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.

How to be an American Gangster

WEB EXCLUSIVE

By Cody Quinn
Editor-in-Chief
Denzel Washington and Russell Crowe sit down for a little chat.
Photo courtesy of Yahoo! Movies

To call Frank Lucas (a stellar Denzel Washington) a gangster would be an understatement. In the lore spelled out in Ridley Scott’s new crime drama, American Gangster, Lucas is a vicious businessman who brings all new meaning to kill or be killed ethics.

Gangster is a gripping tale of Lucas’ rise to the top of the underworld on a wave of cheap but high quality heroin. Intermixed with the violence and family life inherent in any criminal enterprise is Russell Crowe, who plays Detective Richie Roberts. If you weren’t sure Roberts is Jewish, the large gold Star of David around his neck is a pretty good hint.

Both actors are at the top of their game in this movie, splitting plot and screen time like the seminal movie Heat did. The two Oscar-winning actors don’t even meet until the obligatory arrest near the film’s end.

Washington gets the meatier of the two roles. He plays Lucas as man who knows how to build a criminal empire, but also knows that the nature of crime and corruption never lends itself to lasting endeavors. Lucas struggles to keep the threads together as long as he can, and he foresees the end to his enterprise long before it occurs. Washington plays Lucas as a man knowingly over his head, but never afraid to take what he wants.

Crowe makes the most out of his detective scenes, and you really get a sense of the difficulty of police work when corruption is near its peak, but he gets bogged down in family moments. Roberts, being a hard working and honest policeman, must divorce his wife (Carla Gugino doing what she has to) and get into a custody battle, as all honest policemen must.

These scenes take away from the main and more interesting part of the movie: Lucas’ rise to power. The end lets us know that Lucas was worth at least $250 million, but you never get a good sense of how large his empire really is. Everything is kept at street level, which lets us see Washington at his most vicious but doesn’t let us appreciate how much Lucas really accomplished.

Scott keeps things moving at a brisk pace, barring a few family court scenes and Robert’s personal problems, and the film is prettily dressed in seventies era clothes, music, and scenery. Add some interesting turns for Cuba Gooding Junior and Josh Brolin, plus eye candy Lymari Nadal as Lucas’ wife, and the whole is pretty good.

However, to be critical (and that’s my job), the ending eerily echoes Catch Me if You Can and leaves you wondering about what the real life characters are doing now. American Gangster is not necessarily the next The Departed, but it’s the best crime move since The Departed.

Concession Stand Equivalent: Milk Duds. Sweet inside and out, but the more you chew on it, the harder it goes down.

Bee Movie Buzzes Along Lazily

WEB EXCLUSIVE!
By Cody Quinn

Editor-in-Chief

Jerry Seinfeld looking for a suitable place to put his stinger.
Photo courtesy of Yahoo! Movies

It’s not every day a movie about insects makes its way into theatres. It must have been at least a year since the last one came out. Bee Movie is Dreamworks addition to the digitally animated insect genre and, with the help of Jerry Seinfeld, it surpasses Antz, and almost reaches the heights of A Bug’s Life.

Bee Movie is the tale of Barry B. Benson (yes, there is no shortage of the letter “B” jokes), who is voiced by Seinfeld, and his interactions with the human world. Throughout the movie Benson takes on the uniform system of the hive, takes on the consumerism of man, and ultimately realizes that everything has a purpose in the world.

If the movie has a fault (which it does), it’s that it was written by Seinfeld and his cohorts from the old days. When I caught a midday show, I was surrounded by families with small children. I didn’t hear a lot of laughter for the subtly disguised irony and the slight pokes at convention Seinfeld made a career out of.

Not that there wasn’t any laughter at all; the movie is beautifully animated, and the sight gags are at least as well done as in the Shrek movies - just not as plentiful. The verbal humor is top notch, especially in a court scene featuring a well-casted John Goodman.

Casting on the whole is pretty spot on. Chris Rock gets a title credit for about ten lines worth of work as a mosquito. Ray Liotta has about as scene stealing a role as an animated character can get playing himself. Matthew Broderick settles for a typecast appearance as Benson’s nebbish friend Adam. And Renee Zellweger voices a disturbingly attractive CGI woman named Vanessa.

The relationship between Vanessa and Benson rides that fine line between sweet and whatever the insect equivalent of bestiality is. It’s hard to fathom what effect Seinfeld was going for, but it seems like he added the relationship only because some form of romance is standard fare for these types of movies.

