summer 2010 collegiate scholar

The Collegiate Scholar - Summer 2010

Table of Contents

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Art Ailieu.......................................................................................................................................3 Broken Art...............................................................................................................................5 Loves Me Not..........................................................................................................................4 Sunset.....................................................................................................................................6 Waiting to Jump......................................................................................................................7 Poetry United by a Dream..................................................................................................................8 Injustice..................................................................................................................................10 Thresher into Grey..................................................................................................................12 Mirrors....................................................................................................................................15 Suspend your Disbelief...........................................................................................................18 Pop Culture Rhetoric of Media and the Droid Smartphone Campaign......................................................19 Accept Friend Request: Ruining Relationships........................................................................22

Autobiography Irony........................................................................................................................................27 Confession: I Have No Life Plan...............................................................................................31 Skyline.....................................................................................................................................33

Short Story Baptisms.................................................................................................................................36 Les Montagnards....................................................................................................................42 Old Men..................................................................................................................................50 The Wedding Guests...............................................................................................................57

Political Arizona Immigration Law 1070: An Arizona Officer’s Perspective..............................62

College Life Going Back to School at your Age?.............................................................................68 A Battle Against Time..................................................................................................70


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AilieuBy: Josey Lee

Pennsylvania State University


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Loves Me NotBy: Anna-Maria Janikowski

Wayne State University


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Broken ArtBy: Sean Redmond

Temple University


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SunsetBy: Laura Brond

The College of William & Mary

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The Collegiate Scholar - Spring 2010

Waiting to JumpBy: Sadye Sagov

Brandeis University


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United By A DreamBy: Chandler Oliphant

Fairfield University

What were they thinking on that late August day in 1963?as the young girl wrapped her slender

Brown armsaround her father’s sweaty, dark neck,

did she know that the man’s hat had meaning?The man that stood next to her in the crowd

with “Freedom Now” on his head,the man that refused to stand

in the shadows of the Lincoln Memorialbecause he believed he deserved to stand in the light of the sun.

Belief.Light.

Freedom.As the young girl wrapped her slender

Brown armsaround her father’s sweaty, dark neck,

did she understand the strong man’s messageas he stood at the head of the crowd

to speak about his Dreams?Or had she been Dreaming herself

on her father’s broad, black shoulders,unaware that she was living history,

unaware that the Dreams of the deep-voiced manwere her Dreams, too?

Dreams for her to live her own life.Dreams for her to find freedom in the future.


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Dreams for her generationand Dreams for her own children’s generation, too.

Although, as a child, she may not have noticedthat the man with a Dream had been correct

when he said that “1963 is not an end, but a beginning,”

she has to realize it now, for this man’s Dreams have taught as all that

in a world comprised of pain, WE can learn to heal.

That in a world comprised of persecution,WE can learn to overcome.

That in a world comprised of problems,WE can learn to solve.

And that in a world comprised of diversity and color,

WE can find peace in the beauty of a rainbow.But only WE have the power.

Not me or you.Not him or her.

Not them, but us.WE.

Together. For, like the man at the podium who spoke of his dreams,

Together is strengthand Together is power.

In a world comprised of difference,WE must realize that we are connected by our dreams.


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Injustice By: Jessica Rusher

Morehead State University

Often wonder often wonder why

there are so many cracks in the tiling of your floors

tiles of a chess board black and white right and wrong

morality and corruption no wings of grey between to fold the child in sleep

Cannot forget

cannot seem to forget one color lingered there

the red of a bloodstained floor of a harlot’s lips

of lust boiled to obsession of silk on a night stand

of petals in a diary of cherries in a bowl

placed in photographic light

Will stare will stare at that spot

where the catalyst flowed how it devoured the floor


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with its cracks and its walls with their madness

and eyes with hypnosis as that red flower grew

and bloomed from the ceiling and cried into the sky

Have remembered

have always remembered the plumes of smoke and feathers of ash

as the red flower enveloped you you laughed and hid your face

the wretched world with its havens of grey

and the people who would cut off their ears to spare their hearts

Turned away

turned away slowly as that red flower withered

and shadows dispersed a mind with only pity to offer

your urn a flower garden ashes all contained

after the bell decreed silence from some intangible zenith

sounded the cry,

“In memory, in memory are the fires of February.”


