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.

 

Last Words, New Beginnings

By Allison Russell

Editor At Large

A lifelong hidden talent should not be kept under wraps. A tragic event showed me that my passion for writing could aid in the pursuit of my future.

Ever since I knew how to hold a pencil, I knew how to productively splash my thoughts on to paper. A child’s typical reaction to a teacher assigning an essay is that of moans and groans, but I could never understand why I actually enjoyed the work whether it was fictional, research, or creative. Throughout the 21 years of my life, not once have I viewed writing as a burden but as my companion. However, I portray writing as a private practice. I tend to feel uncomfortable sharing my work with others and I’m terrible at receiving praise. Writing is my safe haven, my crutch.

Whenever I felt the slightest feeling of confidence in my writing, the first person to acknowledge it was my grandfather. He saw the gleam in my eye and the way my demeanor would flood with creative juices when I talked about any aspect of writing. I admired my grandfather from the very start. I placed him on the highest of pedestals. He had a spacious office chock full of books and odd knickknacks, adorned by the musty smell of pipe smoke. It was in that creative space that I spent countless afternoons as a child writing, doodling, and engaging in any constructive task under his watchful eye and doses of encouragement. My grandfather molded my imagination.

Throughout my senior year of high school, I sat back and watched my peers get accepted to prestigious universities with their majors set in stone. But there I was, awkwardly floating on the less promising seas of my senior year. I had no idea where I wanted to attend college, let alone what major or career I wanted to pursue. Writing was always my niche, but I was totally blind to the idea of applying it to my future endeavors.

Needless to say, I breezed through two years at both Eastern and Southern Connecticut State Universities as a dreaded “undeclared” student. I enrolled in courses that I wasn’t interested in and felt like a defective human being for not knowing my place in the academic world. I beat myself up about it day in and day out. I filled roughly four or five journals, writing more in those two years than I ever have, still continuing to keep my writing “talents” under lock and key. Not only was I letting myself down, I felt as if I was letting my grandfather down as well. I was at a personal and scholastic standstill.

******

It’s an ordinary, particularly upbeat afternoon in February 2006. I’m making my routine visit to my grandparents’ condominium for the usual conversation over a cup of tea. The purpose for my visit is to simply catch up on things: my life, my job, my non-existent boyfriend. They always appreciate a spontaneous visit.

I make my way to the living room and sprawl out on the ground. It’s something I always do maybe because the warm, clean carpet engulfing my body feels like home. I lay there staring at the ceiling, listening to the my grandparents’ muffled words flowing from the kitchen. All I’m thinking is “God, I love this place. I love my grandparents so freakin’ much.”

My grandfather is sitting in his usual spot at the kitchen table with newspapers dispersed at his place setting. Instead of being a lazy bum in the living room, I take a seat next to him. He lowers his thick-rimmed glasses and sparks a conversation consisting of politics and technology, his routine weapons of choice for our casual chitter chatter. His intellect and vocabulary are above and beyond me, but I soak up each of his words like an eager sponge. I can feel the dreaded topic surfacing: my future.

“I’m telling you Allie, utilize your writing talents,” he says, “and establish a career for yourself.”

I fidget in my chair, and my palms feel clammy. “I know, I know. Maybe. We’ll see,”

“The future is at your fingertips. With an education, you can accomplish anything, Allie,” he says, “Whether it’s writing a children’s book or working for a major publication, apply it somewhere. You’re young, and writing is your passion. Make it happen.”

I awkwardly and regrettably change the subject. We ping-pong our conversation a bit longer until I hug him, tell him I love him, and leave.

****

That was the last time I enjoyed my grandfather’s company. One month later on March 20, 2006 he passed away tragically. Although it aches my heart to reflect upon our final moments together, it ignites feelings of contentment as well. I credit my grandfather for surfacing the thriving “writer” in me, but I never took the time to thank him for doing so. Ironically, his death fuels me to write nowadays. His ultimate dream was to see my writing published. He would drill the idea in my head on a daily basis, but I thought that notion was completely out of reach.

