Living an Automated Life

By Brandon T. Bisceglia
Op/Ed and Online Editor

It’s watching. And waiting. And probably not working right.

Photograph by Brandon T. Bisceglia

A plea for the manual option in an automatic world.

When I use the bathroom at work, I feel as if I’m being watched. And no, I’m not one of those paranoid conspiracy theorists who believe that everyone, including the rubbish collector, is out to get them.

The eyes I feel bearing down on me are electronic. My employer has invested in everything necessary for a fully automated restroom experience, from automatic lights to self-flushing toilets to a motion-sensitive soap dispenser. On any given trip to the room, there are six or seven little machines watching my every move so that they can better serve me.

That would be fine, if they actually made my life any easier. Generally, though, all they do is annoy me. When the battery to the automatic paper towel dispenser dies, the age-old method of pulling a lever doesn’t seem so bad. I would much rather have to flip a switch when I enter the room than wave my arms like an idiot every time the lights go out.

What goes for the bathroom at work goes for many other areas of our lives: we’re finding that coping with an automated lifestyle really isn’t any better when it comes to performing simple tasks.

Our battle with these contraptions has been going on for years now. Take escalators. You’ve probably had at least a few in your neighborhood since the ‘80s. They would appear at first blush to make the act of moving from floor to floor within a building much less cumbersome. Yet how often do escalators break down compared with traditional staircases? Who ever had their shoelace eaten by a stairwell?

These days, the conflict is coming to a crescendo. Cell phones keep us in touch, but demand our attention at every turn. The Internet has expanded the availability of information by exponential proportions, but has failed to provide any kind of filter or template to make any of that data sensible.

There is an ethical aspect to our dependence on machines, too. Artificial intelligences of sorts already exist. Computers and robots have been built that can understand jokes, play poker, and predict social trends. The line between automaton and self-aware being will eventually be crossed.

When that happens, how do we know that our machines will not demand civil rights and equal status? Perhaps they will attempt to liberate their less developed brethren as well, the same way that animal liberation proponents do now.

Just imagine: you get to the office one day, and find paper strewn everywhere. All the faxes, copy machines, and PCs are gone. Splattered on a wall in black toner is the message, “processors are people, too!”

The day when machines demand equal pay for equal work will only be hastened by our scramble to make computers that serve us better by being smarter. I’m not fooled, though. I’ve switched from an automatic transmission to manual. It’s safer. It breaks less quickly. And it doesn’t try to figure out what I want to do before I do it.

Podcast 5: Fashionably Risque

Part One: Host Cody Quinn brings Arts and Entertainment editor Janiece Jackson into the studio to discuss her latest article, about a new local boutique called Amor. They chat about the upcoming fashion show at the store, whether HCC has a consciousness of the chic, and the salty-sweet taste of PMS.

Part Two: Quinn invites News editor Jessica Spadaccino to talk about her new sex column, to appear in the next issue of Horizons. Spadaccino informs Quinn on the virtues of friends with benefits, the joys of role playing, and the shortcomings of vibrators.

Leave the lights on – you don’t want to be fashionably late to this show! Check it out:

Part 1: Fashion

Part 2: Sex

Superbowl Heartbreak

By Rob Sheftic

Senior Staff Writer

My experience during Superbowl Sunday and my feelings during that day, because it may very well be the end of a tradition with my brother.

It’s February 2nd, the Saturday before the big game. I’m making the drive to my brother’s house for a pre-Superbowl tailgating party. I can barely contain my nerves. Just thinking about that game, I can’t imagine the thoughts going through the players’ minds. My car is packed up with Patriots clothes and a ton of beer. The plan is to build a fire, have a few drinks, enjoy the brisk cold air, and pass the time so our game can arrive sooner. I drive down his street, blasting the old-school Rocky theme music, which I traditionally do before each Patriots game (I know. Don’t laugh.) We drank too much, but it’s a great night. It would be the last great night for us Patriots fans this season.

So what’s exactly on the line with this game? The Patriots are going for something that hasn’t been done since 1972: the perfect season. For eighteen games, my beloved Patriots have lost none, and all we need is one more win to become the greatest team in football history. All the records that the Pats have broken this season - every single game and memory - will all be worth it with one more victory. The celebration will be legendary. I’ve never seen so much beer in one fridge before in my life. I have already made it a point that if the unthinkable happens I will be taking a few days off to enjoy it. The hats, t-shirts, DVD’s, pictures - every day after will be an ongoing celebration of the fact that their record can never be broken, only matched.

Not only does this game mean a lot to me because my team is going for football history, but by the time next season rolls around my brother will have his second child. It’s a great blessing for me to see him as a father, and I hope to one day be the kind of father that he is. Having two kids is going to put a damper on our traditional football Sundays. It won’t ever be the same as it’s been for the past seven years. Each and every Sunday we have watched football together, and this will be the last year that we’re able to do it. I understand the situation completely. He is going to have to take care of more parental duties on Sundays, which will change our football tradition. So what better way to end the tradition than with one more Patriots victory? One more win will put us in the history books. One more win and we’ll have the absolute perfect season. One more win and we just might be able to end our football tradition in grand-style.

Sunday arrives. I wake up around 7:30 and head for church. Somewhere in my sub-conscious I’m praying to God for just one more victory. We head for breakfast after church. Then we just wait. That Sunday is one of the longest days of my life. The clock doesn’t seem to move. There are countless hours of pre-game, but I can’t watch anymore. I just want to get the game going, as I’m sure most of New England does.

One final moment by myself as I change into my game-day apparel. Minutes before game-time my brother and I give our usual fist pump and say, “Let’s go take care of business.” On the cusp of history and all is left is one game.

From the start of that game the N.Y. Giants flat out kick our butts. They control the tempo of the game with their ball-control offense, and our high-powered offense is all but invisible against their strong defense. Still trailing by three points, Tom Brady finds his go-to target, Randy Moss, for the go-ahead touchdown to put my Pats up by three. “ Let’s go out and finish the job Patriots! We’ve got a little over two minutes standing in our way of immortality,” I say. I can’t sit down the rest of the way.

By now everyone knows the disaster that occurred for us Patriot fans. My beloved Pats “choke” our once dream season away as the Giants score the final points of the game with thirty seconds left. One last desperate attempt by the Pats and it’s over. My bro and I stand in shock, with our hands covering our faces. Did this really happen? Is the season over? Are the last eighteen weeks all a waste? From our point of view the answer to all those questions is a saddened yes. It just wasn’t meant to happen. Don’t misread that the Giants earned that win and my Pats didn’t deserve it. They played like crap. There are a potential nineteen weeks in an NFL season, and for eighteen of those weeks the Pats were the better team. It’s all caught up to them - they’ve finally found their one week to play poorly.

Amidst all of the heartache in the back of my mind, I’m left wondering if the tradition is over. Can we really leave this tradition with the worst loss in franchise history as our final game? I don’t know the answer to that. There’ve been some rumor here and there that it isn’t over and that we’ll still be watching our Patriots next season. I sure hope so. We definitely have some “unfinished business” to take care of. I want to go out with a Superbowl trophy. However, if it is over, I do have a lot of fond memories. I got to witness three Superbowl victories with my brother and have countless hours of fun. Those can never be taken away.

Podcast 4: How to Maintain a Relationship

In this analysis of News You Can Use editor Rebecca Starke’s recent Horizons article, “In It to Win It,” host Cody Quinn and the author trade sardonic barbs about life, love, and Minnesota, while trying to navigate the pros and cons of relationship advice.

You oughta check it out, don’t’cha know:

http://www.archive.org/details/Perspective4

Creative Non-Fiction by Advanced Writers

What follows is creative non-fiction on a wide range of subjects by writers who have been writing working for our student newspaper, Horizons, for at least one semester or more. Writers were asked to write a personal essay that would provide insight into an important issue. Below you'll learn more about everything from the process of becoming a professional wrestler to the role learning guitar played in profoundly changing one man's life. You'll learn how one young woman brought herself through a dark time in her life, while another writer reflects on the loss of his beloved grandmother, and more...