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Thresher into GreyBy: Joseph Cavera

Stony Brook University

I arose just as any man would this dayTo see the waves of longevic ageDance tirelessly on Earth’s stage

Crashing incessantly in a sea of gray

Lieutenant’s cries were enoughTo wake even those residing in the sick bay

To the task of tidying bunks and sayConditions never improve, only grow rough.

Drummed out to docks, calling the bluffOf the hope I’d get to view

Listed men to run the controls, select fewwho could send her beneath, presumably buff?

Surely this was not, the intended ‘who’,Scratched out on the wall,

Names not of all,In coastal Blue.

Reporting in to answer the call,my mates and I, weren’t quite rapt

to try her as she may- our need to adaptat the unsteady controls, causing the stall.

Immediately into the corridor, one feels trapped,


pervaded with White walls, at all sidesNearly numerous as the tides,

After many days, preceding crews snapped.

on my station, a control on slidesposition scanner, running through

the waves who held answers vital tothe completion of these test rides.

Coordinates flying across by twoFlash on the screen, appearing in red.

Skylark ship flies overhead,Couldn’t be safer, or so we knew…

The lines fell low, this is what ledOur techies to discover the direction, too high

to be fixed, this ship couldn’t fly,unless we lowered the hull, before hope fled.

Deeper we fell, leaving scream to rise over sigh.She left one hope, a separate detachment up there,

to take none but two to the sacrosanct air,My only chance, waving to the Skylark, goodbye

Sprinting across the flooded hull, no where else could I stareBut the isolated chamber, just a few feet at a distance

Rushing with my strength, felt aqueous resistanceUntil I dove in, and jettisoned out of there…

Flying upward, with accelerating constance,

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my sea shuttle did witness more…those who fell beneath, unto the abyssal floornever to rise above, assume a dismal stance.

All motion stopped, silencing the jetty’s roarthat had drowned out the fear…and the dismay

Of those who forever beneath the waves would lay,just as my craft unloaded, in tears, on the shore…

Then I arose, just as any man would that dayTo see the waves of longevic ageDance tirelessly on Earth’s stage

Crashing eternally in a sea of Grey


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MirrorsBy: Leyla Hadi

Cornell University

My namesake is a terrorist,

or a freedom fighter; like anchovies,

the thought of her is either repellent or relished.

I pronounce it Lehla.

You pronounce it Layla –

So now I hesitate before I say, “Hi, I’m…”

She wears a Palestinian scarf,

a red and white checkered keffiyeh,

enwrapping her sepia throat.

The cloth caresses her ear

and casually coils over her jet-black hair,

finding its route back to the beginning.

She holds a Kalashnikov like her baby:

naturally and protectively she embraces

this sociopath of a child, soon-to-be serial killer.

There leers no regret in her inky eyes,


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but an archer’s poised stance, a toxophilite

perpendicular to its target, feet shoulder-width apart.

She carries the freedom of her people

like a trophy collected with dust

from an era too far passed.

Her cause becomes the poetry on which she leans,

in which she bathes,

through which her voice has volume.

I have no churches for which I would

sacrifice my limbs to rusty nails and wooden alters,

or for which I would give up alcohol.

I have no prophets for whom I could

wear a vest of wires to ignite the marrow

inside the faces that I must make nameless.

I hear no tambourines in the uproar of explosions

and plane crashes, fearful implorations for

second chances, or the Allah-Hu-Akbars before pulling triggers.

But I have you –

my chapel, my bread, my wine;


my country, my flag, my monarchy.

Your bones are my stanzas,

Your breath is my alliteration,

Your heartbeat is my rhythm.

You are my poetry,

and for you, I am a soldier.

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Suspend Your DisbeliefBy: Simon Diamond Cramer

Brandeis University

Tell me– have you ever smashed a window?

It’s not like in the films. Glass shards are knives,

A storm of razors, a sanguine promise

Borne by glittering wings on wild wind.

So why can action heroes plow right through

In the event they need to kick some ass?

I’ll tell you why – it’s ‘cause of sugar glass,

A pane of fragile sweetness made to break.

That’s just their kind of world, that’s how it spins:

Sweet and simple, hot and cold, black and white;

The villain gloats his plan, the hero wins,

And we can always tell who’s in the right.