Which brings me to the main reason this movie never seems to get off the ground: Seinfeld alternates between ditching convention and embracing it. The plot is paint by numbers for children’s animation: character feels different from others, character rebels, character realizes importance of friends, character defeats adversity, character lives happily ever after.

Then again, Seinfeld treats his characters like throwaway prop gags and meanders from point to point on a wing and a joke. Taken in bits, things seem funny enough, but when you try to follow the punch line from point A to “Bee” in the movie, you end up little more than mildly amused.

Bee Movie is certainly not just for kids. Seinfeld’s pedigree dictates that. However, the cutesy elements put it out of date movie range.

In all fairness, Seinfeld has been out of practice for a couple of years. Maybe Bee Movie is just him shaking off the rust. I kind of enjoyed this movie, but I’m anxiously looking forward to his next.

Concession Stand Equivalent: Large diet coke. Will quench your thirst but not as good as it should be.

Turkey Land USA

WEB EXCLUSIVE!
By Donovan G Brown
Staff Writer

Throughout history many cultures have given thanks to something or someone for being generous in providing their needs. One such experience is Thanksgiving - or should I say “thanks for the stuffing day?”

In 1621 the Plymouth colonists and the Wampanoag Indians shared an autumn harvest feast. This is now known as the first Thanksgiving. Although cooking methods and table etiquette have changed as the holiday has evolved, the meal is still consumed today with the same spirit of celebration and overindulgence.

This was set as day for giving thanks to God by this great country’s forefathers and foremothers. Now it has become a best-seller time of year, when you can see “Shoppers Gone Wild.” You can purchase yours for only $9.99 while supplies last, on DVD and blue ray disk.

When dysfunctional families like mine gather together (or not), it is to be glad everyone is still alive and well, to enjoy the time we don’t get to spend together all year round. We get stuffed, argue about who’s not coming to whose home because of what happened last year, and then go home.

I decided that it would be interesting to see how many students I could interview to find out more about Thanksgiving in this age. While speaking to art student Lawrence Itoka, I was surprised to hear how he celebrated this day in the country of Liberia. According to him, they celebrate Thanksgiving on the first Sunday of November. The people from the village go to church and bring a plant for the pastor/priest to bless so that they can have an abundant harvest. But in America, Itoka said, the turkey represents Thanksgiving.

Brian Parker, a first year accounting major said, “I look forward to Thanksgiving. I have 11 aunts and uncles. They has a great time as a family. There’s love in this home. We eat, give thanks, and then the men sneak off to watch football.” As he spoke, a big smile crossed his face, and he just lit up.

Walking the halls of Housatonic, I saw many faces. One such face was Cathy Cox. She was busy reading the Connecticut Post, getting ready for her next class. According to her, “it’s just a day to visit with parents, eat and hang out. Nothing special.”

In the country of Laos, they do not celebrate Thanksgiving, but now that Christina Xayath lives in America she “does as the Romans do.”

In other countries – like my country of Jamaica - they also do not celebrate Thanksgiving, even though they may be a part of the old British colonies. However, there are people who have lived in America, and have returned home celebrate it as a new tradition.

Thanksgiving should be a time to reflect on having one more year under our belts, and how fortunate we are. Every day should be an opportunity to give thanks, and especially a day called Thanksgiving. It should not just be a day off, but a day that requires our time to get involved and give thanks.

Ancient Wonders Replaced in Modern International Vote

WEB-EXCLUSIVE!

By Brandon T. Bisceglia

Op/Ed Editor

The Pyramids lose their place in history.
Photograph Courtesy of www.hartransom.org, adapted by Brandon T. Bisceglia

On July 7, 2007, a Declaration Ceremony held in Lisbon, Portgual announced the results of a worldwide campaign to create a new list of the Seven Wonders of the World.

The ceremony marked the culmination of a project launched by the New7Wonders Foundation, established in 2001 by Swiss-born Canadian adventurer Bernard Weber. The foundation is based at the Heidi-Weber Museum in Zurich, Switzerland, and was formed, according to its website, to “contribute to the protection of the world’s human-built and natural heritage and to foster respect for the cultural diversity on our planet.”

Weber, a filmmaker and lifelong aviator, has spent much of his career reliving history. Among other things, he produced a TV documentary titled “The Desert Prince” in 1995 that retraced Antoine St.-Exupéry’s mail route down the West African coastline – a journey that was to inspire the famous pilot’s 1943 book, The Little Prince.