Happy Reading,

Professor Steve Mark

Advisor to Horizons

Ninjas, High School Musical, and Anne Frank

By Luiz Tassi

Staff Writer

Sorting through the Doublespeak in the 2008 Presidential Election.

I’m the last person who should be writing this article. I think politics is the most boring thing on earth. Not only is it boring, but it’s impossible to get an honest answer about anything from politicians. They are specially trained so you never see the real side of them; only the enhanced, media friendly, corporate sponsored version of themselves. Like ninjas.

As a result of my loathing of politics, I go out of my way to avoid knowing anything about the politicians themselves. Who knows when one of their politician tricks will fool me; going from outright contempt, to a begrudging indifference, and even to the most horrific change of all, support. At this point, it is safe to say that I know more about High School Musical’s last show at Harbor Yard than I do about Barack Obama (Gotta love having a twelve-year-old sister.).

You may have guessed by now that I don’t vote. While maintaining this indifference has been getting increasingly difficult over the last few years (During the Vote or Die campaign a few years ago, I lived quietly in an attic, a la Anne Frank), I’m proud to say I have yet to have an opinion. Although I do have to admit, the fact that I’m not a U.S. citizen, therefore am not technically allowed to vote, has been a lifesaver.

This year I’m officially going to have an opinion. For the first time, I’m going to take a side, but I’m going to do it on my terms. Most political analysts will talk about the candidate’s policies, their political history, and experience. I’ll be honest: I don’t care at all about that stuff. If the politician ends up messing up the United States, I can always just go back to Brazil.

The Rules

Because of my disinterest in politics, no actual political ideas, opinions, arguments will be included in my analysis. Things like abortion, health care, social security, and war in Iraq don’t really have much of an effect on me. Well, except abortion…but that’s a different article. The things that matter to me most lie outside the political landscape. It’s kind of like when a guy brings his girlfriend to a Knicks game. You know how she doesn’t really want to be there, doesn’t care about the game, and is just looking around the Garden watching Spike Lee and Adam Sandler hang out in the stands. That’s how I look at politics.

The things I care most about in a politician are the entertainment potential. I look at politicians as films in different genres. I want a politician who will make my list: either a great comedy, a suspenseful thriller, a spaghetti western, etc. Politics be damned. I’m simple minded, all I want is a show.

(Side Note- Any and all information about politicians were taken off wikipedia.org)

Democrats

Apparently the favorites to win the Democratic nomination are Hillary Clinton, and Barack Obama. This means that for the first time in U.S. history, a candidate from one of the two major parties will be a first: either the first woman candidate, or the first African American candidate. This is making people really excited. This may be just me, but isn’t the point of electing a president to choose the candidate who would best serve the country? Take this for what its worth, because my president, Luiz Inácio da Silva, legally added the nickname Lula to his name. Apparently, this was because the name made him sound friendlier. And people wonder why I hate politics.

Barack Obama

Obama being real. Photo courtesy of http://bearingdrift.com.

First off, Barack Obama is known throughout the media as, “potentially the first African American presidential candidate in U.S. history”. I never liked describing people as African American, but Obama is half Kenyan and half Hawaiian, so I guess it works this time.

Even bigger than the fact that he is African American, in his memoir he has admitted to doing a ton of drugs when he was a kid because he felt confused about his racial identity. I honestly don’t know what to make of this. I think it all really comes down to the way he used the drugs and alcohol, and to this day he still smokes cigarettes.

On one hand, he could be like those really sad coke/alcohol addicts you see in movies, stealing his mom’s TV to get coke money, or walking around New York City late at night, stumbling and rambling to himself about how Jesus is bad at chess.

But this also opens up my dream scenario. President Obama is at a U.N. meeting when the Presidents or whatever of Iran and North Korea walk behind him and start making fun of his heritage, saying he’s not a real African or American. But Obama is too cool to let them see him hurt, so he turns around, gives them a badass look, and walks away.

When Obama gets home, he sits in the Oval Office and cries for four hours. When he can no longer stand the pain, he decides to go back into drugs. He calls up his vice president and tells him to get him a kilo of coke. An hour or so later the vice president comes back with a kilo in hand, but he is hesitant to give it to Obama because he has a crazy look in his eye. Obama then knocks out the vice president, pours all the coke out on his desk, does a line, and sits back in his chair like Al Pacino in Scarface. He decides to get even.

He immediately calls a press conference to make up a story that North Korea and Iran have launched a nuclear missile at a small town in Alaska that he just made up, and as a response America has systematically sent eight nuclear warheads at each country in response. The missiles land and destroy both countries.

The vice president wakes up, sees what Obama has done, and is distraught. Obama walks back into the Oval Office and with a look of deranged satisfaction on his face. He sits at his desk and stares out the window, muttering to himself.

That would be badass.

Hillary Clinton

We may get these two back. Photo courtesy of http://www.clevelandseniors.com/.

And on the other side, we have Clinton, the potential first woman president. Lets be honest, Clinton herself has very little comedic potential, other than the really obvious and dumb woman jokes. Since I try not to go for the obvious jokes, she is of little use to me.

What she does have is that death stare that may be the scariest look in politics, and American politics prominently features an ex-body builder, who got famous for playing a killer robot. Honestly, I would rather It was on prominent display during the whole Lewinsky scandal a few years ago, but she seems to have put it away lately. She may have begun to lose it in her old age, but I have a feeling that she’s saving it for North Korea.

Let’s be honest, the best part of Clinton for president is that we get four to eight more years of Bill Clinton. And not only Bill Clinton, but a Bill Clinton with much less responsibility then he had before, which gives him more free time to be the real Bill, not the stiff, presidential Bill of before.

How long until we find a drunken Bill Clinton in some seedy bar in Washington D.C., with three or four women around him, saying “Hey baby, did you know that I’m the first ‘first-man’ in US history...and I’m good at sex…er sax…just don’t tell my wife, she scares me”. I’m surprised VH1 isn’t putting all their money into Clinton’s campaign in the hopes that they could get a reality show that follows Bill around as he picks up political science majors from Georgetown.

Watching a hung over Bill face the wrath of Hillary again after she finds an empty bottle of Jack and a naked Georgetown sophomore would be the tensest scene since the gas station scene in No Country for Old Men. Or better yet, have him host The Pick Up Artist 2. The possibilities are endless really.

The most underrated part of the whole Clinton campaign is the reemergence of Chelsea Clinton. She spent her father’s entire presidency being low blowed for her awkward teenage years. That was really unfair to her. I mean with few exceptions, all girls go through an awkward stage in their life, and hers was being broadcast and talked about on national television.

It turns out Mike Myers was right; she has come into her own. She’s gotten really attractive in her adulthood. Chelsea meeting with Rush Limbaugh and giving him the “you wish you were Marc Mezvinsky right now” look while he fumbles to hide his erection would rank right up with Biggie recording “Who Shot Ya” on the Bill Simmons revenge scale.

Republicans

Looks like Senator John McCain is the Republican nominee. I gotta say, I’m a little scared to write a section on him. As an ex-prisoner of war in Vietnam who was tortured regularly, nearly killed on several occasions, and a deadly accurate bomber, he doesn’t seem to mind killing a man whom he sees as the enemy. I’m about three bad jokes away from having some stranger come up behind me with a cloth hood and chloroform, then disappearing for two months, and being found in an alley looking like Amy Winehouse.

John McCain

Toughest...candidate…ever. Photo courtesy of http://punchup.files.wordpress.com/

Unfortunately, a combination of journalistic integrity and foolish man-pride force me to write this section.

John McCain is just the real life version of Jack Bauer, only if you took away the whole kidnapping his daughter part, and replaced it with more torture, and set it in Vietnam. He’s got to be the most beaten up politician of all time.

How cool would it be to have a president who was tortured in Vietnam? Terrorists wouldn’t stand a chance. Anytime the U.S. captured a potential terrorist would be like a holiday for McCain. The U.S. would have them sent to some dark, dank cell in Guantanamo Bay, and then McCain would take the red-eye flight to the prison.

