Wrong Way Down a One-Way Street

By Tori Centopanti

Editor-in-Chief

Image courtesy of http://www.targetprocess.com

I always understood the real dangers of drugs.

I got all the usual warnings. There was health class (yes, I actually paid attention) and my parents always believed I was better off educated than sheltered and naive. Regardless, the idea that drugs are bad, and to “just say no,” are inescapable in the media: television, movies, books, news articles, the Internet. All the facts were right at my fingertips.

I knew the repercussions of taking drugs, short-term and long-term, but I never understood why people took drugs in the first place. With so many natural ways to get “high” and feel happy, why risk your life by using drugs? What I didn’t realize in my preteen years was that I would soon learn the answer to that question firsthand.

A lot of circumstances in my life contributed to the bad decisions I made. But the real source of my issues has always been my relationship with my dad. When I was younger, I was the only kid I knew who didn’t look forward to the weekends, strictly because I was forced to see him. He was controlling and abusive, psychologically and emotionally. He was short-tempered, condescending, stubborn, and had violent tendencies in addition to being an alcoholic and a bully.

I constantly felt like I was walking on egg shells around my dad, never knowing what would set him off into a rage next, or how far it would go. His usual bit involved insulting and belittling me, usually accomplished by making me feel stupid or useless. My report cards were never up to standard, even when I got straight A’s. In fact, nothing I ever did was good enough. My younger half-sister, on the other hand, was unable to do any wrong in my dad’s eyes. He would say that he loved us both equally, but I didn’t believe him.

Even though I only saw him on weekends, my dad still tried to control every aspect of my life: my friends, my boyfriends, my attire, the way I thought. I had to ask permission for everything, including the phone, the computer, the microwave, and even to play in the backyard. My dad disapproved of most of my friends and all of my boyfriends, which meant he did everything in his power to isolate me from them while I was under his roof.

One night, when I was ten years old, my father took his bullying to a new level. In a drunken stupor, he said that my mom should have had an abortion and that he wished I had never been born. He proceeded to back me into a corner, threatening to kill me right then and there -- with a fork of all things. His bark turned out to be bigger than his bite and he backed off, but it left emotional scars that are still with me to this day.

Any chance of saving our deteriorating relationship disappeared forever in that moment. I still have not forgiven him, and I don’t think I ever will.

I spiraled into a deep depression at a young age. I stopped caring about my health, school, or anything. At thirteen I began smoking cigarettes, drinking, and cutting myself. At fourteen I attempted to take my own life. I just wanted to escape life. When I awoke the next morning I was disappointed, but not entirely shocked.

My plan had failed, but I felt deathly sick all day so I sought refuge in the nurse’s office at school. The nurse didn’t believe I was ill though and, in my frustration, I accidentally blurted out what I had done the night before. An ambulance was called to take me to the hospital. From there I was immediately, and involuntarily, placed in a psychiatric hospital.

My dad only visited me once, briefly, and refused to take part in therapy. He firmly believed that nothing was wrong with him and demanded to know what was wrong with me -- no surprise there. My mom was my only support system through the entire ordeal. She visited me every day and came to every therapy session she could. She was my rock and for that I am eternally grateful, but she wasn’t the problem.

I was discharged from the hospital after two weeks on the condition that I complete six months of out-patient therapy in addition to personal therapy. None of it “fixed” me though. My dad only came to one family therapy session, but he may as well have never showed up at all. He spent the whole time arguing and insisting that he wasn’t the problem -- I was.

Every therapist I went to wanted me to forgive my dad and try to repair our broken relationship. I refused every time, and eventually stopped taking my counseling seriously. During one particular session, my therapist made a safety plan in case I ever decided to hurt myself again. “When you feel like harming yourself, who are you going to call?” she asked me. I replied, “Ghostbusters!” and burst out laughing.