Weber’s love of history and culture was what ultimately spawned the New7Wonders project. It was aimed at updating the famous list of the Seven Wonders of the World established by Philon of Byzantium in 200 B.C. The original wonders were all located around the Mediterranean Basin – a realm which only included southern Europe, northern Africa, and the Middle East. As such, they were a reflection of a smaller world-view.

The ancient list contained such creations as the Lighthouse at Alexandria, which for centuries was the world’s tallest man-made structure. There was the statue of Zeus, a gilded ivory form that once inhabited the Parthenon. And, of course, there were the Great Pyramids at Giza. Of all the renowned wonders, these pyramids are the only left standing. The Giza site was entered into the contest, and made it to the finalist category. By the time the votes were counted, though, they too had been stripped of their glory.

The newly dubbed wonders were chosen among numerous entries contributed through an open-ended submission process over the internet. At the end of 2005, a panel of expert judges – many of them architects – brought the list down to 21 finalists, which were then put to an internet vote. According to the site, more than 1,000,000 people participated in this vote.

When the dust settled, these were the victors:
• The Great Wall of China, China (220 B.C. to 1644 A.D.): The Great Wall is actually a series of many walls built, torn down, and reconstructed over thousands of years. The walls were meant to be fortifications against invading empires (specifically those of the Turks and Mongols). The original walls, which were built primarily of earth and wood, have mostly eroded. During the Ming Dynasty (1638-1644) new materials, such as limestone and brick, were employed to make the walls stronger. These fortifications represent the modern conception of the Great Wall. Parts of it, too, have suffered weathering, particularly in the more remote and harsh desert landscapes.

• Petra, Jordan (? B.C. to 40 A.D.): If you’ve ever seen Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade, you’ve seen part of Petra. The city, once populated by the Aramaic-speaking Nabataeans, was located at a crossroads between several ancient Middle Eastern nations. The buildings were carved and hewn out of the sandstone cliff sides that surround the city, so that many of the structures are part of the cliffs themselves. No records of Petra’s original construction remain, but it did develop over time, blending Hellenistic and other architectural traditions. Its decline came when the Romans took over the area and reestablished sea trade, thus rendering much of the site’s functionality invalid.

• The Roman Colosseum, Italy (70 A.D. to 82 A.D.): The Colosseum, also known as the Flavian Amphitheatre, was built by the Romans to host gladiatorial games. Unlike most other amphitheatres built by Romans and Greeks, this huge structure was freestanding. After the fall of Rome, the building was put to numerous other uses, including as a graveyard. Today, the Colosseum is a tourist site, an internationally recognized symbol of ancient Roman society, and the blueprint for all modern sports stadiums.

• The Pyramid at Chichén Itzá, Mexico (C.800 A.D.): The city of Chichén Itzá was a major center of the Mayan peoples from the Late Classic through early Post-Classic periods, and is one of the most well-preserved Mayan sites. The pyramid, which is known as the Temple of Kukulcan, was built in step design with stairways on each of its four sides. The outer structure was actually built over an older temple, a practice not uncommon in Mayan society. The pyramid was constructed so that, on the fall and spring equinoxes, a slithering shadow would be cast on the north staircase during sunrise and sunset. This shadow – which can still be seen twice a year - is meant to represent the divine serpent-god, Kukulcan.

• Machu Picchu, Peru (1460 A.D. to 1470 A.D.): The settlement of Machu Picchu was built in the eastern Andes Mountains at the height of the ancient Incan empire. When the Spanish came to Peru, the city was abandoned and remained “lost” until 1911, when archeologist Hiram Bingham wrote a best-selling book about the city. The architecture of Machu Picchu utilized the shape of the mountain to create terraced steps and walls that appear almost organic. This perception is further aided by its location in the Amazon jungle, which has since enveloped the site.

• The Taj Mahal, India (1630 A.D.): The Taj Mahal is an immense mausoleum. Mughol emperor Shah Jahen had it constructed as a tribute to his third and favorite wife, Mumtaz Mahal, after she died. The structure is built of white marble and incorporates many Persian architectural traditions. Surrounding the tomb is a garden that is divided into four parts that symbolize the four flowing rivers of Paradise in Muslim mythology.