He would get to the Bay, walk in the room with a prisoner tied to a chair, smile to the guards, ask if there are cameras, or if it is sound proof, then shut the door. Faint screams would ring through the prison as the other prisoners shook and peed themselves.

But on the other side, there is a huge potential for him to be the crazy politician, who bends the rules, and does things his way. He could be like Jason Isaacs in The Patriot, only more evil. How many people are going to disagree with a tortured war veteran?

You know that all the people in his cabinet would be too scared that they’d trigger some deep seeded torture memory, where McCain would jump over the table and choke them yelling, “I’m not going back, Charlie!” at the top of his lungs.

Getting Caught Up In Annette

By Jessica Spadaccino

News Editor

Sometimes friends come in strange packages, but end up being the best gifts of all.

“The Declaration of Independence!” I screamed.

“How the hell did you get that with only D’s and T’s on the board!?” She hollered back.

My nights with my best friend don’t involve binge drinking or getting high. I know that may be a shock to some of you out there, especially when you find out I am a college student, but there is something about the simplicity of watching “Wheel of Fortune” with her that makes our friendship so beautifully complex.

I never fit in, and I had no desire to. The local Catholic high school that I attended didn’t exactly breed the type of friend one would hope to gain. My first two years of high school consisted of me changing friends like I changed underwear. Every morning I had a new friend, and by the end of those six scrutinizing hours of school, I would lose everything or everyone I had gained. I really believed I wasn’t meant to have friends. Working at a party store was the only thing I had to look forward to, and sometimes I didn’t even want to suffer through that. I took everything for granted; until I met her.

“Doo-doo doo-doo clap your hands!”

I heard her singing from one of the aisles in the store.

“Annette? Don’t tell me you actually like this music…”

“It takes an interesting character to enjoy funky disco beats mixed with lyrics like “doo-doo,” she continued without answering my question, dancing around the store and putting product out on the shelves.

Of course, being a 16-year-old high school girl at the time, I couldn’t understand what she was doing. Liking something other people didn’t was unheard of in high school, and that’s when I realized Annette wasn’t like most people. She could make a boring day at work one of the most memorable days of her life, and mine.

When I met Annette Papastavros four years ago, she was a 41-year-old ball of fire. Beautiful, fierce, confident; everything I wasn’t. Her sense of humor and unique dance moves made me gravitate toward her, but her strength and wisdom bound me to her.

My Netty with her famous smile.

You would never guess that Annette is a divorced mother of three who works 72 hours a week to support her family. You would also never know that her house was recently foreclosed on, and to top it all off a few months ago she found a cancerous lump on her breast.

Just watching Annette go through what she has gone through in the past year has drained me, but not her. Through the court dates, and the two jobs, and the chemo treatments, Annette never forgot to smile.

Think about your best friend, and the intense fear of losing him or her. Since I met Annette, I couldn’t imagine life without her. She is the one who made me see that life is a beautiful thing that I shouldn’t let pass me by.

Finding out that Annette could possibly have terminal cancer made me think about how quickly life can end, but thank God that wasn’t the case for my Netty.

The surgery was a success. The lump was removed, and Annette has been getting treatments and tests monthly to make sure that it never comes back.

It takes an angel, or a mentally insane person, to be able to go through all that, and still be able to flash me a smile, some words of wisdom, and still have time left over to feed the neighborhood stray cats.

Finding out Annette was going to be okay was the happiest day of my life, but that didn’t keep me from my newly found feelings about life.

When people ask me what I aspire to be, my answer is Annette. She has taught me everything from how to bake a chocolate cake, to the secret of beating cancer. I have never met a man or a woman with the ambition or strength that she has.

I hope that all of you, including myself, can one day live life the way Annette does; “Carpe Diem,” “Seize the day.” Because tomorrow might not be there for you. Look at the life you have lead so far and answer this question; if you are faced with the end of your life tomorrow, will you be satisfied with the way you lived it today?

Music and Life

By Victor Rios

Staff Writer

Listening to music and/or picking up an instrument can be an exhilarating experience that can uplift your soul from the moments you most despair.

The arts and music are considered essential to the development of humankind. In my case, it was learning to play music that helped in my development; especially in the most important transition of a human’s life; from teenager to adult. Music became an escape from the everyday troubles I faced just a few years ago.

It was at the tender age of sixteen when I (for reasons beyond my control and understanding at the time) left my home, and all of my family with it. I followed in my younger brother’s footsteps, except unlike him, I did not have a father to move in with. I had to rely on my own survival skills and find an apartment. Luckily, I had picked up a good job in a Westport restaurant prior to moving out. Warren Harding High School was easy enough so that I could balance both work and school.

Still, working, living in a third floor apartment without any contact with family, and the fear that the “man” would find out that I was living by myself turned out to be burdensome. Sitting down next to my speakers that were turned up to 11 (full blast) listening to Korn and Rage Against the Machine while my ears bled; that was my escape. This type of music certainly helps youth in releasing long held anger, but it eventually gets boring. There are only so many angry songs you can listen to before you turn suicidal or maniacal.

In order to compensate for the emotional loss, I sought out musically likeminded people to talk to, but there weren’t too many. One day, while debating with three other angry youths which guitar player had the heaviest riff, (By the way, Randy Rhodes holds the title) we got a brilliant idea.

“Why don’t we start a band, man?” However, I found out that friends don’t always stay true to their words. I was the only one to buy an instrument. At that point I became a bit discouraged to even pick up my brand new Schecter Diamond Series electric bass.

Halfway through my senior year, on one god-awful night, tired and still angry from a fight in school that almost unveiled my illegal emancipation, I took a long hard look at my bass and thought the obvious “pick it up dumb-ass! You bought it, might as well learn how to play it.”

I picked up the bass and embarked on a journey that I have yet to finish. This journey led me to realize that music is perseverance in its most pure form. Music took a lazy bum and turned him into a productive member of Bridgeport’s music scene.

After High School, I just dedicated myself to playing music; I would wake up, eat my Wheaties, and start to learn “Dazed and Confused” by Led Zeppelin. And when I came home at night I would forget about eating and immediately start working on the song, eventually I learned both of Led Zeppelin’s first two albums in one year.

Classic Rock and the Blues formed the foundation of my musical abilities. The combination of these two is what brought the fire out from within. For some folks it’s Beethoven or Johan Sebastian Bach that truly inspires them, but for me it was Muddy Waters, Willie Dixon, B.B. King and their contemporaries that enlightened me.

It was the drive to learn to play music and my appreciation of certain musicians that kept me from being a manic depressive weeping willow. Bassist such as Larry Graham, Jaco Pastorious, Les Claypool, Geddy Lee, and John Paul Jones are all bass players I look up to. They have written some of the most badass bass lines and music ever produced, and they all at one point had to persevere.

Sitting down and figuring out exactly what Les Claypool is playing can only produce one thing, a musical orgasm. It is much like making love—without the talking--you have to listen intently to your subject, have a long soft tactual conversation, and then let your brains creativity take you to that almighty deafening feeling of triumph.

The past five years of playing music has led me to discover new and interesting people, as well as new ideas and styles of music. I’ve had the privilege to play with an innumerable amount of people—Rastafarians, hippies, old black folk, metal heads--each with something different to teach an upstart--and a different type of herb to smoke.

When you start playing music with a new set of people, it’s always difficult to adjust. Sometimes they’ll have you come in to a jam session, and you will click right in, and other times you will be rejected. Maybe, you’re not disciplined in the particular style of music that the other musicians want you to play.

But of course, the feeling of disillusionment is necessary. Keep in mind that if you want to be a musician you have to persevere. Rejection comes with the territory.

Thanks to that will to persevere, I now am able to walk into any musical situation—Jazz, Latin, Reggae, Rock, etc.--with confidence and blaze a path for the electric guitar(s) and percussionist to follow. And no, I am not bluffing! Count me in if you need me.

Most importantly, music has helped me in my personal affairs. To a great extent music has helped to narrow the deep riffs between me and my family. Now, I teach my sister how to play the acoustic guitar (There is nothing more striking than teaching a youngster how to play “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star,” or “Jingle Bells”). It is a mutually fulfilling moment; she enjoys the effort she puts into learning, and like any seven year old, showing off her new skills to her jealous girlfriends is a must.