By the time I was fifteen, I had already begun experimenting with drugs. It wasn’t long before I was using everyday. Drugs provided the escape from life I was looking for, and I didn’t have to die to achieve it. I didn’t want to face my problems or talk about my feelings. I just wanted to forget everything and be happy -- a state of mind which drugs helped me achieve. Honestly, it seemed like a win-win solution at the time.

My friends at the time were not merely just people I did drugs with. It was more than that. We were a tight-knit group, almost like a family. We understood each other and bonded over the abuse we endured from our parent(s), whether it was emotional, psychological, physical, or sexual. We may have done some bad things, but we weren’t bad people. We were just a bunch of depressed teenagers seeking solace in a messed up world.

I was heading the wrong way down a one-way street though, heading straight for a dead end. I had two options: Keep going, or make a U-turn.

I shudder to think where I would be right now if my mom hadn’t intervened. I constantly lied about my drug use to her, but I couldn’t fool her forever. When I was 17 years old, two years into my drug spree, she found out. She was disappointed and angry, but worried more than anything else. We worked out a deal: I didn’t have to go to rehab and I could continue living with her, but I had to get clean and stay clean. That was over four years ago.

Quitting drugs was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. The withdrawal symptoms were hell. In the beginning, I relapsed a few times to make them stop, but learned the hard way that it only started the detox and recovery process all over again. There was no easy way out or shortcuts. The saying is true: If you want the rainbow, you have to put up with the rain first. I began applying that idea to every aspect of my life.

Getting clean meant I could no longer run from my problems, specifically my relationship with my dad. I had been giving him chances over the years, hoping he would change, but he never did. I had to face the music. I could either keep trying, which was putting my recovery in jeopardy, or I could give up. Now, the only time I see him is on holidays, once or twice a year maybe. We don’t talk on the phone; we’re not even friends on Facebook. It was the best decision I ever made.

I can say, without a doubt in my mind, that if it had not been for drugs, I would be dead right now. It’s ironic but true. When things got tough, all I wanted to do was leave reality behind. To accomplish that goal, I thought I only had two options: drugs or death. In retrospect, I’m glad I chose the path I did because I’m still alive.

Most people are shocked when I first tell them I’m a recovering drug addict, and some don’t even believe me at first. People usually say that they would never expect that from me, or that they never would have known that if I hadn’t told them. I’ve heard a few times that I don’t “look” or “act” like a drug addict, which is utterly ridiculous, not to mention stereotypical. I understand why I elicit that reaction in people though.

Although I dropped out of high school, twice, I earned my G.E.D. with honors. I started attending Housatonic Community College (HCC) in 2008 and have made the Dean’s List for academic achievement a total of five times. I have a 3.54 GPA (grade point average), and I was one of the ten people chosen to receive a full scholarship for the 2010-11 academic year. This semester marks my second as Editor-in-Chief of HCC’s student newspaper, Horizons.

I don’t regret anything in my past because it helped shape the person I am. All my experiences have just made me stronger and smarter. Every mistake I made was just another step in my journey, leading me to where I am now.

Family Matters

By Bobbi Brown

Staff Writer

Brown family of Bridgeport, Conn., posing in front of their brand new home.

Photo courtesy of the Hartford Courant newspaper / Extreme Makeover Home Edition (Stephan Dunn)

Some may argue that all tears that are cried are alike, but that’s not true. People cry for many reasons, and some tears are happy and some are sad. One tear that I can relate with is that tear of sadness and a lack of family love; at the age of five I was placed into foster care with my little brother. Although we had older siblings we were all still too young to take care of each other. My parents were unable to provide us the things we needed and most of all they were not able to give us that love.

In America alone there are over 15 million children waiting to be placed into foster care. Every year this number rises because of the number of babies born that are not wanted, or the children who are placed into the system because of abuse.

There is a great need for foster care parents in the United States. Many children who are placed into foster care often feel the need to lash out at their care givers because they feel that no one loves them. They ask the question, “Why would someone do this do to me?” Like many children, I asked this very question. “Why?” I didn't understand why the family that my parents built was falling apart and why they didn’t fight hard enough to keep it together.