No question of morals, no way to say

That things could ever be another way.


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Rhetoric of Media and the Droid Smartphone

Campaign

By: Anna Epstein

Tulane University

While surfing channels last week in my dorm, I came across an advertisement packed with

special effects. I wondered what this could possibly be trying to sell and finally, towards the end of the

commercial, it boasted that the advertisement was for Verizon’s newest smartphone: the Motorola

Droid. Later on that week, while reading Cosmopolitan, I noticed a magazine ad for the Droid. I knew

that this could be an interesting option to write on, due to the fact that Verizon has put in a great deal

of advertising for this smartphone. After really digging into several advertisements, reviews, and other

media exposure that the Droid has been a part of, I’ve come to the conclusion that the Droid advertising

campaign is a good example of the use of rhetoric in visual media.

Motorola’s Droid is the newest ad campaign to McGarry Bowen’s successful agency, which has

worked on other hit campaigns, such as Pfizer, Kraft, Viagra, and Chantix. The Droid is designed to target

the tech-savvy, young adult man. Thus, this phone’s main competition is the smash-hit iPhone. Based on

its website, the Droid is far superior due to its “fast-processing, big screen, swap batteries, thousands of


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apps at break-neck speed, Google android software, and exclusivity to Verizon Wireless.”

The Droid is advertised through several different media. Phillip Elmer-DeWitt, who has been

covering Apple since 1982, describes advertisements for the Droid as “a carpet-bombing ad campaign.” He

goes on to say that it is “the largest in Verizon history” and that “it will receive an estimated 100 million in

support, most of it spent before the end of the year.” Therefore, Verizon is putting a great deal of time and

investment into the Droid’s ad campaign. Even I viewed a total of three Droid ads in one week by accident.

The Droid and the best-selling iPhone’s ad campaigns differ greatly in their target markets. It is

easy for one to notice that the Droid is heavily catered towards males unlike the gender-neutral colorful

and melodic iPhone ads. Verizon’s YouTube homepage swanks four different television ads for the Droid,

all involving special effects and male motifs, such as science fiction and robotics. Droids are robots seen in

Star Wars, Doctor Who, and Ben 10. Once again, this is a very masculine reference.

While making this claim, I almost had to question myself, due to the magazine ad I came across

in Cosmopolitan, a heavily female dominant medium. Sure enough, when I went back to check where I

had ripped out the Droid advertisement, I noticed that it was placed right next to the “guywatch” section,

which is the five-page part of the magazine that women who read Cosmo show to their significant others.

The Droid ad was strategically placed right after “guywatch” due to the fact that males are its target-

market. The ad even uses masculine diction to reel in its target market with words such as “unleash digital

bloodhounds, overdrive, mashes, fuel, and canine-precise detection,” as well as typically male colors such

as grey, black, and red. Finally, the last piece of evidence I discovered to support this conclusion was that

the third Droid ad I spotted in one week was directly under the score-box on ESPN’s homepage. Although


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I am a female, an overwhelming number of males check the ESPN homepage several times a day, providing

the Droid with an unmatched amount of exposure to the male population.

In conclusion, the Droid ads exemplify much of the advertising that our society puts on to add

to our “capitalistic economy, which has a system that must continually be filled with money.” Yes, the

ads boast the phone’s sleek features such as an attractive big screen. The Droid has even been featured

on “the best real estate there is,” Google’s homepage. However, Bill Ho, an analyst for Current Analysis,

states: “”It skews heavily male, and I don’t gauge it as an iPhone killer. It’s a good iPhone defender; Verizon

needs it to stop the bleeding, but I don’t see it pulling people from other carriers.” This quotation is a

good descriptor of the use of “empty rhetoric” in the campaign. The special effects and testosterone-

packed visuals are enticing and interesting; however, they elucidate an imagination that fails to address the

realistic moral and ethical sides of what it asserts.