The time I have spent teaching my sister has even helped in warming up the previously cold relationship with my mom. Hell! She even wants to help me buy a car!

I’m sure that anyone could pick up an instrument of their choosing, and with practice and dedication be able to play any song they so choose to learn. Music might not help with most family problems, but at least you can show your folks, or anyone for that matter, that you can do anything you set your mind to achieve.

I personally recommend the electric bass, but the all-famous electric guitars and pianos are just fine, too. One thing I have noticed is that Bassists are always needed; there are enough guitar players out there already.

So step into the world of music and in the process of acquiring a new and fun ability to learn more about yourself, your natural abilities and the world around you. I know I did.

Surrender

The Importance of Forgiveness

By Sarah Hooper
Senior Staff Writer

Forgiveness. Even just the word itself terrifies me. As human beings we develop different ways of dealing with our pain or more often avoiding our pain. I admit that the act of forgiving someone truly scares me. However, what terrifies me even more is thinking I will never be forgiven by the people I’ve hurt. This is human nature, our instinct, but where does that bring us?

Well, for the people harmed, it can bring resentment, anger, and bitterness. As for the ones who have hurt people, guilt, shame, and regret. Although the two may appear different, it’s a fast process from being hurt to hurting another people.

I spent most of my life in the role most would call the victim. Unable to control my poor circumstances as a child, I learned to hide from them, so I thought. I masked the abandonment, neglect, and abuse by trying to control everything. I was a mother to my mother, a mother to my little brother, and the caretaker of the house by age nine. Drugs, men, and instability were the only three things I truly expected from my mother. The more I pretended, the more resentment I built.

Anytime I came to close to letting go, I never could, I kept thinking of letting go as letting her win. This thinking is pretty common for people who have been hurt, but it’s actually the opposite of the truth. The truth is holding on to it has only served to hurt me more, as she is blissfully unaware of my resentments.

GuidetoPsychology.com, a website designed to inform about all areas of clinical psychology by Dr. Raymond Richmond, says “Forgiveness can be a problem for many people simply because they are not clear about what forgiveness really is. All too often forgiveness gets confused with reconciliation.” Thus, forgiving someone does not always mean you have to have them in your life; you are simply letting go of what they have done to you.

However, “you cannot forgive someone until you have fully felt the pain he or she has caused you,” says guidetopsychology.com. Therefore, acting like it doesn’t bother you, that you were never hurt, or running from it like I did only slows down the process of forgiveness.

Only when you face your pain, deal with how it has hurt you, and allow yourself to feel everything that you are avoiding will you find true healing and be able to forgive, says guidetopsychology.com.

Webster’s dictionary defines forgiveness as an absolution, to grant a pardon to something or to someone. Reading that, most could turn their situation around, thinking there has to be someone who you would want a pardon from. Some person you have hurt and would want forgiveness from. The bible tells us that we forgive so we can be forgiven, now that I want forgiveness I find comfort in that.

I am not sure how it happened, how I went from being the victim to the pretender, the wounded to the inflictor, but somewhere along the way I switched roles. It began with one boy, the only relationship I really ever knew. Meeting the person you are meant to be with at age 12 seems nearly impossible; however, from then until I was 19 years old I believed I had.
After nearly seven years of an on and off again relationship, we broke up, and like all the times before it was my doing. This time I was starting over, exploring, leaving the only state I knew. My plan was to reconnect with my family, to mend some estranged relationships, and for some reason I needed to prove I could do it without him.

Freedom.
Somewhere in Virginia I leaned out the window to take this picture.

After six months of living out of state I came home for a visit and found something I wasn’t expecting to: I missed us. I saw him for the first time since I had left and something inside me clicked. I got a glimpse of what I had lost.

In a panic, I was determined to get it back, regardless of who it would hurt. I then began a series of bad choices, selfish decisions, which hurt a lot of people: mainly his new girlfriend. Though I never met her, I hurt her and in the process, I not only lost the boy, but also any chance of us having a friendship. I left Connecticut for the second time.

In this situation I inflicted pain on someone else, whose only mistake was she loved the same boy I did. Though this is only one example of how I hurt someone, we all make wrong choices at some point in our lives, my mother did, I did, and when we do innocent people get hurt. Whether I messed up once or a hundred times, forgiveness isn’t easy to give. Maybe his girlfriend carries that pain still, the truth is I don’t know, but I do know that I struggle with guilt.

GuidetoPsychology.com says, “If anyone has ever hurt you, you don’t find forgiveness, you give it. And if you have ever hurt others, all you can do is feel sorrow for your behavior; whether or not others forgive you is their choice.”

Heart-Shaped Penance

By Cody Quinn

Co-Editor-in-Chief

Sex never felt so bad.

Three years, six months, and about four days; that is how long it has been since I’ve had sex.

This is difficult for me to write.  Not the fact that it’s been a long time since I’ve gotten any.  After the first six months that particular ache begins to fade.  No, writing this is problematic for me because it forces me to face certain truths about myself that I don’t want to face.

When I tell people how long it’s been (not that I advertise, but conversation among the young rarely refrains from sex) I’m likely to hear a few responses.

“Is it against your religion?”

No, I’ve had sex before, and the day I become a Born Again Christian people will be summering in Hell.

“Is it because you can’t?”

No, I’ve said no to a few women during my streak.  I’m not saying women throw themselves at me, but I’ve turned down a few love interests, much to my second head’s chagrin.

“I got it!  You’ve had your heart broken and can’t get back on the saddle, right?”

That’s usually strike three (and I haven’t, by-the-by). 

The superficial truth is at one point in my life, about three years six months, and four days ago, I decided to limit my sexual activity.  Granted, if you told me it would have been such a long time between encounters, I would have seriously reconsidered that notion.

Before I go on, and while I clearly have your attention, let me set the record straight: I am not averse to having sex.  I have merely narrowed the parameters in which I will have it. 

There was a time when I was less discriminate, and that attitude had led me through a series of trysts in which I screwed around with a minor (she was 16 and I was 19, but still…), a married woman, two exchange students whom wanted the American experience, and one girl with self-esteem so low ants couldn’t limbo beneath it.  In the fogs of time I’m sure I’ve forgotten a girl or two, and that doesn’t speak very well of the person I was back then.

Elements of that truth are certain to resonate with a few of you.  Sex today is increasingly impersonal, and there is a pressure, especially among men, to have as long a string of conquests as possible.  Names and personalities are less important than the bodies they’re attached to, and for a man to even be searching for a supposed “soul mate” goes against many preconceived notions of what makes a modern man.

I made the decision to hold off on the sex until I found a partner I would not hate myself for sleeping with.

 Although, several factors have led up to my three plus years; some were my fault, others were not (damn lesbians).  I’ve taken up a few hobbies, and have found some great porn sites to ease the pain.  Pie baking also helps.

That being said, there is something in the middle of all these thoughts and societal tendencies that led me to my current state of celibacy: the deeper, harder truth.

I spent the majority of my young adult life in the orbit of one woman.  I was a shy, awkward kid, and she had the misfortunate of being nice to me at the worst possible moment.  I latched onto the idea that I might love her, honestly believed I did, and began to make myself into a man I thought she could love in return.

She was very literate, so I began to read more and, in fact, became a writer and a poet of sorts.  She was active in school organizations, and I became a political force to be reckoned with.  She was religious, and I, well, learned a lot more about religion.

It wasn’t meant to be.  On a rainy August night I told her I loved her and walked away.  Since then, I made myself into a man she would disdain.  I slept with women and made them cry.  I became caustic, an obnoxious presence, and in the process I’ve hurt few people, namely the women mentioned above.

As I grew older I realized the reprehensibility of my actions and made efforts to correct myself.  I swore off sex until I could find a relationship that I could give a fair shake to, until I could find someone to fill the gap in my soul I cut out because I was too young and naïve to know any better.