• Cristo Redentor, Brazil (1931 A.D.): This 38-meter statue stands atop Corcovado Mountain over the Brazilian capital of Rio de Janeiro. It was engineered by Brazilian Heitor da Silva Costa, and then constructed piece-by-piece in France, by sculptor Paul Landowski. The pieces were shipped to Rio, where they were brought up the mountain and put together over a period of five years. The statue is made of soapstone, which is so soft that a fingernail can scratch it, but can stand weathering better than concrete. It is meant to symbolize both Brazilian religiosity and the acceptance of all visitors with open arms.

The New7Wonders website is now hosting nominations for its next project, a list of the Seven Wonders of Nature. The nominations will continue through October 8, 2008. For more information, or to submit an entry, visit http://www.new7wonders.com/index.php.

(All information on the Wonders was acquired through the UNESCO World Heritage website, or through the official web pages for the Wonders.)

Creative Non-Fiction by Senior Horizons Staff

This semester, as the beginners on staff were learning more about newspaper writing, advanced students were asked to write personal essays that would give readers new insight into an important situation or issue. The following are the results of this assignment. Senior Horizons reporters wrote on a wide range of issues, including:

• finding something to do between classes
• returning to a treasured spot from childhood
• dealing with an absent father
• coping with a rare medical condition
• the effects of divorce
• And many more!
  

Happy Reading!

Professor Steve Mark
Advisor to Horizons

It’s Too Late for I’m Sorry, Dad…

You can’t control your destiny, but you can cope with it.

By Jessica Spadaccino
Staff Writer

My mother and father a few years before I was born. His rockstar lifestyle led him on a "Highway to Hell".
Photo Courtesy of Jessica Spadaccino.

“What’s the most confusing day in Bridgeport?” he asked. I knew what was coming, so I just raised my brow at him and shrugged. “Father’s day!” He exploded into laughter; I didn’t. I hardly knew the man, and that explains why he wasted his breath telling me that ignorant piece of information he called a joke.

Although I didn’t feel it right away, something about that statement seemed to cut right through me, and I had to step out of the crowded room at my friend’s party. I thought about that statement all night.

As I was growing up, it was only my mother and me. I guess when my mother grew tired of my nagging, “Am I adopted?” question every father’s day, she decided to let me meet my maker. I met my father for the first and last time at a broken down McDonald’s in Bridgeport, my hometown, when I was seven years old. My Godmother brought me to meet him because my mother couldn’t stand the sight of his thin frame and pale skin. I was scared upon first sight. I remember it was like looking into a mirror, but he was a stranger to me. He wanted to hold me, but I wouldn’t let him. He compromised and sat me down next to him, as I clenched tightly onto my Muppet Babies Sticker Book (I loved those things). He loosened my grip, opened to a random page, and looked at the colorful characters. “Who’s that?” He asked me, pointing to a fuzzy little creature holding drumsticks. I didn’t know.

Every day I think about my father. His ghostly white skin, the bags under his eyes; I understand now why my mother didn’t want me around him. He died of a drug overdose in an alley by himself in November, just a few months before I turned eight years old.

I know for a fact that there are a LOT of parents here in the Housatonic Community, but are you really there for your kids? How often do you tell your children you love them? How much time do you really spend with your child? According to the U.S. Census Bureau, fifty-nine percent of American children will live in a single-parent home at least once during their minor years. According to www.Fatherhood.org, an estimated 24.7 million children do not live with their biological fathers, and about forty percent of these children have not seen their fathers during the past year. This is a serious issue.

There is a reason it takes a mother and a father to create a child. It has been proven, according to www.dadsindistress.asn/au, that seventy-two percent of adolescent murderers, sixty percent of rapists, and seventy percent of long-term prisoners grew up in father-absent homes. About sixty-nine percent of victims of child sexual abuse came from homes where the biological father was absent. Eighty-four percent of teens hospitalized for psychiatric care come from single parent homes, and seventy five percent of teens who commit suicide are from single parent homes. According to www.children-ourinvestment.org, Eighty-five percent of all children who show behavior disorders come from fatherless homes.

My father wasn’t there for my first steps, or the first time I rode my bike without training wheels. He wasn’t there to kiss my “boo-boos” when I was hurt. He was not there to tell my boyfriends to take good care of me. He never told me I was worth more, or that he loved me no matter what. My father wasn’t present for my proms. He didn’t tell me he was proud on my graduation day. He wasn’t there to protect me from all of the other men who physically and emotionally hurt me over and over again. He wasn’t there when I got my driver’s license, and he won’t be there to walk me down the aisle on my wedding day.