So here I am, presently attending Housatonic Community College as a Journalism major and an active staff member of Horizons. As much as I don’t want to dwell on my grandfather’s death, I can’t help but admit the void that penetrates deep within my chest every time I see my articles published. However, every time I put a pen to paper, I do it strictly for him and I do it with a smile. Whenever I hold an issue in my hand, I think to myself, “What would he think of me now?”

Oh what I would sacrifice for one last casual afternoon at the kitchen table; to burst through his front door with my published articles in hand. Our last conversation still lingers in the corners of my mind. It’s the fire under my butt that drives me to expose my writing rather than submerge it. Unfortunately, through my grandfather’s death, I experienced the birth of my dream.

An ode, a reflection, a sense of closure; this piece serves all these purposes. A mentor, a best friend, a genuine intellect; my grandfather served all these roles. He still remains on the high pedestal I placed him on as a child and until we meet again that is where I will keep him.

Following a Dream: I Wanted to Be a Wrestler

By John Slater

Senior Staff Writer

Sometimes the reality of our goals is not as glamorous as the dream that motivates them.

As children we are all encouraged to dream. Not just little dreams, but big dreams. When I was growing up, I was a huge fan of professional wrestling. In fact, I was such a fan that pro-wrestling became that dream. In late 2005, I tried to become a pro-wrestler.

Los Angeles California, Saturday April 2, 2005: that was the day I first remember feeling that my purpose in life was to be a pro-wrestler. I know it sounds weird, but at the time it seemed normal. Here’s something to make it even weirder: I felt this way because of Hulk Hogan.

“Several people come to me and say ‘Well, should I get into professional wrestling?’ and my standard answer is no”. Those were the words Hulk Hogan spoke while giving a speech at the Universal Amphitheatre in Hollywood during the WWE Hall of Fame induction Ceremony. A few friends and I decided (for the fourth year in a row) to use all of our money and go to this ceremony as well as WrestleMania.

So imagine having Hulk Hogan give you the answer to a question that you have always wanted to ask him, but never had the chance. It was pretty weird.

Later that night, back at the hotel, I ran into Hogan. This time I took full advantage of the opportunity to ask him on a more personal level if I should try to get into wrestling. His answer was simple: if I loved the business and I didn’t mind leaving family behind as well as a possible college education, then I should go for it.

Now I had something to think about. In a very general way, I had just been told by Hulk Hogan to take a stab at becoming a pro-wrestler. That is like Babe Ruth telling a little- leaguer to try to become a baseball player.

On the plane ride home from California, I had a lot of thinking to do. What would my family say? Would my friends laugh at me? And above everything else, what if I never tried? That consideration made up my mind. I was going to become not the next Hulk Hogan, but the first John Slater. I just wasn’t sure how I was going to do it.

At that point in my life I was also battling something else: the fact that I had about fifty pounds that I would not miss if I could somehow get rid of them. So here I was, faced with another decision. I was going to join a gym.

I joined Planet Fitness in Trumbull CT, and really gave it my all. After all, If I was going to wear a wrestling costume I’d have to have the body for it. At the gym I also met Paul Roma, a former professional wrestler who had been employed by World Wrestling Entertainment and Vince McMahon.

Roma helped me with a workout plan as well as a diet. He also gave me the avenue I needed to become a professional wrestler: he owned a wrestling school. His school is located here in Bridgeport, and it is the official school of the independent wrestling promoter, Connecticut Championship Wrestling. In order to make it to WrestleMania, I knew that I would have to start somewhere. This seemed perfect.

I eventually lost sixty-eight pounds, which was even more than I had originally planned. I was ready to go. In November of 2005, I became a student under Roma’s direction.

Anyone who has ever watched pro-wrestling has the same questions: “Is wrestling fake? Do they really hit each other with chairs?” And then there’s my favorite: “Do they teach you how to fall?” You will have the answer to those questions if you can tell me if anyone has ever taught you how to fall.