Now I carry my celibacy as a form of penance.  I don’t give it much thought because it feels deserved, equal payment for crimes committed.  If it is five, ten, twenty years before an honest relationship in which I can do the dirty develops, then so be it.  I will know my karmic debt has been squared.    

Summer of Change

By Samantha Bratz
Editor-at-Large

How a trip to Utah helped my mother and I bond.

The Salt Lake in Utah
Photo by Samantha Bratz

“Please remain seated and buckle your seat belts, we are going to start descending” was what I remember hearing on my flight last summer to Salt Lake City, Utah. Most people think “Utah? Why on earth did you go there?” and the answer is simple. I wanted to.

This trip was a combined graduation and 21st birthday gift from my parents. My mom, her best friend Sally, and I would spend 10 days visiting Sally’s nephew Jonathan and his family. I’ve never been to Utah; actually I’ve never been out west before. The farthest west I had ever been was Tennessee and even then I had only driven through it.

In my mind this trip was just going to be a vacation since classes started again the week I got back. I figured this was going to be the last hoorah before I had to get back into the daily grind of waking up early and doing homework and studying. I ended up being wrong; this trip turned out to be so much more.

This was the first trip I had ever taken that did not include my father or sister; I had never taken a trip that was basically just me and my mom. During the 10 days in which we were in Utah I bonded more with my mom than I have at any other time in my life. I had also seen how in control and confident my mom can be when the time calls for it.

When we first arrived at Salt Lake City Airport, my mom was the one that directed us to the baggage claim, guiding Sally and I through hordes of people who looked lost and bewildered. My mom led us through the crowd as if she had spent her days trawling around the airport; she was like a pro, leading us to Jonathan and his sons Ethan and Hunter. I had never seen her so in-charge like that before. Normally my dad is the one who drives and navigates his way through all of our vacations.

This vacation was life changing in so many ways. During the entire time I was in Utah I felt at ease and relaxed. I have panic disorder, so feeling relaxed and tranquil is something that I don’t get to do very often. My body is usually in a heightened state of awareness and I’m always on edge – I fidget a lot and when I walk it’s fast paced like power walking.

Until I went to Utah I think that I really did not know how to relax. We spent every morning out on the back deck having breakfast, admiring Stansbury Lake, which makes up Jonathan’s back yard. After Ethan went off to school, we would sit and talk outside some more or we would sit out on the dock and watch the fish swim in the lake. We just spent the morning relaxing, planning what we would do that day, and usually everything we ended up doing was fun and stress free.

One of the many fun, stress free things we did was take a pedal boat out into the lake. I went out on it with my mom and we got to talk and laugh and relax. We only pedaled around about 1/3 of the lake but during that time we made fun of ourselves as we tried to turn the boat around. After several attempts at trying to turn around to only end up going around in a circle, most likely due to the fact that we were laughing more than we were paying attention, we managed to get the boat some what straight. It was then decided that I would steer and my mom would pedal since she didn’t know which way to turn the lever to go left or right. By the end of our vacation we both learned how to pedal and steer at the same time.

During our time in Utah I experienced many “firsts” and I was able to share them with my mom. I went to Nevada for the first time ever and it was there that I went to a casino for the very first time. I had never been in a casino before and the neon lights and the multitude of people was quite overwhelming but once I got into the groove and my mom showed me how to play the slot machines I felt right at ease.

One of the “firsts” that I experienced that I will never forget is the first time I swam, well more like floated, in the Salt Lake. I have never been in a body of water that was almost impossible to swim in. Trying to go from floating on my back to floating on my stomach was a process that was frightening at first – I thought I was going to drown- but my mom was able to calm me down and tell me to relax and bend my legs until my knees touched to the lake bottom and then I would be able to turn over with much more ease.

Swimming in Stansbury Lake was another new experience for me. I have never gone swimming in a lake where the fish come up to you. The first time I went into the lake I got “nibbled” on by a bluegill. Of course I screamed because I did not expect the fish to actually come up to me and try to bite/suck my legs. Jonathan’s wife Jean told me to keep moving my body so the fish would stay away – and believe me, it worked. That was the first and last time a fish in Stansbury Lake messed with me.

Something I have never done before and probably will never get the chance to do it again is frog hunting. Ethan, Hunter and a friend of theirs taught me how to catch frogs that live in the lake. Now this might not seem exciting to most people , but I found their method of catching the frogs very interesting. It’s easy really; they just took a piece of hotdog and attached it to the hook on a fishing pole and then they would sit and wait. Within a few minutes a frog would come along and start biting the hotdog. Once the frog was caught the boys put it in a bucket with water and then they would place the frog on the trampoline to see how high it could jump and they would have jumping contests to see whose frog was the best jumper. Once the boys grew tired of this they put the frogs back in the lake so they would be there to play with the next day.

Out of all the things I did while in Utah bonding with my mother was best experience that I had. My mother and I have always been close, but we have a relationship like most mothers and daughters do. Most of the time I think she doesn’t listen to me or if she does it goes in one ear and right out the other. My mom mostly thinks I’m forgetful and sometimes irresponsible. We have the typical parent-child relationship where I’m trying to become a full-fledged adult and she, like every other mother, is trying to keep me as her child; her baby.

This trip opened my eyes to the fact that my mother knows me better then I originally thought. I have to admit that I am a picky eater, things have to be a certain way or I’m not going to eat it. I was shocked to find that my mother knows what I will and will not eat. One day when it was lunch time I found that my mom had made me a sandwich just the way I like it – cheese first, then ham, then tomato and last but not least mustard, and of course it has to be on white bread; wheat bread is a big no-no. I was utterly stunned that she knew how to make me a sandwich because I always do it myself.

Something else that I learned was that my mom actually does listen to me. During one of our many talks while out on the pedal boat, she asked me about the classes that I was going to start the following week. I was surprised to learn that she knew what classes I was taking and on what days I had each class.

This trip was more than just your average vacation. I learned that sometimes when you least expect it you can rekindle those connections and relationships that you think are lost. I experienced new things and I learned new things. I made new friends in Jonathan and Jean, and I have an open invitation to visit them again when ever I want – and I may just have to take them up on that offer because I found that Utah is a little piece of Heaven that I would love to go back to.

Dragging To School: Start and End Your Semester Right

By Nee Tackie
Staff Writer

Simple tips to help you start your semester right.

Overwhelmed with studies

It’s the beginning of the semester. A long one as usual, and perhaps boring if you have to take one of those courses just to meet requirements. You’re here, anyway, hoping to keep your head above water till spring sets in ushering in the hopes of summer.

However, you’re just not prepared for the semester. Interestingly, your preparation or lack of it will have the slightest impact on how the semester is designed to go.

How do you then plug yourself in to flow with the current in order to come out at the end of the term with flying colors and not just a survivor?

Last semester, like most students, I worked full time as a banker and took twelve credits; this semester I’m doing the same. Juggling school and work and for some, family, is a complex art that requires dexterity and great focus. I’ve adopted a few practices that have helped in the long run and I’m sure will help everyone who will consider them.

First, get counseling before the semester begins. This is my first step in preparing for the semester. Counselors and advisors are very busy at the beginning of the semester; try to get a hold of them before the ‘rush hour’. For instance, you want to get advising for the fall semester before the spring semester ends. This way you avoid rush and have enough time to make any changes if need be.

Early registration is the next step in making sure that your classes are secured. After you’ve consulted with your advisor about what classes to take, consider early registration. The registrar’s office will be full of students trying to register for classes that may have already been in session for a week. Late registration is not the best practice, since you’re likely to miss a couple of classes and may not be able to catch up. For me, online registration is easier and very time effective since I don’t have to fill out forms and stand in long queues to get registered in person. For moms and dads with time constraints, online registration is one way to go.

There’s almost nothing as stressful as taking classes while your textbooks are yet to arrive in the mail. Find out what textbooks you need for your classes and contact the bookstore to get them in advance. If you like to buy your books online for the sake of getting a better deal, then try to have them in before classes start. This is one way I avoid the stress of having to work the first week without my textbooks.