I blamed the world for the way life was treating my siblings and me. I am the third oldest out of nine children -- eight girls and one boy. The Department of Children and Families (DCF) separated all the children and placed each of us with at least one other sibling.

I was blessed to share my life with my little brother. Even though he is a year younger than me, he tries his best to protect me from everything. He has become my inspiration to always hold on to what you have close to your heart. We have been through everything, wishing every night that our family would one day get back together. We even joked about going on the show “The Locator” to search for our family.

Family is so very important and many people neglect to see this. We forget about family traditions and family functions, and focus on arguments and forget about the love of the family. Yes, we argue with parents and don’t agree with everything they say, but at least they are in our lives. Many children in foster care can’t say that about their lives.

Some children are not even in foster homes but in orphanages waiting for someone to come and rescue them. I have never been in an orphanage, but I have moved from home to home looking for a place to call my own. We needed a family that was not keeping us for the check that would be given at the end of each month. We needed a family who would honor holidays and family traditions, one who would be forever in our lives pushing us to achieve any goal we set our minds to. We needed a family who would chastise us when we were wrong and embrace us with love when we did something right.

We got that family in 1993. Finally we found someone who would turn around and become a parent all over again, after she had raised her own two children. We lived with my foster mom for a few years until 2001 when she officially made us her children. That was one of the happiest moments of my life.

Although she was a single mother, she made it her duty to make sure we

got everything we needed. Even when our home caught on fire in 2007, she never gave up and still encouraged us to keep believing that everything would work out. In 2008 our family was blessed to get a brand new home built from the ground up on the TV show called “Extreme Makeover: Home Edition.”

This, all because one little old women believed in the value of family, and took in two little children and showed them unfailing love.

America needs real people and families to step up to the plate and make a difference in some young child’s life. Even if they never get adopted like I did, just to be in a stable home makes a difference. Children need that, since love and care will allow them to break out of their shell to share what they are going through.

Picture expresses the need for foster and adoptive parents...one step at a TIME!

Photo courtesy of The Foster Care Prevention/Family Preservation Program

There are many ways people can become a foster parent, by just simply dialing 1-888-Kid-Hero or signing up for a ten week training that will assure them of the skills needed to become a great foster or adoptive parent. Like many jobs or anything involving children, there is a mandatory background check to ensure the safety of the children.

With all that is needed to be a foster parent what matters the most is the happiness of a child, and the chance to make a dream come true. Become a foster parent and make a positive difference.

More to Love?

By Tiana Bridtter

Staff Writer

I couldn’t let obesity take my aunt from me.

Obesity is an issue affecting the human race throughout the world. There are so many people that have stories and their own personal issues that they took on in dealing with this “health plague.” I’m here to tell you how it affected me.

I’m not and have never been overweight or obese, but I have an aunt who is. The funny thing is that when you see her, her weight is not at all what stands out. She has such a beautiful personality, and you barely even notice her weight even though you know by sight its there. My aunt is the sweetest person on the planet. She is very into church and willing to help anyone and everyone in need. For as long as I’ve known her she has always been overweight, and as time went on she didn’t seem to be getting any smaller.

Whoppers, pie, cake, and pretty much anything that was edible, became catalysts for my aunt. Not for nothing, I love to eat just as much as the next human being, but she was eating a lot. She was eating herself to death -- literally. She wasn’t able to wear the clothes the average woman was able to put on, and was more subjected to dresses and other loose fitting clothing. She wasn’t even able to wear high heels for fear of breaking them, so she stuck to flats only.

She claimed her weight didn’t bother her and said her weight meant that there was a lot of her to love, but of course I knew that was a lie. Not to say someone can’t be happy with their weight no matter what size they are, but my aunt showed the signs that she wasn’t: the late night crying; the way she looked at herself in the mirror; and the way she stared at women smaller than her, almost like she wanted not so much to be like them, but be as small as them.