The next eight months with Roma resulted in things such as welts, bruises, many nights sleeping on heating pads, and an extremely strange need for Ben Gay. Think whatever you would like about pro-wrestlers, but I will tell you one thing: don’t try it at home.

 

My back after one night of wrestling school. Photograph by John Slater.

Despite numerous injuries, I felt as though I was living out a dream. I was completely convinced that I was born to be a wrestler.

Besides Roma, I was able to meet some of my other favorite childhood characters, such as Jimmy “Superfly” Snuka and “The Million Dollar Man” Ted DiBiase, both of whom had been employed by and are currently active with WWE.

Meeting them was similar to meeting Hogan; surprising and unreal. After all, these were two of the wrestlers who I had grown up watching, both of whom I hated. But now I had the opportunity to learn their craft, which I had always admired, and they were going to be my teachers.

Wrestling school has the potential to make you a star. It also has the power to make you broke, and that is what it did to me. Needless to say, I am not a pro-wrestler. But I did carry a lot of debt away from the experience.

The cost of the school was $4,000. I did not have the cash lying around, so Roma obliged to my request for a payment plan. It was kind of like putting a dream on layaway.

After all the particulars were worked out, I was able to continue on with the training. I would go three nights a week from 7 p.m. until 12 a.m. It really was grueling. The surface of the ring is much less forgiving than anyone can imagine, and bouncing off of the ropes is comparable to getting beat with a belt. There were many occasions when I would come home with rope burn on my back and black-and-blues (which were actually purple and green) from my shoulder blades down to my waist. But then again, this was a dream.

Now, I can go on and on about how good it felt to chase my dream, and how disappointing it was not to fulfill it. The bottom line is that it should have just stayed a dream. If it had, I would probably still be a fan today.

While in the school, my eyes were opened to many things that fans are not supposed to know. I am not going to harp on them or even disclose them, but I will say that there is a definite line between what a fan’s perception of wrestling is, and what it actually is. Still, at least I can say I tried.

Maybe I was too much of a fan. At the age of 21, I still got offended when someone would put up the argument that wrestling is faked.

After going to all of the events and eventually making the decision to join wrestling school, many people in my life still wonder why I “gave up”. In reality, I never gave up anything. In fact, I gained the experience of having tried. But trust me, I still dream.

As far as pro-wrestling goes, the expenses combined with the pain and the realization of growing older all helped me realize that maybe wrestling wasn’t for me after all.

As I continue to grow older, I feel that I made a good decision by not pursuing a pro-wrestling career for more than 8 months. It seems clear to me now that pro-wrestling, as a career, should have stayed a dream. Once the magic had been unlocked, the awe and uncertainty seemed to disappear. It no longer seems “magical”.

But dreaming is still something that remains good. After all, those who realize their dreams are the ones who are daring enough to chase them.

The same road that led me to numerous Wrestlemanias, my conversation with Hulk Hogan, and wrestling school are all parts of the same road that has brought me back to school with my sights now set on a career in journalism. Maybe it is true when they say “one thing leads to another.”

Podcast 3: The Roots of Obamamania

Guest host Brandon T. Bisceglia questions Co-Editor-in-Chief Cody Quinn on his recent endorsement of presidential candidate Barack Obama. They discuss the junior senator’s rise to the forefront of the Democratic Primary race, as well as some of the policy changes that an Obama presidency might bring to America.

Does Obama have what it takes? How will Bisceglia handle this reversal of roles? What did Quinn do to deserve this kind of grilling? Check it out:

http://ia341033.us.archive.org/1/items/YesWeCanPerspective/pro3.mp3

Yes We Can

By Cody Quinn
Co Editor-in-Chief

Barack Obama in rare quiet moment before delivering a speech.
Photo courtesy of TIME Magazine.

A perspective on Barack Obamania from a non-pundit.

While watching will.i.am’s Barack Obama inspired music video, “Yes We Can,” I cried.

This is troubling. I am a twenty-two year old male who can’t remember the last time he shed a tear. For me to show any emotion, during a YouTube video of all things, seems farfetched.

Yet here I was, staring at my laptop, with a few tears rolling down my cheek.