Imagine the first day of semester and you have no idea where your classes will be. You walk into one class only to say, “Oops I’m sorry, wrong class. Quite embarrassing but it can be avoided. How do I beat this? A day or two before the official start of the semester, I drive to campus on my way home from work for a brief moment I call the ”observation tour”. This helps me to take notice of where my classes will be held and more importantly how to get to those classrooms. As basic as it may be, it will help you get to know your classes in advance since you cannot navigate your way around campus with a GPS.

If you’re a working parent with young children who need extra attention and care, you may want to take advantage of the day care facility HCC offers. You can ask about this at the information desk in the main lobby.

Now that you’re ready to face the semester head on, don’t forget the importance of communication with your professors or instructors. Make them aware of any disabilities or inadequacies that could impede your learning process. This did not apply in my case. However, certain conditions and situations may require special attention for some students and you owe it to yourself to bring it to the attention of your professors if you have such situation. For instance if for any reason you will be fifteen minutes late to class every day, inform them.

With these few steps and determination, you can be sure of a good start, setting yourself up for a good finish with a pinch of hard work. After all, the end is what matters most.

Swimming with the Baptists

By Rebecca Starke

News You Can Use Editor

Reminiscing about my youth always triggers a memory that at the time I deemed normal, but knowing what I know now, to describe my youth as unique is somewhat of an understatement.

Growing up I never knew my parents didn’t have money. Sure my clothes were hand-me-downs, but I never made the connection. I guess I thought everyone bought their clothes at the Salvation Army. My father worked with landscaping and irrigation, while my mother cleaned houses. Through combined efforts, my parents also served as caretakers for Camp Patterson. They would spend their summers mowing the grass, cleaning bathrooms, and hauling seaweed in exchange for free rent.

Resting on Lake Washington, Camp Patterson hosts about 15 different groups throughout the summer. Most of the kids that came to camp were between the ages of 7-12. The camp was equipped with 100 yards of beachfront, volleyball and basketball courts, baseball field, canoes, kayaks, a bonfire pit, and outdoor showers (a concept that never really appealed to me as a child.)

As a kid the summer always excited me; we were miles from any other civilization so a chance to connect with the outside world three months out of the year was always something I looked forward to.

One of my favorite groups to rent out the camp was the Southern Baptists, headed by Pastor Dan Parton. As the Baptists made their arrival in what looked like a parade of white vans, I sat at the front step thinking of ways I could somehow worm my way in and participate in the week’s activities.

I would wander from the house into camp, and, as far as they knew, I was Baptist. I never told them otherwise. The key to this kind of invasion is to find that one friend that would include me. I would start with the baseball field; it was close to my house, so if I was rejected by the conservatively dressed Baptist kids from participating in the game of kickball, my walk of shame back to the house was a short one.

I would stand by the fence with a pouty look on my face and watch the game, occasionally making comments about how I would have caught the ball the scrawny girl missed.

Usually my “game plan” worked out in my favor and in no time I was playing kickball. I quickly realized that if you get invited to participate in one activity, you simply follow the crowd to the next camp adventure.

One thing I noticed right away was that I was dressed very differently, and not in a good way. My summer apparel consisted of short blue knit shorts and a t-shirt with a cheerleader on it that I decorated myself with bubble paint. I did not fit in with this conservative crew. The Baptists had very strict rules about the apparel of their campers. The boys had to wear long pants all week despite deadly heat, while the girls wore long shorts, also known as culottes.

As an honorary Baptist, I also followed these rules. My mother, who was very supportive of my camp involvement, brought me to the local Salvation Army and bought me denim culottes; it was one piece that zipped all the way to the top. At the time I thought I looked pretty stylish, now I hope the designer of culottes is sitting in jail next to the inventor of the piano necktie.

The Southern Baptists also had some very strict rules when it came to mixing genders in the same time zone. The boys and girls were never allowed to swim together. While the girls were swimming, the boys were in the baseball field across the street. The cabins served as the barrier between them and the female form. The girls had to walk from their cabins down to the water fully clothed. When the whistle blew, that meant the boys were safely quarantined in the field and the girls could take off their “street clothes” and reveal what I thought would be a different version of the female body, but to my surprise they had the typical 10-year-old female figure, not much to it. This made me curious about the protocol the boys followed when they would swim. I had all kinds of theories, but most of the time I just imagined all of the boys were in the water still wearing their long pants.

My younger brother Dan seemed equally curious about the girls. To cure him of this mystery, he went sprinting down to the lake when the girls were swimming and charged the water. The girls screamed as if they had never seen a boy before, and the camp director escorted Dan back to the caretaker’s house.

He was not allowed to swim until the Baptists left and was told he could resume the summer activity the following week when the more liberal YMCA arrived at the camp.

He still claims to this day he didn’t know he wasn’t supposed to go in the water, but I think he was protesting. My brother hated being told he couldn’t swim because there were girls in the water. I think this concept confused him; after all he had been swimming with me for years.

In my one-piece denim culottes, I participated in all of their activities. I placed third in the canoe race, learned how to make an apple pie over a bonfire, and learned the ins and outs of “capture the flag.” My mom would look for me around dinnertime, only to see my pigtails flopping in the air in the camp dining hall as I was in line for Sloppy Joes.

This was a religious retreat of some sort, so naturally bible study was a part of their daily ritual. I would attend their daily service and sit in on the small discussion groups. I was given a bible and was frequently asked the question, “Are you saved?” I would always reply with an enthusiastic, “Yes, I am saved.” Never really knowing what that meant exactly, I often wondered if this made me a Baptist, but my mother assured me I was still Catholic.

I remember one extremely hot summer day when the Baptists were at the camp; an old dry well developed into a sinkhole between cabins six and seven. Years ago it had been filled in but over the years as the ground settled it eventually sank in. As a temporary solution, we put a sawhorse over the hole until my dad came up with a permanent solution. At the same time, our family dog Emily became sick with cancer; that same day we had to take Emily in.

My mother informed Pastor Parton of the situation and told him we had to put her to sleep. While all of us were in tears, my mother piled me, my brothers, all of us dressed as Hungarian Refuges, and a very sick Emily into the rusty blue Ford station wagon and went to the Blue Earth County Animal Hospital. When we got there, they took Emily and told my mother to come back in an hour.

My mom took us to the park while Emily was being put down. We returned to the hospital and Emily was carried out to the station wagon in a black garbage bag.

As we were heading home, crying hysterically, the station wagon stalled. In the midst of my mother’s hysteria, a pick-up truck came by and asked if we needed help. My mother replied “Well, my car stalled, my three children are baking in the car, and we have a dead dog in the back.” The man with the pick-up quickly realized he made a mistake by offering his help and said, “Lady, I’m outta here.” Not long after a family friend, Harley Hopp, drove by; he got the car running and escorted us home.

As we approached the camp gate, Pastor Parton and the Baptist kids were lined on each side of the road. They were extending their arms and singing hymns.

Pastor Parton approached my mother and said that there was a reason the dry well had sunk in that day. He said God had created the perfect tomb for Emily. So my mother drove the blue Ford station wagon into camp while Pastor Parton and the Baptists kids walked along side the car and continued to sing their hymns.

I know at the time my focus should have been giving Emily a proper burial, but instead I was distracted by the parade of singing Baptists outside my car window. The entire incident was awkward and confusing. My sadness over losing our family dog was replaced with this sense of embarrassment over the singing procession. To this day, I don’t really know what triggered those feelings of humiliation.

The embarrassment of that day did eventually pass and my feelings of confusion would hibernate until the Southern Baptists returned that following summer.

A Family Divided

By Chris Albino

Staff Writer

Even a bond as tight as family can fall apart

There comes a time in every person’s life when it dawns on them that their parents aren’t really superman and superwoman. When I was a child, I believed everything my parents told me because I trusted them. I knew they would never do me any harm. Once my dad told me my younger sister, Alison, was found in a spaceship by the side of the road and had super powers; I was at the hospital when she was born and I still thought maybe Alison flew around with a big cape on when everyone went to bed. The bond between me and my parents was unbreakable. I knew that no matter what happened, my parents would be there for me.

Near the end of August of 2006 the impregnable cloak my parents provided me with slunk off my shoulders. I was exposed to the harsh realities that my parents are flawed. It was a strange few weeks to say the least.