I stepped up and decided to help her tackle her issue firsthand, which meant she had to admit that she was overweight, that she did have an eating problem, and that she needed to take care of the problem before it became worse -- before it was too late.

Denial is always the biggest stumbling block to get over when it comes to weight loss. It’s actually more of an issue than losing the weight. For months my aunt wouldn’t admit that she had a problem. I could no longer watch her slowly kill herself. I grew frustrated and scared at the same time. I couldn’t take another minute of fearing that she’d be snatched from me, so I decided to do a family intervention and we told her head-on that it needed to stop.

I pulled up stories and facts about obese people. I had investigated the health scares about obesity and found research on people who were either the same size as her or bigger. I even went as far to find stories about people who have died from the condition. I found out that obese individuals 30 years old and up have a 50 to 100 percent increased risk of premature death from all causes, compared to individuals with a healthy weight.

Click here for great facts about obesity.

When you’re obese, there is a huge risk of having a heart attack. Congestive heart failure, sudden cardiac death and angina, or chest pain, is increased in persons who are overweight or obese. High blood pressure is twice as common in adults who are obese than in those who are at a healthy weight.

When I brought the information to my aunt’s attention, she was very upset at first, but she knew I was right. I assured her that I would help her and wouldn’t quit on her. I made a deal with her. I told her if she’d start eating right and going to the gym, I’d go back to church. I knew that was an offer she couldn’t and wouldn’t refuse. She agreed to the deal. Just as promised I went to the gym with her four times a week, twice a day. It was quite a struggle and an obstacle but I stayed true to my promise.

That was over two years ago. My aunt has since gone from 350 lbs to 167 lbs -- that’s 183 lbs! Now she is able to wear the high heels and fitted jeans she wasn’t able to wear her whole life. But more importantly, she is alive and now healthier than ever before.

A Second Chance at Life

By Elisa Byrdsong

Staff Writer

My totaled car at the impound lot after the accident on 5-3-08.

Photo by Nicole Byrdsong.

How a horrible car crash that could have taken my life ended up saving it, at the same time giving me a second chance to cherish life for all it’s worth.

“Live every day like it’s your last.” This quote is easier said than done, and what does it really mean? On May 3, 2008, just 21 days before my 19th birthday, I lived the day that could have been my last, and learned exactly what it meant.

Like most people, I have witnessed many accidents on the news and heard many different tragic, fatal stories of people -- not only teens -- who have lost their lives in motor vehicle crashes. Of course, also like most people, I never thought that I would be a victim of such an incident.

My mother would always warn me to be careful on the road but I would simply reply, “Okay!” and jump behind the wheel. I understood that the chances of an accident were somewhat possible because I was constantly driving, but I considered myself a cautious driver and always obeyed the rules of the road. Had I been aware of the U.S. statistics that motor vehicle crashes are the leading cause of death among 15-20 year olds, I may have realized that my chances were more than probable.

However, it seems there was no stopping the events that took place this one, life-changing evening:

My intent of the night was to enjoy it with friends, as I stowed three of them in the car with me. I drove the four of us down the short familiar stretch of highway, aware of my exit approaching. Driving 60 mph, I passed the big green billboard displaying three-quarters of a mile left to exit. Suddenly I felt great impact from the rear of the vehicle and I automatically knew something wasn’t right. I had been hit by something fast and hard from behind and I didn't even see it coming.

I quickly grasped the wheel in a futile attempt to control the car on the narrow highway. I could feel the vehicle spinning as if I was on an uncontrollable merry-go-round that would never cease. As I caught a glimpse of the little blue car that had hit us, my car smashed face first into the guardrail and began flipping in the air. I thought for sure this was the end.

After I was knocked unconscious from the impact of the airbag slamming into my face, I violently landed on the roof of the car, and started regaining consciousness. Yelling and screaming was the last thing I remembered as I awoke... dangling upside down from my seat belt in the dark.

“Lisa get out of the car! Come on wake up!” I could hear my friend demanding.