Thinking of these memories is dangerous. I like to think of myself as a strong person, but to this day it upsets me when I see a father and daughter holding hands. When it comes to my father, I put on an act like I know everything, and nothing emotionally phases me, but I am wrong in doing that. I am not a drug addict, an alcoholic, a murderer, or anything else those numbers try to tell me that I am, but I do have emotional problems that will never be fixed.

To all of the parents reading this article that have never met your children before, or have not been there for your children- go out and find them. Look at the statistics above. You can help stop this! You helped to create a human life - and you could help them become something amazing. You will make an impact in your child’s life whether you are with them or not. Even if the child doesn‘t want you to hold her at first, she will still be happy she got to sit next to you for that moment or two.

To the parents who have stuck by your kids no matter what - Thank you. Even if your children don’t always tell you they love you and appreciate you, remember that they do. If I didn’t have such an amazing mother, I wouldn’t have lived this long. My mother has helped me control my anxiety attacks, separation anxiety disorder, and depression that I have been battling since I was five years old.

To all of the parentless sons and daughters reading this article; don’t add to those statistics. I have found that not having a father is by no means easy, but it has made me stronger in ways I never understood until recently. Being angry at the world or at a father who doesn’t care about you is not hurting anyone but you. It won’t be easy to let it go, but it has to be done. The past is called “the past” because it has already passed us by. I try to take the anger and pain of being without a parent and use it to motivate myself. Everyone who knew my father told me I was just like him, and I was determined to prove them all wrong. I will not become a negative statistic, and I hope all of you parentless children reading this article will find peace in knowing you are not really alone.

I didn’t ask to be born without a father, no one does, but there is nothing I or anyone else can do to change their destiny. It breaks my heart to look at the one picture I have of my father, but I can’t let myself become bitter. I need to take a step back every time I have these thoughts and count the things, like my mother, that I have been blessed with.

As much as I want to put my dad behind me and forget all about him, I still wish that there was a way I could tell him that the Muppet Baby Drummer is “Animal.”

I Lost My Sight, Not My Vision

If life’s hard knocks have beat you up to the point that you
rather give up here is a blueprint on how to fight back.

By Gerry Whitted
Staff Writer

Bang! Went the sound in my head when my eye hit the corner of the dresser in my bedroom, after a two-foot free fall. One half of my world went dark instantly and the other half was curious with fear, to find out what happened.

As I removed my hand from my eye to investigate, I realized that the beet red warm liquid sensation in the palm of my hand was blood. I went to the three-quarter-length mirror in the hallway. The reflection I saw alarmed me. I didn’t recognize what used to be my eye, and I knew I was in need of help.

“Oh no,” I said, while my head began to throb and feel like a woodpecker with a headache. I began to bargain with God with the typical, “If you get me through this one I will change.” I began to list some of my shortcomings. If I were to keep my end of the deal I would look like the Second Coming of Jesus Christ.

Do I call 911 or do I look for a neighbor at 8:30 a.m. in this predominantly working class condominium? I chose the latter. I rang the doorbell of Mr. Singh and, as he opened the door, he said with a distinct East Indian accent “Jedee, oh sheet what happened?” I explained and asked if he would take me to the emergency room. He nodded his head yes and put up one finger as to say one moment please.

When he returned, in what seemed like seconds, he was wearing a jacket and I proceeded to my unit to get mine. We moved quickly towards his car on this brisk mid February morning and after a short ride we were in the emergency room. Little did I know that my life was about to change, forever.

The trauma to my eye was so great that, not only was my retina detached, it was outside of the eye. It was determined that I would need specialized surgery and Dr. Stein, one of only five surgeons in Fairfield County qualified, was chosen to perform the task.

By this time my wife, Gail, summoned four of my closest friends. Dwight from the Bronx, Jeff from New Jersey, Mike from New Rochelle and Glenn from Bridgeport. My two sisters, Candice and Judith from New Rochelle and Yonkers, were there, so I was not lacking in the support department.

Dr. Stein, who had examined my eye earlier in the day, came into my room with that positive doctor persona that put us all ease. He put his hands, with manicured nails, on my shoulder and explained the procedure he would use to repair my damaged eye. He also added a piece of information that would crush my world.

Dr. Stein said, “I am not saying give up hope and stop praying, but it is a 99% chance you will not regain the vision in your eye. I’ve done many like this and yet to have one regain their vision. We will know more after the surgery, I just don’t want you to get your hopes up to high.”