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Accept Friend Request: Ruining Relationships

By: Leah Bishop

Kennesaw State University

A typical teenager’s life works like clockwork. They wake up, eat breakfast, go to school or classes,

have lunch, go to work, come home, do homework, and go to sleep. But somewhere in between that

time, teenagers find a way to log onto the Internet and check e-mail, look something up, and chat with

a few friends on Facebook while changing their status to keep their friends up-to-date on what they are

doing. Millions, probably even billions, of both adolescence and young adults waste precious time on

a social networking site every day. While social networking sites can improve a close relationship, they

also have the power to destroy a person’s relationship with a friend or a romantic partner. Despite what

people say about social networking, not all relationships are improved by Facebook, MySpace, Twitter or

other online social networks. They can mean the downfall of trust, honesty, and emotional bonds that

make-up the relationship(s) that we have with people around us. The human mind does not comprehend

written words like actions and body language that the speaker and listener give off when interaction

occurs. The Internet takes on a feeling that seems neutral and does not allow the mind to process a

feeling or emotion that humans need to remain healthy in life; thus, a relationship that takes place online

or offline is affected drastically.

Facebook and similar online social networks have become an essential part of a person’s daily life,


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especially if that person is a teenager or young adult. Nearly every day, people all over the world log

onto an online social network, whether the site is Facebook, MySpace, or an online gaming social site

such as World of Warcraft, Gaia Online, or Habbo Hotel. Since the rise of one of the most popular social

networks, Facebook, the site has at least “250 million hits [daily, which has caused it to rank] ninth in

overall traffic on the Internet” (Bugeja 1). The site was originally created to help college students keep

in contact, but soon after the launch of the site, anyone with an e-mail address could create a profile if

they were over the age of thirteen (Bergstrom 3). Thanks to the invention of not the Internet, but the

HTML, Java, and pixels that make up social networking sites today, people are now more accessible and

up-to-date with current events than ever. As well as being more up-to-date with events, the simple act

of communication has increased and so has the number of “friends” that a person has, which “easily

becomes much larger than traditional offline networks” (Tong 538). The ratio of online friendships to

traditional and close friendship is 272: 20, but does this mean that as humans we have more friends

(Tong 538)? Now that social networks have included buttons such as “Add as Friend” or “Follow,” the

word friend is just another word and does not have a meaning anymore. With the number of friends

increasing everyday on the online social network sites, humans have lost sight of what is in front of them:

their real friends that want to see more than a pretty picture or a status; the friends that want to have a

face-to-face conversation.

When online social networking is used, the same interaction that a person has with another

person is not the same; one is unable to truly understand what is being said, how the body moves, and

their reaction to what is being said or the response that is received. As humans, we need to learn to


maintain a healthy social group in order to lead to a healthy lifestyle but “internet usage [has led to] a

negative [impact on] relationships [because …] social networks are not as strong as traditional networks”

and does not provide the best emotional support possible (Acar 66). The “Internet’s peer-to-peer [social]

architecture” called social networking does not allow a human to truly express an emotion through mere

words (Anderson 390). Body language personates the conversation that is executed between the two,

three, or more persons in the conversation. Relationships, particularly friendships and romantic bonds,

are affected because of the miscommunication in social networking, which is relied upon constantly,

does not have the same impact on a person that social interactions do.

Social interactions are not necessarily weakening bonds between people but instead they

are being misinterpreted by the lack of signals and actions, thus causing a negative outcome. Online

conversations are nothing more than words, emoticons, and capital letters used to express ones emotion

and actions. Although most ideas are able to get through to the reader, the human mind does not

fully comprehend what that person is trying to tell us because “there are no[t any] emotions [attached

to] the conversation and things [that are] typed [are usually] misinterpreted” (Pohlkamp). The phrase

“actions speak louder than words” applies to communication in general. When people communicate

through speech and words, the social context is difficult to understand because basic signals, such as

body language, is needed to show the person what we are trying to express. Since our body is constantly

giving off signals to those around us, whether they are a friend or not, simple gestures could signify the

most complex meaning available. Gestures in social interaction can signify an interest, insult, deception,

dominance, and most all, signs of friendships or romantic interest (“Signals” 2). Along with gestures, a

view that one may have of a person is not the same if they met online. When people meet in the virtual

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world, a person can easily be someone they are not and when the two people meet in real life, the

persona they give off will not always “live up to the expectations [that one has been told about] and

what [they are] really like” (Rose).