As I began to realize what had happened, I released my seat belt -- which was holding me, trapped upside down in the car -- and I dropped painfully on my head as it unbuckled. Once I heard the voice of my friend I knew that at least one of the passengers in my car had survived. Praying for every one’s safety, I crawled out of the overturned car in the middle on Route 8 and feared the worst.

Thankfully, the four of us survived. But realizing how close my friends and I came to death instilled the fear of driving in me. Even though I was lucky to have survived the horrible crash with minor cuts and scratches, I was scared to even sit in a car -- better yet be behind the wheel of one again.

As months went by, the swelling, back pain and nightmares of the accident went away, but I still remained petrified to get behind the wheel. I had not been to work in months and I started to get behind on bills; I knew this couldn’t last forever.

“You have been given a second chance and it wasn’t to sit around and be afraid! Make something out of your life, most people don’t live to talk about something like that! But you did,” my great-grandmother said to me, as she lay in the hospital bed sick from cancer.

Those words coming from her as she lay there helpless, knowing that her days were limited and yet still positive -- that gave me the courage I needed to work on my fears of driving and to get on with my life. It was at that moment I realized that I had a purpose in life, and that I was just beginning the journey to finding it.

How can I sit home for months feeling helpless and miserable for myself? I’m alive! A little scrapped up and scared but I’m here. And for what? To sit in the house laying in bed all day? Wasting my life on re-runs of Lilo and Stitch on Disney Channel?! This couldn’t be why I was granted the opportunity to walk away from something millions of people die from every day!

Looking at my great-grandmother laying there, hair white as snow from age, skin soft and wrinkled, facing the fear that I had just escaped -- and was now hiding from. She faced death with no fear and forceful denial while people sat around with tears in their eyes knowing that she will soon be a memory.

From that day on I promised myself that I would not hide from death. It is inevitable. Scary, dramatic things happen in life and the end comes unexpectedly, but when that day comes you should know you had the best life you could give yourself.

Locking myself inside the house did not solve anything and I still had dreams to accomplish, so I got up and got busy. It’s been almost three years since my accident and I am living my life my way: happily, with no regrets. Since then I have entered school to accomplish my dream of becoming a news anchor, and I am back on the road -- still wearing my seat belt, which I believed help save my life.

Truthfully, there’s not a day since then that goes by when I get into a car that I don’t think about that horrible day, and maybe someday it will happen again. But you can never really know what the road ahead has waiting, so stay curious to stay cautious and live everyday like it could be your last.

“Driven…” Hopes for Today or Frozen Dismay

By “M.E.”

Staff Writer

Editor’s Note: At the writer’s request, this article has been published under a pseudonym due to the personal nature of its content.

You are invited to choose your own definition of “driven.” The voice that holds us true to our dreams... or the poison that deceives us, forces us to become “driven over the edge.”

Winter winds whip frozen limbs one against another across the orchard, covered in ice above the ground... this permanence is merely temporary.

Hidden from the sun, acres of grass, green as Ireland, await to emerge, buried beneath a layer of snow and barren earth, now hopeless and empty, but with the promise of tomorrow... this too, is impermanent.

All things must be nurtured to grow… without it, for some, a quick, painless, demise, for others, a slow and self-inflicted one. The first taste of disappointment and lack of self worth may test our strength against impossibility, leading us to claw our way up toward the sun, only to be beaten down once again.

Our paths set before us are not always ones we need to take, and sometimes, we are forced to take them. They may lead us where we shouldn’t go and we become lost, yet, we cannot surrender. Not yet. Only then will we find our way. Hopelessness brings redemption.

Like the blanket of grass hidden, veiled from view, this is a story of self discovery. It involves secrets, acceptance and denial. It is a part of your life and mine, and shares the afflictions we all fear the most, testing the strength of the human spirit.

Before hiding behind the mask, I was happy and alive. Long after that, I died every day. Isolation from friends, family, even myself, brought a loneliness, a desperation, and with it, the evils of the things that take it all away, alcohol, drugs, and attempted suicide. Without help, the seed of self-destruction began to grow. Amazingly, I survived. I moved away on my own, continuing with the one thing that held me high above the world, independence and a drive to be something more.