I nodded my head and said, “I understand.”

What a blow; I had never felt this way before. At least when my legs were amputated I could get a prosthesis and wheelchair to aid with my mobility. Loss of vision is just that, lost and gone forever.

I would have missed too many classes to go back to school that semester. I would have to quit the Connecticut Wheelchair Basketball team, after training so hard and buying a $1800.00 sports wheelchair. I would have to give up my independence due to not being able to drive. What is the sense of continuing my education? Who is going to hire a no legged wheel chair bound black man with one eye?

The story of my life, it seems, is when things are going great something happens to take away my joy. Did I mention that after almost 25 years of procrastination I decided to go back to college? I even changed my major from Accounting to Journalism after working the corporate offices of IBM, Frito-Lay and The Zales Corp. Obviously my interest changed. Being an auditor was cool but repetitious.

“God what did I do to deserve all of this? Both of my parents are gone, my legs are gone and now my vision. How much more can I take? What more must I do? I try to be a faithful servant to you; yeah I know I can do better. But as I understand it you don’t expect perfection and you will forgive imperfection. Why do I feel you have abandoned me maybe you don’t even exist. Maybe I would be better off being a loser and quitter, while being a negative influence in society. Better yet I’ll stay home and medicate while I am vegetating that would really be cool wouldn’t it? NOT!”

Realizing I had just uttered words questioning the existence of my creator and protector, I grew uncomfortable feeling sorry for myself. I could have lost consciousness and bled to death or I could have hit my temple and died instantly. Though I am one eye from being blind, I am one eye from not being blind. This could have been a lot worse.

At that moment I realized I better make a call before my request to be a loser, quitter and some other negative things I would hate to become. I said “Yo, God you know that conversation we had few minutes ago? I was just venting. I would like to rescind my original request too. Please give me the courage and strength to challenge life’s hardships and challenges in a responsible way.” This was the beginning of the healing process.

After the completion of my successful surgery I called my wife and told her to call school and let them know I would be absent because of surgery. I called my sister Joan and asked her to contact my basketball coach and inform him of the situation.

I returned home after a week of hospitalization and found out how much I had taken for granted. For instance, depth perception, I could not pour any liquid into a glass without concentrating. Cover one of your eyes and do the same and you will fully understand.

My eye healed, and I was cleared to go back to normal duties, whatever that means. The only restrictions were to wear goggles when I played basketball and wear unbreakable lenses in my prescribed glasses.

I went back to school and spoke to my professors to let them know that this was not a visit; I am back. I refused to defer because I was afraid if I chose to, I would never go back. I had to make up at least three weeks of work and, being a full time student,his was going to be a challenge. And a challenge it was.

I could not put it into words for it to justify how hard I worked in spring 2007. I never gave up, though at times I didn’t think I would succeed, but I did.

I finished with a 3.20GPA, so you see there is room for improvement. If I gave up I would never feel the joy that has engulfed my life. Yeah, I have my bad days, but I realize the great days are right around the bend.

This summer I created a newsletter for our condominium tenants, something that has been in the works for about two years. I am still having eye examinations on a regular basis and it was determined I would need a prosthetic eye to make me handsome again.

I have gained a renewed excitement and appreciation for education that has been absent for years. So much that I am, once again, a full time student and working ever so close to meeting my goal to graduate in May 2008.

Changing Currents

As we mature, familiar places take on different faces.

“Long, long be my heart with such memories fill’d! Like the vase in which roses have once been distill’d: You may break, you may shatter the vase if you will, But the scent of the roses will hang round it still.” - Thomas Moore, Farewell! But Whenever You Welcome the Hour


By Brandon T. Bisceglia
Op/Ed Editor

One recent afternoon, I had to run to the office supply store and pick up an ink cartridge that I desperately needed for a project due the next day. It was no big deal – at this point in my life, I’m accustomed to rushing.

After retrieving the item, I noticed that the sun was going down, and became momentarily nostalgic. On a whim, I changed course, and drove to my favorite haunt: the boat launch in my hometown.

Photograph by Brandon T. Bisceglia

The boat launch is essentially the parking lot termination of a dead-end street. The pavement at one point falls into the marshland mouth of the Housatonic River, which serves as the demarcation between Stratford and Milford, CT – and also Fairfield and New Haven counties. I imagined in my youth that the road must continue under the water, and up the other side of the river. Later, of course, I understood that one would drown.