As the words “yes we can,” echoed over and over again, I couldn’t help but wonder, “Why am I feeling like this?”

I’m not the only one, either. Across the nation, Obama has affected people.

Maryland Congressman Elijah Cummings said, “This is not a campaign for president of the United States, this is a movement to change the world.”

Dylan Loewe of The Huffington Post wrote, "The extraordinary thing about Barack Obama is not the poetry with which he aspires to hope, change, and political realignment: it is that fundamentally, people believe him."

And I’ve seen the effect in my own life.

When a local organization recently endorsed Obama, a Polish immigrant with whom I work approached me with a Polish language newspaper that featured a picture of him on the front page.

“Obama good, ja?” he said, pointing and smiling.

“Ja,” I said.

A friend’s father asked me, “What do you think of this Obama guy?”

“I like him,” I said.

“Me too. He kinda reminds me of Kennedy.”

The most impressive example is another friend of mine. This is a person who in his five years of voter eligibility had never voted, never followed politics, and never even registered to vote. After watching Obama speak, he registered and is now actively encouraging everyone he knows to vote for the candidate. You should see his myspace page.

What is it that draws people to the man? Political insiders, pundits, and rival are all asking, “Why are people voting for Barack Obama?”

The answer isn’t clear. Even for me, a fairly informed and well-researched Obama supporter, the answer is difficult.

Many have speculated that Obama’s appeal lays in his tremendous rhetorical skill.

Joe Klein wrote in TIME magazine, “The man's use of pronouns (never I), of inspirational language and of poetic meter — ‘WE are the CHANGE that we SEEK’ — is unprecedented in recent memory. Yes, Ronald Reagan could give great set-piece speeches on grand occasions, and so could John F. Kennedy, but Obama's ability to toss one off, different each week, is simply breathtaking.”

Rhetoric alone does not explain why people stick by Obama. As many playas will tell you, it’s easy to talk some into sleeping with you, but it’s much harder to keep them around. The same is true in politics: speeches will get people interested, but they don’t keep voters enthralled.

Another argument is that black people have propelled Obama to the top of the Democratic primary. But convincing wins in predominantly white states like Iowa, Nebraska, Kansas, and Washington before he hit his home turf seem to discredit that notion.

Obama’s appeal does not lie solely on his policies, which share much in common with rival Hillary Clinton. Granted, policy is the reason many stick around after the initial wooing by his speeches. But a more reasonable health care plan and a refocusing of America’s economic goals do not cause people to cry or shout, “I love you!” during his rallies.

The only possible answer is emotion. People are flocking to Obama because it feels right.

I’m now crossing into territory where I can only speak for myself, but I am supporting Obama because he is offering me hope. Not a shallow, empty promise that things will get better, but the promise that if I’m willing to pitch in and help out, the world will become a better place.

I’ve seen every instance of goodness in my lifetime offset by startling negatives. President Bill Clinton’s years of office contained an unprecedented economic boom, but weakened our ability to keep blue-collar jobs in this country. His moral failings allowed the religious right to gain a toehold in our political system.

I’ve seen people rally around their fellow countrymen as planes struck the Twin Towers and the Pentagon on 9/11. Then I watched millions of dollars in relief funds go missing and President George Bush take away my unalienable rights as he launched a war whose initial cause of WMDs got swept under the rug.

I’ve seen Americans, honest-to-God Americans, become refugees in their own country after Hurricane Katrina ravaged the Gulf Coast. That their fellow Americans rallied to aid those in need says a great deal about us as a people, but it says nothing positive about the government that failed its own citizens.

All this makes the call for a change in government appealing. The chant, “yes we can,” rings true because we, as a people, have shown that we can come together and do amazing things. That is the underlying message in Obama’s rhetoric, and that is the reason people are flocking to him.

“While hope and change are the mantra of the Obama movement, at its core, it is undergirded by trust. Obama supporters trust him, and he has gone a long way to cultivate that trust," Loewe wrote.