Verbal communication and gestures are important aspects that are needed when trying to make

a connection with someone. We want to be able to talk to close friends about what we are doing,

who we are dating, and how we are functioning in everyday life. Social networking has taken away this

ability because when a person changes their status to “In a Relationship” everyone knows while if one

may want to keep the relationship personal, the public can now see that they are not and may cause

unwanted attention. Romantic relationships can be affected greatly by the online social networking

system. There was once a time when “romantic relationships were fostered by the man visiting the

woman,” also known as courting (Bishop). The art of letters has disappeared along with the feeling

and heart behind them, and has moved on to online dating. Online dating sites can lead to a variety of

problems such as lack of physical “attraction and intimacy with another person” until the two persons

meet, and even then face-to-face interaction can cause a person to “disconnect when [they go on

dates or hang] out” in public (Merkle 188; Singleton). Relationships with a significant other can also be

affected through “online cheating.” A person of the opposite sex could cheat on their spouse without

them knowing, but their mistakes can be found through messages, wall posts, and worst of all, pictures.

If one of the significant others did not have a Facebook, they miss out on a part of the other person’s

life or they can have two significant others at the same time. When a person can have two wives or

husbands at the same time because of social networking, both relationships can escalate to the point


where either one or both of the relationships are affected in negative ways (Macgill).

The creation of Facebook, MySpace, or World of Warcraft is not necessarily bad but they have led

to the decline of real face-to-face interaction with those around us. In this age in technology, humans can

now keep track of status updates on their mobile phones, smart phones, and laptops where ever they go.

Photos are uploaded to our profiles every few days in hopes that we catch the glimpse of the all cute guys

out of the 251 “friends” we supposedly know. The word acquaintance does not seem to exist anymore

because they now become our “friends” when we seem to know nothing about them or barely have

anything in common. We have lost the values that friendships and romantic relationships used to bring

and they are now replaced with simple chats, emoticons, and conversations that seem to be deprived of

feeling. What happened to the time when the Internet was merely used for research? What happened to

the phone calls and letters that we grew excited to receive? The interaction with humans face-to-face is

desperately missed, and while the days of online social networking are just beginning, we can still revive

face-to-face interaction by turning off the computer, picking up the phone, and calling up that special

someone to hang out with.


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Irony

by Ariel Siegelman

Pennsylvania State University

“Ariel, this is Tarik. He’s Palestinian. Tarik, this is Ariel, she’s Jewish.”

It was a rather awkward way to meet, in the same way it’s awkward to face your sibling: You’re related, but

you’re rivals.

But the way Tarik and I sort of averted eyes, the tension hanging heavy over our heads, made us already

have a sort of connection. “Really, Jeff?” was the thought in both of our minds. Still, we had our stiff nods

and polite hellos and humored our dear friend Jeff by—lightly—discussing the Israeli-Palestinian Conflict.

“Mom, why can’t the Palestinians just get along with us?”

“I know. I know.”

I recall that years-old conversation distinctly: Me, a young, wide-eyed child trying to comprehend the

elevating Israeli-Palestinian Conflict; my mom, pulling into a glowing McDonald’s, attempting to explain it

in simple terms so that I could understand. Since that day and my subsequent education on the matter, I’ve

learned that “simple” isn’t exactly an accurate description of the Conflict. Even with this understanding, for

most of my life, I was convinced that the Palestinians were “the bad guys” and that everything Israel did


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was just. I never had to question this and always rationalized when hearing criticisms from the other side.

When Tarik and I really started becoming friends and began talking more, we mostly avoided the subject.

We’d rather sit in Jeff’s comfy single room and talk about music and stencils and math (well, they mostly

talked about the math). But when Jeff went abroad the next semester, the subject was inevitably on our

mental list of possible conversation topics.

First, I presented my view, my knowledge mostly consisting of information about the 2009 Israel-Gaza

skirmish, since I had attended a lecture about it. I was a Zionist; I was under the impression that if I’m a

Jew, then I have to be a Zionist. I’d visited Israel, and even though I’m not religious, I supported the idea of

the long-persecuted Jews having a haven.

Then Tarik began to tell me some of Israel’s actions in the occupied territories—incidents that had

happened to his relatives and friends who still lived in the West Bank. Soon I realized that there really

wasn’t much I could say in order to defend Israel on these specific incidents. As the year went on, through

watching him bow solemnly on a prayer mat, tasting a delicious Middle Eastern dish called mansaf, and

our occasional discussions on the topic, I found myself beginning to sympathize with the hardened look

Tarik got in his eyes every time we talked about it.