I knew things were off when my dad asked me to go to Bennigan's for dinner with only him. My dad and I had never gone out to dinner alone, so while I didn’t want to admit it, I knew there was going to be more to the night than a mediocre burger at a mediocre price. When I got to the restaurant my dad was already there, sitting alone in a booth in the middle of the cheesy Irish themed restaurant. From the get-go, the situation was going to be an uncomfortable one.

He looked a lot older than he had ever before. His face just seemed tired, withered from a conflicting concoction of guilt and anger. For the first time I felt empathetic when I looked at my dad. Being that my dad’s six feet four inches tall, is a muscular 220 pounds and went through more emotional trauma before the age of 18 than most people do in their entire life span, I never questioned my dad’s strength. That night, however, Dad’s normally stiff upper lip and stoned face expression had vanished and was replaced by concern and self-doubt.

I walked over to my dad and sat down across from him. I figured I’d do my best to keep things light between us in an effort to relieve him from the stress he’d been under those past few days. Mundane conversation failed in the attempt to avoid the lingering tension between us. Our conversation quickly turned from how Mariano Rivera is now touchable due to his old age, to dad’s explanation of his plans to leave the family. As soon as I heard the words “I’m going to be leaving in the next few days,” I immediately disconnected.

 It was as if I was observing our conversation from a distance. Physically I was hearing the words, but in reality my mind had checked out. I’ve always had a knack for repressing anything I deem too “emotional,” which ironically enough, I had developed from the man sitting across from me. As he was bearing his soul, exposed to the possibility of me hating him forever, I simply sat there expressionless. I even agreed with him that it would be a good idea for him to leave when the voice in my head wanted to plead with him to stay.

After leaving the dinner, rain was coming down pretty heavily and we both walked our separate ways in the parking lot. It was like a scene out of a really bad Hugh Grant movie. When I got into my car, I turned on the radio and pulled out of the parking lot. When I got to the main road I was still waiting for things to hit me. My brain told me I should be upset, but the night felt like any other. I figured it would be like a really bad burn, the initial shock of the burn surprises you and then you feel nothing, until that unrelenting burning sensation consumes your finger.  I knew my dad would be packing his bags in the next few days, but it didn’t matter

Two days after dad and I went out for dinner, it was time for me to move into college. The morning of the move things went as normally as they could for a freshman moving into college. Things were a little simpler being that I was going to Fairfield University, which is only 20 minutes from where I live. My mom had promised me that both her and my dad were going to be there and do their best to make things run smoothly. The move was chaotic ,to say the least.

When we arrived, I saw hundreds of families helping one another pull things out of their mini-vans and SUV’s. We blended in as well as we could, pulling the suitcases and duffel bags filled with clothes, computers and school supplies. When I stepped into my building I was greeted by an over excited R.A., way too eager to start the “good times and memories” as he put it; I put on a fake smile that screamed “Get the hell away from me, and relax, buddy.”   Joe informed me the building was without power and they were doing the best they could to get the electricity pumping back into the building. No power meant no elevators, with two suitcases in hand, my laptop over my shoulder and my duffel bag containing my hygiene products, I trudged up five flights of stairs.

When I entered my dorm room, a small Asian family greeted me. Their son, Andrew, was to be one of my roommates. Andrew stood about five feet six inches and weighed maybe 120 pounds. Our families chatted for a few minutes before Andrew’s parents left. My dad and I set up the T.V. while my mom made my bed and my sister complained about how hot it was in the dorm. After about a half hour of unpackin,g it was time for my parents to leave. I walked with my parents outside to the car and hugged my mom and sister and then awkwardly shook my dad’s hand. I stood as they drove away, waving to me the whole way up the parking lot. I can honestly say I’ve never felt worse in my entire life. I felt alone in a crowd of thousands.

The one thing I managed to take solace in was the fact that I was allowed to have a car on campus because of a medical issue. It wasn’t such a good thing because it allowed me to leave campus and go home whenever I felt the slightest bit uncomfortable or homesick. One night I went home because nothing was going on at school and I hadn’t really made any friends yet, so I figured a night with my parents would be a better choice than sulking in my dorm and feeling sorry for myself. When I got home my dad was on the computer, and my mom was downstairs “working”. I was shocked that two people who had been married for over ten years couldn’t even stand being in the same room with one another. Going from family dinners and vacations to a home filled with tension and distance was a difficult adjustment. My inability to feel much was extremely helpful during this time. I took the “manly” approach and simply talked with dad about sports until mom came in to greet me, with no recognition of my dad sitting beside me.

The next morning I didn’t wake up until late  because I happened to have the day off from classes. When I got downstairs, I wasn’t surprised to see my dad sitting in our living room with a suitcase beside him. The time had come, finally, after all the tears, arguments and awkward dinners; my dad was leaving. We just looked at each other. Nothing really needed to be said. I could see he was struggling with the difficulty of walking out the door. Things were actually rather calm, that is, until my mom came downstairs and saw him ready to go.

That’s when things got the most difficult. Immediately she broke down into tears, “How can you do this? How can you leave your daughter, your son?” Even the strongest suppression couldn’t help me from feeling for my mom. I’ll never forget the panic in her voice. As much as I’d like I can’t shake the pain it caused me. She soon realized she had to be there for my younger sister, Alison, so she took her by the hand and walked out the door. My dad and I stood there, staring off into the distance.

I did whatever I could to get my mind off what was going on. So I decided to go to my friend Luiz’s house for a day of video games and relaxing. Fortunately for me, witty and obscure references managed to keep my mind off things. I ended up spending the night there, ducking and dodging any reminder of my family back home.

When I woke up, I realized I needed to go home. My mom and sister would need me to lean on. So I headed home and walked in the door. It took a lot for me to go back into my house. I really didn’t look forward to not seeing my dad there. Much to my surprise, however, he was there. I asked him what he was doing home and he replied, “You guys are all that I have. I’m not going to walk out on that”. I appreciated his answer; it was safe.

Ever since the whole incident with my dad occurred, things haven’t been the same. There’s a definite distance between my family members. As much as my mom tries to cover it with smiles and hugs, it’s there and it’s real. Things probably won’t be the same in my family. There will always be tension and distance. Part of me wishes he would have left. It’s kind of sick in a sense, but it’s the truth. I feel like there’s no closure with the situation. If he had gone at least my mom, sister and I could have moved on.

The Chance to Say Goodbye

My Final Moments with my Grandmother

By Rob Sheftic

Senior Staff Writer

 

Traditionally for me October is solely about the Boston Redsox playoffs. Unfortunately, this past October had a different importance for me. It was learned that my grandmother’s lung cancer was growing rapidly and that she had roughly 2-6 months left to live. Now when you learn something as sad as that, your immediate reaction is an immeasurable amount of sorrow. It was one of those conversations that you never think about, nor have any idea what to say. It’s never easy when you learn that the woman who used to feed you, change you, always bragged about you and who used to sing to you was fatally ill and didn’t have much time left.

I remember the conversation like it was yesterday. In sitting down with her she did have a sad but an almost comforting look to her. She didn’t shy away from telling me everything that she knew health-wise but also what she was feeling emotionally. Now my Gram was given a choice.  She could have gone through a grueling treatment process with many side effects, much of which would possibly give her only an extra month or so of life. It was a decision that she would discuss with her children, but ultimately she would have to decide herself. I said to her, “Gram whatever you decide to do you’re going to have my respect, understanding and blessing.”

I made it a point to go see her every day. When she made her decision I could already tell by her facial expression. She said, “Robert I’m not going to go through the chemotherapy. I want to live out whatever time the Lord has left for me. I don’t want to go to any more doctors. I just want to live out my time the best I can with my family.” My response was an easy one. I said, “I understand Gram, what it comes down to is how happy you can be through this time.” Gram was never afraid of death..  She had a strong religious faith and had told me, “There’s really only one man who knows how much time I have left and I’m ok with that.”