The American people have shown they are willing to spend money, put in work, and commit themselves to our government as long as they are not being b.s.’d. This may not be the best answer to “why Obama?” and history may prove it entirely wrong, but for once in my lifetime, I feel like I’m being reached out to. My gut tells me this man, with my help, will remind the world how great, truly great, America can be.

Hectic Schedules: Podcast #2

Host Cody Quinn brings Co-Editor-in-Chief Jeanne O'Leary in for a talk about the many responsibilities that come with being an active student at a community college, and how the college atmosphere can help to mold ambitions into feasible goals. They also discuss the past and present of the paper, and how it has grown with them. Grab a coffee, a copy of Horizons, and check it out:

http://ia341039.us.archive.org/1/items/HecticSchedules/podcast2.mp3

Podcast 2/4/08 : Media Relations

Cody Quinn and Brandon T. Bisceglia discuss the ways in which media relates to the public, how objectivity is handled among media outlets, and about the conflict between "corporate" and "idealistic" stances among those who produce what we see and hear.

Check it out: http://ia341021.us.archive.org/1/items/MediaBiasAlpha/podcast1a.mp3

Horizons: More Than Meets The Eye

By Jessica Rougeau

Senior Staff Writer

If someone told me that I’d continue writing for a newspaper after high school, I would have easily bet them a million dollars that they’d be wrong. Thank god I didn’t, or else I’d be homeless, using Horizons newspaper as a blanket.

Journalism was never my thing. However, writing is. So I constantly found myself working for school newspapers to try to get over the animosity.

My first semester writing for Horizons was definitely a learning experience. While I was still harboring the cynicism of previous papers, the overall atmosphere immediately felt different than that of others.

Professor Steve Mark had a great deal to do with acclimating not only me, but each and every one of us. If you've never written for a paper before, the process can be quite daunting and overwhelming if you do not manage your time and keep your eyes open. Steve stressed this, but also provided some words of wisdom. He said that it's a beneficial opportunity to grow as a writer and observe the sights and sounds around you.

I instantly felt comfortable and anxious to start my first story. I clearly remember brainstorming what kinds of things I wanted to write, and thought back to what I had always wished to write on other papers but was never allowed to: oh yeah, music reviews! And it was then that "Rock Your Face Off" reviews were born. I highlight this as an important moment for me because I was never considered in writing them for other newspapers. I appreciated the chance to do it for Horizons.

Besides sharpening my creativity, the class placed me in a position to work closely with every single one of my classmates, more so than any other class I've ever taken. You are constantly put into groups to critique another classmate’s writing or work. One on one, you swap your story with someone else. You have full support and access to new ideas through each drafting stage of your story. Everyone works together. It's almost like a family because many of us return the next semester to do it all over again. I've gotten to know some people on staff on a personal level, and I can't say the same for any other courses I've had.

I returned to the Horizons staff for my second semester knowing what I was in for this time, but open to learning more. I made it a point to try to write different types of articles to make myself more well-rounded. This began to affect my other school work in a positive way.

One of my professors, Joanne Rochman, taught my English class for my first and second semesters; an avid reader of Horizons, she was always the first person to read my articles the day the paper came out.

"I would definitely say that working on the paper has changed the way Jessica writes because she now knows how to organize her thoughts and interviews more readily. The ideas flow from mind to paper in a stream of consciousness. She knows what to ask and how to ask it, so putting the words on to paper is the easy part”, Rochman said. “She knows how to hook a reader, and can easily move from a lead in journalism to a hook in a composition or literature class."

Without this class, I would have no other way of feeling legitimately involved at Housatonic because of my busy schedule outside of school. Horizons gives me a voice to share my writing and ideas with anyone who chooses to open up one of our papers and read them. I’m more aware of things going on at the school, upcoming events and issues that I’d more than likely be oblivious to if I was not working this closely with the reporters who find out this information.  This will be the last article I write for the paper, so I’ll be sure to type this last sentence as slowly as possible…

Want to learn more about writing for Horizons?  Go to the advisor's home page at http://homepage.mac.com/stevemark

Making Love Can Be Rough

Artwork courtesy of allposters.com

By Jessica Spadaccino

Staff Writer

A new sexual position…

The guys got to talk; now it‘s my turn.