When I was in high school, every year a few other high school students and I helped an old veteran put

flags on all the veterans’ graves in town for Memorial Day. The summer after that school year ended, a

neighbor of mine asked me if I could put some final flags in the Jewish cemetery near my house. It wasn’t


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a big deal, so I agreed. Plus, it was an opportunity to lay a few rocks on the grave of my childhood nanny,

Maria, who had faced her own hardships during her lifetime and had narrowly escaped the Holocaust.

After I paid my respects at Maria’s grave, I began searching throughout the tiny cemetery for the seven

names—those who had risked their lives for their country. Most of them were easy to find, and I stuck the

flags into the tough earth as best as I could, giving each one an acknowledging nod as my thank you. But

as I looked for the last couple graves, two miniature tombstones caught my eye.

When I read the names and dates, my heart sank, and I let the early summer wind be the only noise as

I stood there in somber silence. One of them had died after only two months of living, and according to

the dates, I assumed that the mother had gotten pregnant again very soon afterwards. The next child only

lived for eight days. I lingered there at that spot, gazing at the names—motionless—as I attempted to

fathom the pain that mother must have suffered. It was simply unimaginable.

Touched, I sent a couple of texts to my closest friends about it, including Tarik.

His response:

“My dad actually had a sister who died around that age… Family doesn’t like to talk about it, but I know it

had something to do with an Israeli blockade in 1967 and they weren’t able to get groceries…”

My stomach dropped. It was at this moment that I truly realized how these sorts of incidents make it


impossible for both sides to remain unbiased about the issues at hand. Tarik could have had another aunt,

and additionally, another uncle, more cousins. And not only are there many Israelis, but so many people

of every nationality, every religion, every race who can say the same because of similar dilemmas.

I do not know a solution to the Conflict, although at this point, I do believe that Israel should continue

to exist. But all I know is that, despite our opinions, we have not only enlightened each other about our

cultures, but we’ve also found in each other confidantes, conversationalists—and the best of friends. I

could not imagine my life without Tarik as one of my most trusted, closest friends, and I hope that we

continue this for many more years to come, even as the Conflict carries on.

The irony is truly something beautiful.


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Confession: I Have No Life Plan

By: Brenda Shepard

George Mason University

Confession: I have no life plan. I’m a college senior and I still do not know what I want to pursue

after I walk across the stage at graduation.

Maybe someday I’ll stumble upon some ancient civilization that I find mesmerizing, or a scientific

theory that I can really buy into. Until then, all I really know is:

1) I enjoy watching both the Travel Channel and History Channel,

2) I love discovering new music (and rediscovering great, vintage tunes), and

3) Most nights I’d rather watch a movie than the news.

Perhaps someone out there can tell me what I could do with those three passions, because I am

only more frustrated with each passing day.

Throughout this past semester, in classes and work, I have been told that I need to find my niche

and go with it. Find my niche? I’m 21 years old. My niche right now is having a few drinks with friends,

getting homework turned in on time and trying to get to the gym.

I am not worldly. I haven’t traveled nearly as much as I want to and I don’t speak a foreign

language (well). There are people around the world who are going through tremendous hardships

and my biggest worry is that I’ll sleep through my alarm clock. Famine, lack of clean drinking water,


genocides—these are real issues. How can I worry about my future when there are others around the

world that may not live past the weekend?

My response to those who ask, “What do you want to do after college?” will simply have to be “I

don’t know.” At least for now, that’s the best answer I have. There will be time to lose sleep, tossing and

turning with concern. For now there are other matters to worry about without throwing mine in the mix.

People come to America for opportunity and a chance to thrive. While we are here, we might as

well enjoy the luxuries we do have. If you have a roof over your head, be grateful. If you have access to

clean water, drink up. I suggest we enjoy what we do have in this moment, and take ample time to figure

out what to do with the rest of our lives. After all, the rest of our lives could be a very long time.

So, let this also be an open casting-call to others who may be feeling the same pressure that I am.

I welcome you into this strange place with open arms. Do not fear fellow adventurers. The sun will rise

again and we will be alright.