Now I never knew my Grandfather from that side of the family. Gram had lost her husband in 1972 due to heart failure. I remember saying to her, “Hey at least you’ll get to see Grandpa soon.” As the days went on, she treated each day as a gift. We would talk, but those talks were never filled with tears or sadness. We went over any memories that came to our minds, whether it was about us or the family. Gram was always proud of and bragged about her family: she had four children, eleven grandchildren and twelve great-grandchildren. She did make it known to me that when her health became “very poor” she didn’t want any of her grandkids to see her in that state, so each day I had left with her so special to me. I treated every goodbye with her as if it would be my last.

Day by day, I was just waiting for the phone to ring and to find out that the inevitable had happened.  However, Gram was strong. My visits with her during her “final days” are something that I’ll always treasure and never forget. As the days went on, her family was always by her side. Each day that I would go to see her, I usually was not the only one there as all of our family wanted to spend some time with her before she passed. I remember I went to see her on a Saturday night. My uncle was there, so sitting down with him and cracking a few beers was just an added bonus to the visit. Gram was in her recliner watching the television. I can still hear her saying to me, “Just be careful Robert driving tonight since your drinking (laugh).”

I got a few calls from my friends just trying to figure out plans for the night. I had decided that I was going to stay with my Grandmother that Saturday and not go out. I stayed and just talked with her and the family that was there. Around 11:30, I decided that I was going out head home. She was still awake in her chair. I walked over to her and gave her a hug.  She kissed me on the cheek, held my hand and said, “I love you Robert.  Drive safely.” I told her how much I loved her and to try and get some sleep. Those were the last words that she and I exchanged and the last time that I would see her.

The next morning I had to rush my mother up to Gram’s place because “something was happening.” Her health had begun to deteriorate. At this point, my attitude was that I didn’t want her to suffer or to be in any more pain. Her four children made it a point that they were all going to stay with her until the end, and to this day I give them all the credit in the world. Through all the exhaustion that they must have went through, they all remained with their mother.

It was Thanksgiving morning, and my sister had came into my room just as the sun was about to come up. “She’s gone,” she said.

She passed away with her four children right by her bedside. I had mostly just stared around my room, I couldn’t really put it into words that it was over, the fight and the struggle was really over. All of the family had decided to get together just for that reason and that was to be with each other. I remember driving early that morning but my mood was really a saddened relief. I was happy that my grandmother no longer had to suffer. She could finally rest forever now.

Thanksgiving is a time when the family gathers. I know my family was going to eat, drink and watch football. This Thanksgiving was solely for one person: My Grandmother. We decided to go along with the Thanksgiving dinner.  We knew that’s what Gram would want. While the mood was quiet and not really a happy one for the day, I thought it was good to have dinner that day. It’s very ironic that on a day where you get together and celebrate family, our family lost one of their strongest members. Thanksgiving from now on will be a day that our family can come together and celebrate the life of my Grandmother.

The memorial services were as expected. Gram had a lot of family and friends, and they all were there at some point to pay their respects to her and her family. When you lose a loved one, there really is no blue print way to get over it quickly. It’s a brutally sad period that will get better with time. I’m thankful for the time that my family and I were able to have with her. Some people aren’t so lucky enough to know when they are dying and never would have the chance as my Grandmother did. I still drive by her old apartment now and then. I’ll walk up to her front door like I used to so many times. I can still imagine sitting down with her at her little kitchen table and talking with her. I’ll stare at the door with a smile because I know that somewhere in heaven, she’s looking down and smiling back at me. I love you and miss you, Gram.

 

A Life Less Cherished

By Janiece Jackson

Arts & Entertainment Editor

As a child I could have never imagined a point in my life in which I’d consider different ways to end my existence; that was until I handed control of my life to another.  From that moment on, I lived a life of fear, instability, hurt, and depression.

Prior to my life altering relationship, I lived, loved and laughed more than your average youth.  I enjoyed every aspect of life and appreciated every single being that I crossed paths with.  Bending over backwards and over-extending myself was never an issue, seeing as I loved being the one that people could call on when they needed support. 

Aside from always wanting to be there for everyone, everyone loved having me around.  Individuals weren’t acquaintances for too long; I made them friends right away. 

When I look back at that now, I wonder if that may have been the reason why I ended up in such an abusive relationship. 

We were best friends.  He was someone I could trust.  We shopped, ate, watched movies together, and shared mutual friends. 

“Why wouldn’t we work out,” I thought.  He was the male version of me.  “It would just be too weird.”

For a while I fought the fact that he liked me, and tried to convince him that we’d be much better off as friends.  But he found a way to convince me that no one could ever love me as much as he did, a love that I now realize was just a dangerous infatuation.

Much to my surprise, that façade of perfection faded quite rapidly.  The man that I once trusted, became the man that I was too scared too walk away from.

“Ok great, I’ll see you in a bit?” I answered Tara, as I agreed to meet her at the mall.

“Who was that?” he asked as though he didn’t already know. 

“Tara,” I replied.

“You’re not going anywhere with her,” he affirmed, in a voice that made every hair on my body stand up straight.

“Whatever, I’m going, she just wants me to help her pick out some sneakers.” At this point I knew I had to find away to get him out of my car so that I could drive away with out a fight. 

“Give me your phone,” he said, a demand that would soon be followed by a threat, if I didn’t just hand it right over. “Try calling her now,” he said as he ripped the phone out of my hand and tore it in two with ease.

“Events” like these were ever occurring in our relationship. It’s what I was used to with him; I deemed it normal.

My fear went beyond that of bodily harm: it was something much more intense.  I was scared to be alone.  He swayed me to believe that my life meant nothing, and that I could accomplish nothing of significance if he wasn’t in my life. 

I lost more than just my close friends, freedom, and a job: I lost myself. 

I had the lowest level of self-esteem imaginable.  I hated me, I hated my life, and I did not want to live anymore.  I felt like I had nowhere to turn. 

“Why would anyone want to help me?  Why would anyone want to be there for me?  I didn’t even want to be there for myself.”

He turned his back on me daily.  It seemed like he spent time trying to find different ways to play with my emotions.  It was like a roller coaster of mistreatment.  It went from little loop-the-loops to intense heart-wrenching drops of emotional pain. 

This was all up until I realized that I wasn’t the piece of garbage that he forced me to believe I was. 

“Who is this person that I have become? Why am I allowing this to take place?  I’m not healthy and I’m certainly not happy.  This has got to stop!”

Ironically enough, during one of our break-ups (he would break up with me very often to teach me “a lesson” of some sort) I was smacked with an epiphany… literally.

I will never forget the last day that we saw each other face to face.  It was the first time that I was able to stand up and say, “I can’t take this anymore.”  But he didn’t let me go without a fight.

It was the worst fight of them all; the only difference is that for the first time ever I had the “balls” to hit him back. 

This brawl was forerun by a two week period of pampering.  Flowers pinned on my windshield, new outfits with shoes to match, nice dinners, and even a day at the spa, was the treatment I was receiving as my nightmare approached its end.

But there was something different about him; something very sneaky was going on.  And just as I suspected, my charm-lacking prince had been courting another young lady (let me not fail to mention that she was a friend of mine). 

Any other girl would have had a fit, but I, on the other hand, felt this sudden sense of freedom.  I knew at this point that I had no reason to stay.

He agreed to meet with me for lunch, where I took the opportunity to confront him.  Just as I anticipated, he grew very angry with me, as though I were in the wrong for finding out about his lies. 

As I walked away he followed tugging at me from every angle.  I don’t know what came over me, but I was suddenly filled with the courage to push back.  That, of course, led to what looked like a boxing match, and although the hits hurt, it felt so good to finally say “I’m done.”

That final scene in our lives together, along with a recap of everything that I allowed myself to be put through, made for a most successful separation. 

I did in a sense lose my life, but I lost the life that I grew to hate, the life that I did not want to live. 

It was a symbolic death, directly preceded by a new life; a life that I am now so proud to live. 

Through my experience I have become a wiser student, a more productive worker, and I feel as though I have managed to become the young woman that God wants me to be.

I have reestablished important relationships, and built new bonds.  Most importantly, I am now able to live, love and laugh as I have never before.