 

Ahh, sex. After reading Cody’s and Brandon’s articles on the subject in the "Arguing with the Boss" section of Horizons, I have come to many conclusions about the wonderful and all-powerful experience called sex. The guys got to talk about it, so now it’s time to strip down to the naked details from a woman’s perspective.

In the two articles, Cody argued for "making love," and Brandon defended rough sex. So who is right?

Cody is telling the truth when he says most people do enjoy sex; it has been a hit since Adam courted Eve. But what makes it so great? Is it the way we have sex, or is it more?

According to foxnews.com, a survey was conducted by a doctor in London to see how many women achieved an orgasm during sexual intercourse.  Out of 4,000 women, 32 percent said that they were unable to orgasm more than a quarter of the times they had sex. 16 percent of those women said that they never achieved an orgasm. Some argue it is because of genetics; I say it is performance.

The orgasm is a beautiful thing. It not only physically makes you feel amazing, but emotionally also. According to goaskalice.colombia.edu, endorphins are released into the body when a person orgasms. Endorphins are natural substances created by the body to relieve pain, and when they are released the person’s stress levels decrease and feelings of happiness increase. So if anyone has ever told you “you need to get laid,” you probably do.

There have been arguments that the orgasm isn’t necessary every time intercourse occurs, but I strongly disagree. Without the orgasm, sex feels unfinished. Yes, sex does feel good even without a climax. But come on, girls! Aren’t you tired of faking it? The main goal of sex is to make your partner feel amazing, and an orgasm is the only outcome that will leave you completely satisfied. Now the only question remaining is how to reach a climax.

Making love is something that only virgins dream about. The gentle hugs, the soft kisses, the “euphoric haze” as Cody called it- it’s all crap. Soft-core sex is nice, but I don’t want to have sex with Pooh Bear. I want to feel something other than my partner sobbing on my shoulder. Whispering sweet nothings is a great mood enhancer, but is not going to get your partner to a climax. You have to get physical.

But not too physical. Rough sex can be great, until you are sweating, out of breath, your partner is flopping on you like a dying fish, and you still haven‘t climaxed. In sex, as Brandon pointed out in his argument, it is okay and sometimes much needed to be rough. Going wild during intercourse allows both partners to release stress that has been building for a while, but only if it ends with the big “O”. Rough sex without a climax can only lead to greater frustration, and it won’t be pretty.

A balanced blend of rough love-making is what’s needed for the perfect sexual experience. If you and your partner are having rough sex every night, and you are among the 16 percent of women who have never had an orgasm, tone it down. If you have to ask your partner “Is it in yet?” maybe you two should speed things up.

Testosterone levels in men are obviously high, and that is the reason they crave sex more than women (in most cases). The chances of finding a man who can guess exactly what you want during intercourse is slim to none, so let them know ladies! There is no reason why those percentages should be so high! Men don’t have a reputation for being the best listeners, but when it comes to sex you will have their full attention. If you tell your partner exactly how you want it done (or don’t), they will listen. They’ll take sex any way it comes, and you will be getting it the way you like.

Sex is a very important and necessary part of life - so why not enjoy it? With more sex, the world would be a better place; endorphins would be set free from the prisons of the prude, and people could have natural and legal highs. Rough, gentle, upside-down, backwards: as long as you and your partner are both safe and willing, it doesn’t matter how you do it. Sex is one of the only ways to relieve stress free and legally, so go crazy! Scratch, bite, kiss, lick, touch, have fun! You only live once, so you better live life to its climax.

The World Without Us Shows People Their Own Shadows

New book about a possible new world.

By Brandon T. Bisceglia

Op/Ed and Online Editor

A real world without us in the Bialowieza Puszcza.
Photograph Courtesy of wilki.most.org

What will the human legacy be? To answer that question, perhaps it is best to ask another: what would happen if every person was removed from the planet tomorrow?