Where this drive came from, I never knew. It is still with me to this day, the thing that doesn’t let me give up. Sometimes I want to shrug it off and surrender. Time moved on and once again, trust turned its back on me, in the form of a lying cheat of a boyfriend, forcing me back behind the mask. The mask is the thing we all wear, that hides our true selves from the person that others see.

Alcohol, drugs and an endless sea of non-substantial relationships held me in a sleep of death for three days, finally awaking to the reality that one must at least go on with the motions, even if you can’t feel anything else. I started to become driven, this time over the edge.

The heart finds its way to heal… by prayer, by poems, by writing. These are the only answers I can offer. Another chance at love, or so I thought, came in the disguise of of a marriage. That’s when I became driven not only over the edge, but began building layers of denial. Two children later, continuous moving from six or seven different locations in Connecticut to places out-of-state by no choice of my own left me exhausted, without direction, and with that… I left. The only problem was, he wouldn’t let me leave.

Physical and verbal abuse was common, and police were called. I was attacked, degraded, my clothes, belongings, and identification were stolen, and my car damaged. A line of duct tape was drawn down my entire house indicating what side I should stay on. Bolting my door day and night, and after an attack in self-defense, I was arrested. The charges were nullified, and though my son stayed with his father out of loyalty, my daughter remained with me. I never thought I would lose a son at the age of twelve. To make the suffering just a little more painful, my crazy ex-husband took my son out-of-state to live.

Repeated prayer and poems were once again what kept me moving forward. Through all the harassment, separation, and years of isolation from a normal life, I met someone who loved me. I was happy and alive like before the mask… but a deeper place I now began to tread.

Club scenes, parties, back alleys, and an alternative lifestyle lent a host of new problems. In denial, and after finally seeking counseling, I realized that the love I thought was mine these past few years was really a man’s love for drug addiction, and not what I thought.

Matters grew worse when I was laid off my job, having to maintain a house, two young adult kids, and a boyfriend living his own hell, in his own denial. Arguments grew common, and once again, withdrew behind the mask. Hopelessness sank in, the same afflictions poisoning my soul, this time, for months.

A lifeline of co-workers and friends gone, signing up for college began an occupation of thinking... and writing…every day. Not just poems, but fictional stories. They created a passion for something bigger than despair. With writing, came the hope for something more meaningful, a bigger piece of life that was missed somehow, a detour from misery that became my salvation.

Becoming “driven”… the voice that holds us to our dreams… is much like the grass awaiting to emerge with the promise of tomorrow…

Sometimes, paths lead us where we shouldn’t go and we become lost, only then will we find our way…

A video demonstrating the power of love, healing, and sacrifice for something other than one’s self, called “My Love” by Sia is my dedication....

Poet Emma Wheeler Wilcox wrote “Solitude” and I dedicate this poem to those who will appreciate its worth:

“Solitude”

Laugh, and the world laughs with you,

Weep, and you weep alone.

For the sad old earth must borrow its mirth,

But has trouble enough of its own.

Sing, and the hills will answer,

Sigh, it is lost on the air.

The echoes bound to a joyful sound,

But shrink from voicing care.

Rejoice and men will seek you,

Grieve and they turn and go.

They want full measure of all your pleasure,

But they do not need your woe.

Be glad, and your friends are many

Be sad and you lose them all.

There are none to decline your nectared wine,

But alone you must drink life’s gall.

Feast, and your halls are crowded,

Fast, and the world goes by

Succeed and give, and it helps you live,

But no man can help you die.

There is room in the halls of pleasure

For a long and lordly train,

But one by one we must all file on

Through the narrow isles of pain.

Why Athletics Should Be In Our Community Colleges

By Rondale Williams

Staff Writer

Football players at Shasta College football practice.

Photo by Michael Hendrix

How athletics could affect the community college atmosphere in Connecticut in the areas of student life and campus diversity.

