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

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

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

Powered by Podbean.com

Job Outlook Bleak for HCC Students and Faculty

By Stephen A. Miller
Staff Writer

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Forced Vacation: Three Days in Ohio

By Brandon T. Bisceglia
Co-Editor in Chief

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It sounded like this: scruuuunnnnnck!

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

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

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

“Only about two miles,” Val replied.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh.” I didn’t know what else to say.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

About a mile onto the highway, my Daewoo expired.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And then what happened?”

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Okay, thanks again.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I agreed.

Continuum 6: Shake-ing Things Up

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

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

Powered by Podbean.com

Continuum 5: Plays, Pagans, and Participation

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

Powered by Podbean.com

Dad I Miss You

By Gerry Whitted
Senior Staff Writer

Hey Dad,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, the Places You’ll Go

By Victor Rios

Co-Editor in Chief

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Coming to America

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Open Your Ears and Hear the News

By Nathaniel Greenhall
Staff Writer

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

High Expectations

By Sania Mathakutha
Staff Writer

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My Brief History of Time

By Dan Otzel
Senior Staff Writer

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

How a wasteland of agony led to triumphant understanding.

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

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

What the hell could go wrong?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then there’s the depression.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So, I decided to come back to HCC.

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

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

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

I just can’t help but wonder:

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

Stuck on Repeat

By Anonymous
Staff Writer

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Continuum 4: Cleaning Up in a Recession

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

Powered by Podbean.com

Waiting for a Happy Ending

By Stephanie Mallozzi
Staff Writer

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When does it all stop?

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

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

My Life in 3-D

By Peter Glagowski
Staff Writer

What it's like to grow up a gamer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Continuum 3 - HCC Club Day

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

Powered by Podbean.com

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

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

Powered by Podbean.com

Continuum 1 - An Interview with New Co-Editor in Chief, Victor Rios

Horizons new co-editor in chief, Victor Rios, discusses his foray into journalism and his views on the college newspaper business with host Brandon T. Bisceglia.

Powered by Podbean.com

How to Live with Squirrels

By Sania Mathakutha
Staff Writer

Image courtesy of www.freewebs.com/playingsquirrels.

Standing by your kitchen door one morning, you notice a gray squirrel in the yard, busily tucking fallen leaves between his throat and chest.

“Ah, he’s making a nest. Isn’t that nice?”

Carefully tending its load, the squirrel hops over the tree outside your window and scrambles out of sight. But what was that “thump” on the roof? You hear the sounds of little toenails scrambling across the shingles, and...oh no! A rustling in the attic! You rush outside and find a neat little hole chewed in the lattice vent of the roof peak. Your attic has become a squirrel den.

“For two days I could hear some noises coming from between the walls in my kitchen. It might have been a baby squirrel looking for food. It has been quiet lately; I hope he didn’t get stuck and die. I will know when I start smelling something,” laughs Mrs. Applegate of Stratford.

There are two common types of squirrels in the U.S.: abert (grey) squirrels and pine (red) squirrels. Grey squirrels are distinguished from red squirrels by their grey fur, smaller ear tufts and their larger, more robust build. Grey squirrels sit with their large bushy tail arched over the back. Female squirrels produce a litter of about three young in the spring or late summer, after a gestation period of 42-45 days. The young are weaned after 10 weeks and are independent at 16 weeks.

Living with squirrels can be challenging. “I knocked one over with my car one day. Believe me, it was an accident. There was nothing I could do. I think they are cute; I like them,” says Amina Hajji, a nursing major at HCC.

Squirrels are fun to watch until they start damaging plants and property. They rank high on the animals reported to be yard and garden pests. They dig up bulbs, uproot potted plants, monopolize bird feeders, dig holes in the lawn and steal tomatoes and other fruits. They find flower gardens very attractive. Sometimes they shed bark on tree branches - or gnaw on sidings and get into the attic. Large patches where bark has been removed should be coated with tree-pruning paint. Occasionally they chew electric wiring and causes short circuits and sometimes fires.

When squirrels target a particular plant or steal fruits and vegetables, you may be able to foil them by building a fence or cage over the affected plants. Offering an alternative source of food such as corn, nuts or sunflower seeds might distract the squirrels from bulbs and other valuable plants. However, alternative feed as well as bird feeding may also increase the number of squirrels that visit the yard. In some cases it might be best to eliminate feeding altogether.

In general, squirrels carry no diseases that are easily transmitted to humans. They are subject to rabies; however, rabies in squirrels is very rare. Any squirrel that is exceedingly aggressive, lethargic, has trouble moving, or is immobile should be avoided.