That is the scenario that journalist Alan Weisman ponders in his new book, The World Without Us (St. Martin's Press, 2007). Weisman enlists a bevy of experts, from paleontologists to nuclear technicians, to help readers imagine how the Earth would function if all the humans were suddenly whisked away. He travels to such places as the Bialowieza Puszcza of Poland (the last remaining “primeval forest” in Europe), and the demilitarized zone between North and South Korea, to see first-hand some examples of what nature does in the absence of human intervention. The connections he infers from the figures, theories, and observations he collects can often be astounding.

Houses collapse in a matter of years. The Manhattan skyline is toppled in a few hundred. Most “timeless” art is quickly subsumed. In all but a few cases exposure to air, water, and intruding flora undermines human creations pretty quickly. Throughout its pages, The World Without Us again and again reveals the tenuous grip that humanity has on its institutions.

What emerges from this deconstruction is an even more intriguing picture of what we actually leave behind. Bronze art survives relatively unscathed for perhaps millions of years. Our most treasured historical sites probably crumble within a few thousand, but the faces carved into Mount Rushmore survive as long as the mountain does. Most enduring (and disturbing) is the persistence of polyethylene polymers – plastics. Plastic molecules appear never to break down into simpler matter, which means that man’s imprint may be here on a microscopic level in the form of destructive indigestibles for an indefinitely long period of time.

The World Without Us is a bit sketchy in its presentation of timelines for the decomposition of the human imprint. The shifts from scene to scene can become confusing for the chronological learner. About halfway through the book a semi-clear pattern emerges, as simple deconstruction analysis gives way to a wider speculation about the planet’s future.

This inside-to-outside approach forces the reader to make connections both horizontally and vertically. The effort almost pays off. The book takes the reader to many places, but then sets back down again without really making a solid point.

At moments, there are flashes of purpose. Weisman’s book also explores other ways that mankind’s influence may continue to ripple in concentric waves of devastation. Some catastrophic possibilities are lain out like wildcards throughout the book: refineries and nuclear power stations that could become toxic disaster areas within weeks, for instance. There’s no telling what cumulative impact these calamities would have on the Earth. The increasingly-present issue of global warming also raises major questions. The effects continue to build after we exeunt, but predicting the outcome is literally as difficult as predicting the weather a year from now.

One nearly expects the author to proselytize after several chapters about the terraforming of Europe and the masses of plastic accumulating in the Northern Pacific Gyre. But that never quite happens. Despite all the apocalyptic speculation, there is a prominent focus on the pervasiveness and perseverance of life threaded throughout the text. By considering myriad examples from past to present, Weisman shows how plants and animals adapt to our meddling, even as we drive some to extinction and turn the general environment into a volatile cauldron. An inspiring illustration lies in his description of the post-Chernobyl landscape. Many plants and animals have already evolved to propagate and flourish despite levels of radiation so high that no person could traverse without full radiation gear. The persistence of life is well summed by one scientist quoted in the book: “If the planet can recover from the Permian, it can recover from the human.”

Even barring manmade cataclysms, an ultimately ironic caveat presents itself to the reader. The next ice age, whenever it comes, will quickly annihilate most human achievements as glaciers press over nearly every major settlement currently on the planet.

Although it doesn’t quite muster the force to stir the reader beyond rhetorical detachment, the most general implication of The World Without Us is that, given enough time, there may be nothing recognizable as human on the Earth. In that sense, the message of this book may initially seem somewhat morose. However, what it demonstrates is a more essential shift of paradigms. The struggle for posterity, timelessness, and immortality is at the end of the day based on a fallacious belief in a permanence that simply does not exist.

Weisman seems to say that man’s final legacy, no matter what, will be to become part of the nature from which he has sprung. Our greatest achievements can never be those that attempt to impose on nature. Instead, they might just be those that seek to preserve its endless array, and to make sure that we do not disrupt the balance that holds us, too, on the precipice.

Perhaps that in itself is enough of a call to action. After all, we will each find ourselves in real trouble on some tomorrow.