Look around the campus of Housatonic Community College at around 5 p.m. What is happening? Virtually nothing that resembles that of an actual college campus. There is no school spirit, campus involvement from students, or real attractions to keep students on campus for that matter.

There is a way to fix this problem however, if we added interscholastic athletics to the extra-curricular activities not only at Housatonic, but at all Connecticut community colleges. Maybe it would entice students to want to be more involved with campus activities because the interest in sports would either get students involved directly with playing these sports, or watching athletic competitions after school.

This is a community college after all, and most people in Connecticut probably have no clue that there are community colleges out there that actually have athletics. In states like New York, California, Texas, Mississippi, Kansas, and a few others, there are community or junior colleges that have full fledged athletic departments.

As a matter of fact, I myself participated in junior college football at a point in time, coming out of high school because I wasn't a very highly recruited football player of course. Factors like playing on a terrible high school team caused many guys on our football team to be overlooked when college coaches were recruiting. That caused me to look for an alternative to playing at a four-year institution and try and walk on to a football team. When I did, I found a junior college in California named Shasta College. The school was exactly what I was looking for and had everything a four-year college did, including dorms and almost every main stream sport imaginable like basketball, football, soccer, and volleyball, just to name a few.

There was also an awesome fan base in the town of Redding, Calif., where the school was located. Fans constantly asked us when games were and how we thought our season was going to turn out. Our teams would travel in-state to different community colleges and rivalries were big with many of the nearby colleges, much like you see with major Division 1 athletics. Just like big time football programs, kids from all over the country would come and play at our school in different sports. On our football team alone we had kids from as far away as Georgia and Connecticut, creating a truly diverse campus that only students at four-year universities enjoy.

I also remember college coaches from the likes of big football schools, like California and Oregon State, would even attend our games to recruit players to play at their universities. For example, on our team alone we had a wide receiver go to the University of California Berkeley on a football scholarship, and Jason Sehorn, the former New York Giant, played at Shasta and continued his college career at the University of Southern California.

Now imagine that same atmosphere at not only Housatonic, but at all community colleges in Connecticut. Wouldn’t it excite you to cheer for our school’s football team at a game on Saturday night? Or do we want to stick with the status quo, and just have a table tennis club? Maybe by implementing athletics we can give those student athletes in high schools that weren’t highly sought after on the recruiting trail the chance to play again and earn an athletic scholarship.

Our community colleges can even become a refuge for college players that may have had a troubled past at four-year universities. For example, look at the Cam Newton story and how he had gotten into trouble at the University of Florida for stealing laptops there after his first season. His sophomore year he left the university and went on to star at Blinn Community College in Texas, and was highly recruited by many schools, such as Auburn University. Then he later received a second chance to resume his Division 1 football career at Auburn and led them to a national championship this year. Maybe Connecticut community colleges can one day offer a second chance for a fallen athlete, just like the Texas community college offered Cam Newton a second chance.

Not only can we offer the opportunity for students to play sports and hopefully one day prosper in the field of athletics, but offering athletics can help the community college system prosper financially. As we all know, sports like football and basketball are big money makers for colleges and maybe we can draw some of that money into colleges like Housatonic with the implementation of athletics. At Shasta, for example, our student cafe profited greatly by selling food and snacks at games. The money from athletic donors also helped Shasta College create dorms to house student-athletes from out of state, as the dorms were not directly funded by the college itself.

With athletics we also offer the student body entertainment and give them a reason to want to stay around the campus. As I stated before one too may times I see students run out of class, run to their cars and head home. Not to say that students wouldn’t still head straight home, but maybe they would have a reason to come back to campus. If, say, Housatonic was playing Gateway Community College in a big basketball game. Many times at Shasta we had students go home the same way here at Housatonic. But many students and Redding residents would come back, if they knew we were playing our rivals College of the Siskiyous, or Laney College out of Oakland. Those games were big; whether in the football stadium or field house, students would pack the stands to see those games.