The rest of the area known as the launch includes several small piers used mainly for fishing and small sail or motor boats. In summer, the parking lot also houses an outdoor restaurant that was once owned by an older Greek fellow who used to sexually harass my high school girlfriend when she worked for him. It’s okay, though; she quit, and I never liked the food much anyhow.

What has always attracted me most to this spot throughout my life is the relative solitude. As a teenager, I would walk down the precipitous rails and planks, and sit on one of the floating docks that wavered near the shore, letting the currents pull me back and forth. Once I owned a car, I would spend my Sunday evenings parked in front of a swath of reeds at one end of the lot, listening to ambient music and watching the wind roll over the stalks as bugs twirled in the infinitely far-off street lamps. If I was up early enough on certain mornings, I would catch the sun rising over the river, painting it in ascending hues.

The boat launch is popular among the locals during the summer. The fishermen prop their poles in chunks of white PVC tubing that are mounted on the pier, then idle through cigarettes as they wait for their lines to bend. Occasional patrons picnic in their cars or on one of the benches scattered around the area. And on the river, the paper wisps of sails glide blissfully down the lolling waters.

During other seasons, though, the place is mine alone, and that is when I enjoy it most. The frosted grasses in winter, the near desolation of autumn – the area tells different stories at different times.

One late October, for instance, a series of torrential rains over the period of a few days flooded certain sections of the town. In the evening, during a lull in the precipitation, I stopped at the launch, parking perhaps 40 feet from the gentle slope where the pavement was subsumed by the river. I watched as it spread slowly outward, crawling up and over the parking lot. I was mesmerized by the sight of the black liquid that, with measured complacency, rose to replace the solid blacktop. Only when it had come well past the limits of my vehicle could I compel myself to discontinue my presence in this ominously beautiful scene.

Throughout the procession of seasons and years, the boat launch has seemed only to change cyclically, remaining in an overall sense the same. Time draws into the more familiar natural step that I expect of it, and stretches out in expanses as endless as the gulf where the river continuously meets the salty ocean.

It was that broadening circular sensation that drew me on my detour from the store.

I sat on the fringe of a wooden walkway, eavesdropping on the entire world. A stocky, gruff fisher walked past me with his bucket and tools, stopping a short distance off to chat with another man who’d just arrived.

“Catch anythin’?”

“Nah.”

“Long y’ben here?”

“Couple’a hours. Not much doin’ today – yuh just get here?”

“Yeah.”

“Good luck.”

As the two went their separate ways, their conversation sparked images I had never associated with this place. I saw depleted fish counts from the pollution upstream, and remembered that the organization American Rivers listed the Housatonic as the 7 th most endangered river in the nation in 2004. I saw the spreading dead zones in the Hudson Bay, and finally, the awesome cesspool that Long Island Sound – where the Housatonic makes its exit - had become. I recalled the tracking of these trends, the alarm and debate all of these issues had spurred. It was all connected, of course, and I’d always known of the environmental problems that coursed deep within the waters of the area. Until that moment, however, such concerns had not intruded on my reveries. Now they sent me on tangents of cogitation.

The walls of my mental sanctuary fell, and I understood that it, too, was part of the forward projection, no longer an isolated realm.

Fish stocks might return. The river would eventually wash itself clean, if given the chance. But a deeper truth lay in the fact that, even if this rejuvenation were to happen, the boat launch could never be the same. Just as Pangaea would never reconstruct itself, just as Neanderthal man had been lost forever on the precipices of the Iberian Peninsula.

Like the phoenix, the reborn river would be a new and different creature.

With this insight in mind, I bid salut et adieu to a place that could no longer match my memory of it. And as I drove away, I realized something else – I still loved it anyway.

Being Imperfect and Loving It

After being diagnosed with a rare birth defect, I discovered that not being perfect is wonderful.

By Samantha Bratz

Editor-at-Large

This is a brain scan showing Arnold Chiari Malformation Type I
Photo courtesy of www.uchsc.edu

I remember like it was yesterday, the terrible pain shooting through my head, the sound of water rushing in my ears. I knew something was wrong but I didn’t know what. I had been to the pediatrician several times over the last few months, but my doctor could not figure out what was wrong with me so he pawned me off to the nurse practitioners in the office. They all said it was “growing pains,” and since I was 14, I was probably just feeling stress from starting high school.