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Skyline

By David Lau University of Southern California

I grew up in California with no knowledge of Darth Vader, the Lakers, or even Snoopy. My parents

only subscribed to Chinese television to satisfy my Cantonese-speaking grandmother and never set up

English television. I didn’t know what I was missing until first grade, when schoolyard conversations began

revolving around sports, superheroes, and cartoon characters. Acutely aware of my ignorance, I began

begging my parents for American TV. I pleaded daily with them, describing how the other kids made fun

of me when I didn’t know who the Power Rangers were.

I had always lived in Los Angeles, but the name meant nothing to me. Home was only a house

where I slept, California was only the hardest word to spell when writing my address. Two immigrant

parents and a Cantonese grandmother gave me a vague sense of ethnic identity. Yet peer pressure

weighed on my confidence more and more, and I wanted a taste of America, if only to fit in.

Then, at the end of first grade, my parents announced our summer vacation to Hong Kong.

This would be my first time out of the country. I said goodbye to my classmates, donned a bright blue

backpack, and walked down the airplane corridor to Seat 37B, Cathay Pacific Airlines. Three sick bags and

a miserable 14 hours later, I stumbled out of the airport into the steaming, vivid air of my homeland.

I smelled the denseness of a tropical climate mingling with the fumes of a double-decker bus.

From the second level of that bus I stared out at the passing blurs of lush greenery, a deeper shade than

anything seen in the California desert. At length the rolling hills gave way to several high-rises, half-

constructed and still shrouded in their bamboo lattices. Then more hills, and then the Tsing Ma bridge,

and then-- “Pearl of the Orient”, “fragrant harbor”, Hong Kong Island.


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Seven thousand skyscrapers cast dark lines of shadow over my face. Seven million bodies

surged with movement, like a swarm of black-haired locusts teeming before my eyes. A cacophony of

hissing pistons and human voices sent vibrations through the bus’s window glass and into the palms of

my hands pressed tight against it. I exhaled, the moisture condensing into a fog on the glass. Rubbing it

with my sweater sleeve, I pressed closer to the window and inhaled all the world before me.

We unloaded in Causeway Bay district and rolled our suitcases over to Clark Mansion. Taking

the elevator through fourteen levels, we rang the doorbell at my grandparents’ apartment. With the

cloying scent of mothballs my grandmother hugged me, my grandfather tousled my hair, and without

taking off my shoes I broke for the sliding glass door and ran to the balcony railing. Looking around at

the bleached concrete canyons, and peering down to the darkness of traffic a hundred feet below, I felt

an immediate sense of vertigo and closed my eyes tight. Then I opened them, and it was real-- Hong

Kong was my city, my home.

That night we went out to Central district. We rode the lift to ground level, walked several

blocks, and descended again into the subway. The chatter of Cantonese voices came from all sides with

a deafening volume. My father muttered, “Yun-San-Yun-Hoi”-- Mountains of people, Oceans of men.

Indeed, I thought we were being swept onto the rail platform, a small American family carried like a

seashell by the tide of passengers. The clicking of heels on tile rang clearly, and fluorescent lighting lit

the crisp white of businessmen’s collars. With a muted whoosh the platform doors slid open and we

poured into the air-conditioned railcar, sliding into seats or wrapping around steel poles. Holding tightly

to my mother’s hand, I heard an automated voice inform me, “Please mind the gap between the train

and the platform.” Four beeping sounds confirmed the message, and as the doors slid shut I saw my

face in their reflection--like a ghost in the streaking light of the subway tunnels.

Over the next three weeks I soaked it all in, hyper-aware and every sense wide open. Hong Kong

was clean, fresh, slick as white porcelain and bright as the diamond lights in Victoria Harbor. There was

no grit in my Hong Kong, no ugliness of street life. Grit was America, grit was Los Angeles and the stiff


beards of homeless men that approached my father on the street, asking for the quarter he’d never give.

It was the burning yellow heat that rose from the L.A. pavement and sapped my strength, aged my bones.

The heat in Hong Kong didn’t burn, it thrived. It was a humid tidal wave that made me shine with a fresh

sweat, more sauna than suffering. One night we watched fireworks from the apartment‘s rooftop, and as

burning halos framed the skyline I perspired and imagined the flames dancing in my hair.

