” for something bad to come along, all of a sudden we call it living.

Me? Well, I thought I was waiting for Prince Charming, but maybe that’s a bit hopeless. I’m going to be honest, I think about it sometimes. You know, seeing Prince Charming on his white horse ride toward me, in the forest. There I am frolicking and singing with the woodland creatures on a white and red checkered picnic blanket. Our eyes meet. Suddenly Etta James’ “At Last” magically playing in the background; maybe even some wind blowing in my hair. We meet and fall and love, a happy ending. Back here in reality, there is no wind blowing in my hair, but I’m still waiting for my happy ending.

It’s a strange sensation to wake up one morning and realize that I was waiting for something that never existed. All the obvious thoughts pop into my head, time being the most relevant. I feel like I have wasted time waiting around. It’s disenchanting to know that I have wasted my time on some kind of modern day version of a fairytale. This story doesn’t have a happy ending because it was never a fairytale to begin with. I think about what I would do if I didn’t “waste my time”, and when it comes down to it I would get up and live life the way I do every other day.

Maybe I’m not really waiting. This is life. There’s no waiting. Life is happening all around. Maybe I’m arrogant to think I’m really waiting, like this moment isn’t good enough for me because it’s not perfect. Maybe now has the potential to be worth the wait, if we give it a fighting chance. I don’t think that’s a fair philosophy to have - to wait until life is magical, and to just make it magical or whatever life is supposed to be.

It’s funny when it’s 12 AM and you are waiting for an IM, text, call, something to make you feel like your life is moving in a direction. It seems as a society we’re so afraid of being stagnant for a little while - even if it is just to look at the scenery. Here we are, jealous of five-year-olds because they get to play fun games. Kids know how to live in the moment. See, this whole waiting thing has to be a “grown up” problem, because five-year-olds wouldn’t put up with it.

When does it all stop?

Sometimes it just doesn’t stop. Sometimes waiting becomes this kind of relative term. Sometimes there are things that we never got to say, or people we never got to love. Sometimes life gives us situations where waiting isn’t an option. Where waiting doesn’t exist. In this reality, everything is black and white. The waiting is silenced. That kind of waiting is forever. Life doesn’t wait for anyone. In turn I’m not going to sit here and wait for life to begin. It’s already happening.

I glance at my phone out of the corner of my eye. No calls, but it’s okay. I don’t need an ending to be happy. I’m going to let you in on a little secret: this is just the beginning, and there aren’t any rules that say that the beginning can’t be happy too. Happy: that's all it has to be, regardless of what chapter of life it is.

My Life in 3-D

By Peter Glagowski
Staff Writer

What it's like to grow up a gamer.

My life hasn’t been characterized by much more than Video Games. Since I was four years old I’ve had a controller in my hand. I may have even been born with one. Not all of my experiences with games are positive, but starting at such a young age has shaped the way my character has developed over the years.

Ever since I started preschool I had a very active imagination. Thoughts of playing Super Mario Bros. would crop up in my head during recess. I would dig little holes and jump them, set up obstacles for me to clear and even create little sand creatures for me to jump on. I wanted video games to be real.

Come kindergarten, I was even more engaged in games. Having just purchased a Super Nintendo, my mind was even more hooked. The graphical technology powering this new system was so much more advanced to me. This was like heaven: staring at a television screen with life-like technology filling my mind with wondrous images. I saw people connecting fists and kicks with each other and I knew that I had to be a part of that. I found ways to supplement my imagination. Action figures would have all-out brawls when I got my hands on them.

Lego blocks also allowed me to build towering infernos like the creatures I saw in my games. I would stack those blocks to the ceiling, it seemed, and then send them crashing to the floor. My stray hands would sometimes even connect with other kids, though I never meant for that. Having my head filled with such impressive thoughts often made me a singular child.

My early life with video games has allowed me to expand my intelligence. Since video games had fairly low budgets and little to no production values back in the early 90s, I spent a lot of time reading text. Old-school games are notorious for having a lot of on-screen text, so I was never absent from reading.

While grammatical errors were never really apparent to me, I would sound out words that confused me at a young age. I would ask my mother what they were and I would spend time in class asking the teacher correct ways to spell words. This led me to have a better understanding of grammar than most kids my age.

As technology advanced, so did my thoughts. Seeing true 3-D for the first time was like a dream come true. Nothing had ever seemed more realistic to me before. When I would dream at night it would be about Mario in 3-D. I was taken to different kinds of worlds without ever leaving my home.

More recent trends in gaming have shifted into modern warfare. Games like Rainbow Six, Ghost Recon and Call of Duty all show a hyper realistic and more modern approach to shooters. The games also bring you into the world of being in a tactical squad without any of the real danger. These types of games have shaped my thoughts and views towards the Armed Forces. While I may not approve of our occupation in Iraq, I have the utmost respect for people who choose to give their lives for their country.

The rapid growth of the Internet put gaming on websites for anyone to view. Being so ecstatic about gaming made me run to these websites the first chance I got. Since these websites are a form of journalism, video games have led me to my current major.

Continuing games gives me the payoff of exploration. Since my mind has grown through schooling and previous games, I have an urge to visit places. My mind has changed to a more visual style and gaming takes you to far off lands. Through gaming I have traveled to the far ends of the galaxy, been to ancient Greece and Rome and even through Hell.

Video gaming has had some negative effects on me, though. For one, I’m still relatively shy. I tend to not engage in conversations with people or try to look for friendships. The prospect of failing scares me, and that is definitely something learned from gaming. Gaming gives you a continue or a restart, but life only offers one chance.

Another negative effect of gaming has been my growth as an adult. A lot of my actions are still childish, even if my thoughts aren’t. I’ve never had a relationship with a woman because I spend my time in front of televisions. Despite not having a previous relationship, my thoughts about women are very chivalrous. Many video games are about saving a woman you barely know and they show no sexually explicit content after you do, so my thinking is similarly linked to that.

The future of games seems to be going back to basics. Old-school is new again and nothing could be better for me. I can finally relive my childhood with a more focused view. This will also allow me to reanalyze myself and try to fix any blemishes that may be present in my character. Games have gotten more mature over the years and that certainly can be paralleled with my growth.

Continuum 3 - HCC Club Day

February 11th was club day at HCC, a chance for students to get involved in various student-sponsored activities and groups. Co-Editor in Chief Victor Rios brings us this report from the sidelines.

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Continuum 2 - A Chat with Student Senate Vice President Lillie Nguyen

Student Lillie Nguyen discusses her plans as the newly elected vice president of the Student Senate, her involvement with HCC’s Women’s Center, and her love for neuroscience with host Brandon T. Bisceglia.

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