Every other month or so I would end up back in the doctor’s office complaining that the headaches were getting worse and that I was constantly hearing rushing water in my ears. My list of complaints started to grow - I felt off balance all the time (my friends said I looked drunk when I walked down the hall at school), some days I would be incredibly nauseous while others I would be extremely tired. There would be days where I would come home from school, do my homework, take a shower and then be in bed by 6:30 because my head hurt so bad. I would sleep anywhere from six to ten hours a night, and I would wake up exhausted the next day. I knew something was wrong, but my doctor completely dismissed anything I had to say; he would just send me to have blood work done and each time the results came back showing nothing was wrong.

After months of tracking how severe the headaches were along with what I ate and did every day, my doctor still could not figure out what was wrong with me. At this time I could no longer bear the headaches and with the help of my mom we were able to get my doctor to see that there was really something wrong with me. He suggested I see a neurologist to “rule out a brain tumor as the cause of the headaches” – as he nonchalantly put it. I then became a patient of Dr. Peter McAllister. He reviewed my symptoms and after about 45 minutes of talking he made a referral for me to have an MRI.

When the results from the MRI came in he sat my mom and I down and said “I have good news and I have bad news. The good news is you don’t have a brain tumor. The bad news is that you have Arnold Chiari Malformation Type I (ACM I) and Pseudo Tumor Cerebri (PTC).” According to the National Organization for Rare Disorders (NORD) website www.rarediseases.org, “Arnold-Chiari Malformation is a rare malformation of the brain that is sometimes, but not always, apparent at birth. It is characterized by abnormalities in the area where the brain and spinal cord meet that cause part of the cerebellum to protrude through the bottom of the skull (foramen magnum) into the spinal canal.” In layman’s terms, I was born with part of my brain in my spinal cord. Normally the brain rests on the spinal cord, but, my cerebellum is slightly protruding into my spinal cord, therefore my coordination skills and equilibrium are off.

As for the PTC, it literally means “fake tumor.” According to www.ninds.nih.gov, PTC “is likely due to high pressure caused by the buildup or poor absorption of cerebrospinal fluid in the subarachnoid space surrounding the brain. The disorder is most common in women between the ages of 20 and 50.” PTC in basic english means that I have a big ball of pressure behind my eyes. This built up pressure can cause vision loss, which happens to be the major risk with this disorder. PTC is also to blame for the nausea, some of the headache pain, and the sound of rushing water in my ears.

I will always remember the day Dr. McAllister told me what was causing the headaches and all my other problems. I wasn’t upset or worried; I was ecstatic. I finally had an answer. I could actually go on to the next step and get treatment. Maybe I could actually lead a somewhat normal life that didn’t revolve around pain and exhaustion. I will also always remember looking over at my mom and watching her cry. She felt bad that I had suffered so much and she blamed herself for it. I got her a tissue and sat down next to her and said, “it’s not your fault. This was how I was born. There was nothing you could do to prevent it.”

As we left the doctor’s office I started to think “if I have a birth defect then that makes me a defective person. I’m imperfect. I will NEVER be perfect.” I was upset, but as time went on and I grew older I started to realize that nobody is perfect. Everybody has flaws – whether their feet are too big or they have a narcissistic personality. Perfection is what you believe it is. I no longer think of myself as a defect. I joke around about having ACM I and PTC all the time. In high school I wrote about having ACM I for my scholarship essay, and when I was awarded my scholarship I said to my mom “it’s all thanks to Arnold.” She just gave me a look and laughed.

Today I am a healthy 21-year-old college student. I get headaches from time to time, but I have learned ways to handle them. I have learned how to handle stress so it does not cause headaches. I sew, read or I listen to music when I’m stressed. With the help of medication I was able to get the ACM I and PTC under control and I have not needed to see Dr. McAllister since I was in high school.

I think of myself as unique. I figure not many people can go around saying they were born with a part of their brain in their spinal cord. Not everybody can thank dear old Arnold for getting them a college scholarship. I figure I’ll never be alone; I will always have Arnold. I’m special – because I choose to be. I have my flaws like everybody else; I can be obnoxious at times, I chew with my mouth open, and I tend to crack jokes when I attend funerals. I don’t really think of my flaws as “flaws”. They are extensions of my uniqueness. They are distinctive qualities that I possess that make me one of a kind. My imperfections make me perfect; they show that I am human. In the end I have found that yes, I am imperfect and I wouldn’t want it any other way.