Through athletics we can create that same hunger for sports the way Shasta College or the Redding community had. Through rivalries and great athletic competition we can do that and keep students and Connecticut residents involved in our campus community.

Then, just maybe, we could draw kids to come from out-of-state to continue their academic and athletic careers at a community college in Connecticut because they would recognize the commitment and opportunities to athletics in our community colleges, creating the true diversity that a junior college like Shasta College had. So, what better way can we serve students than by giving them the same atmosphere they would enjoy at any four-year institution. To do that I believe there is no better way than athletics to begin making students become accustomed to the true atmosphere of what college should be.

How to Drop a Class on an Academic Budget and Schedule

By Michael Bednarsky

Arts & Entertainment Editor

If you organize how each class with help you graduate and/or transfer, you will find ways to work harder in the courses you take. Reduce stress, and envision your goals at all times!
Image courtesy of www.college-warehouse.com

Before you can drop a class, you have to first be enrolled in one. Students at various universities and colleges across the planet know how tedious the process of signing up for classes can be.

HCC students, regardless of tenure length, are aware that reserving course spots ahead of time is an intelligent move. If you sign up early via the Registrar desk, you avoid the congestion that builds up between semesters; the dreaded panic mode for unpunctual students. If you register online, you immediately get to pick your classes and pay; there is no confrontation.

Then again, the Internet option of choosing to take a class without paying only guarantees that you are penciled in; your spot can be handed to somebody else. Another student can align their finances first and sweep the rug out from under you, forcing a rearrangement of what you will plan to do.

Of course, you all know this already, because the dilemma is not surrounding that you secured any classes, but instead if you actually want to complete them.

The basic information about dropping a class is located under the “Registrar’s Office” tab on the Housatonic Community College website.

If you wish to drop a class shortly after a semester begins, it’s fairly easy. Students deserve to have that option readily available to them, in case a class does not assist their career as originally envisioned. Alternatives are abound: some courses have surplus editions with different professors, and some majors have several ways to achieve the credits for your overall goal (of course, including the core requirements).

You have a little under two months to drop a class without repercussions. That’s a sufficient amount of leeway to muse on if you are willing to bang out the remainder of any class you are stressing about. If you drop out of a class within the first two weeks of a semester, you are removed from the class roster; just like that.

The next span is the “Automatic Withdrawal Period” (third to sixth week of the semester), built to allow a student to drop a class without having to give an inkling of notice to the HCC staff or officials. Your mid-term and final exam grades will have a ‘W’ so that your records will indicate that you did not fail the class.

Then there’s the tricky part: once you enter week seven of the given semester, you will receive an ‘F’ if you make the decision to drop. This time-frame marks the last layer of weeks for you to drop, because you are no longer allowed to after week twelve. Nobody can force you to participate in a class, but you will ultimately fail the course by snubbing it from that point on. That will eat away at your G.P.A. (grade point average), thus hurting the overall continuity of your career at HCC.

Also, financial woes enter the equation. You may not be reimbursed for your original payment for the class. Refer to the Registrar further for more information, as each situation is different depending on the financial aid ratio/record of the student, and some courses have separate policies.

In some circumstances, you may just want to stick it out. If you are upset about a course, but completing it will facilitate your goal, then just grin and bear the scenario. Visualize yourself at the next step of your career. For example, if you are transferring to another college in due time, you should become determined to acquire as many credits as possible to go to your “dream school.”

On the other hand, it is never too late for you to change your focus altogether. College education routes may be recommended for a plentiful life (financially), but you do not have to pursue them!

Simply put, go forth with the situation if it will help you in the long run. Do not make the assumption that you will not like a course without allowing sufficient time for your analysis. Keep track of how your psyche reacts to your environment, and if you must opt out, just be sure to do it correctly. Develop a self-ultimatum, to push the length of your limits and possibilities.

Good luck, and enjoy your journey, regardless of what you decide to do!

Additional information on these matters can be found at our establishment’s official Registrar Office web-page.