My parents were wise for bringing me to Hong Kong at such a young age, before American culture

could take hold of me. My heart was like a field lying fallow, and here the city raised glass towers and

sank iron roots into the soil. That first trip stayed with me for years, and when I returned to California for

another round of cultural confusion, I had a homeland to hold onto in my mind.

I eventually grew accustomed to America, enjoying myself as I watched Disney movies and bought

my first hip-hop CD. I only went back to see my grandparents on the occasional summer, so I settled into

the California lifestyle during the rest of the year. But ever-present behind my eyelids were the city lights

of Victoria Harbor.

Upon each return to Hong Kong I would gorge myself on the culture, feel the taste of Cantonese

rolling off my tongue, and memorize the subway map so that when I returned to my California bed, I

could take the train to Central in my dreams. Even tonight, I can dream myself away to my grandparent’s

rooftop, watch the skyline burn red with fireworks, and feel the flames whisper in my hair, “Fun-Ying-Wui-

Ga”, welcome home.

35


36

Baptisms

By: Madeline Morcelle State University of New York at Buffalo

Jake woke up, and felt older than he was.

He shuddered. The rays of early light that leaked through the curtains seemed as unfamiliar to him

as the city that existed beyond the bounds of his apartment walls. Outside, one of the six million New

York City inhabitants slammed a lead hand on their car horn. All this noise was constant, even through the

night. The subway gently unsettled his apartment from below. The man in room 405 shouted at his dog,

or at his wife, or at a memory— after nearly six months of living here, he still couldn’t be certain. Outside,

it was Christmas.

He thought backward (an unpleasant sensation; he was so more accustomed to thinking forward)

about this time of year back home. Ice skating on the Zbruch. Snow balls and snow men and his father’s

German beer served warm. At this time of year, he would already be wishing for the spring so that he

could study the forest. It had seemed the entire world was no bigger than the skirt of the Zbruch, the

tender slice of Austria and Russia he had known. Today, he’d have a cup of black coffee, then return to

work. Then maybe he’d try again at a proper education.


37

The day before, he had an interview at Columbia University with the Dean of Students. He dressed

in his best clothes and shoes and rode the train to Morningside Heights and trekked three blocks until

arriving at a brashly austere building. He was early and he looked good, and he had a brand-new name—

Jake Leavitt, he’d decided— because it was some sort of moniker for Jankel… because he knew he was

a Levite and he’d read there were Leavitts on the Mayflower. He had resolved to be American, and this

name was an American one.

He marched in with that new name and called on the Secretary, told her who he was, that he was

here. He had a seat because he was early. As she left the room through tall, fine mahogany doors, Jake

noticed that her yellow hair was cropped short in a bob. He looked up at the window as she returned and

said, “the Dean will see you now”. She led Jake in through the grand doors and into the grandest room he

had ever seen. The walls were paneled and painted white like the doors and the colossal desk was carved

out of oak. The windows reached nearly from floor to ceiling, illuminating the room with a cold light. The

Dean wore his black hair slicked back and had on a smart gray suit. He looked up from the papers on his

desk, and at this first sight of Jake he narrowed his wintry eyes.

“Mr. Leavitt, I presume?”

Jake knew that all that provided hope— real hope— was this first moment. He had been told that

it was the only thing that mattered. So he grinned as confidently as he could, and reached across the desk,


38

producing a firm, well-calculated handshake, as close to the sort that he’d observed as he could manage.

The handshake was one of the many things he had learned from example over the past six years.

The Dean told Jake to have a seat, and went on to ask several questions about his interest in

Columbia’s Premedical Program— why he wished to be a doctor, why Columbia— but he could not shake

a certain sense of despair from his mind.

When he was finished, Jake thanked him for considering him, just like he had practiced, and shook

his hand again. The Dean nodded, and went back to the stack of papers on his desk. Jake rose from his

seat and walked to the door. Then he found himself filled with a question. He turned back and faced the

Dean.

“Excuse me,” the Dean raised his eyes once more, scanning Jake’s personage in absolute silence,

“but when will I find out if I’ve been accepted?” The Dean smiled wryly.

“Now, Mr. Leavitt,” he said, “let me get straight to the point. You wouldn’t fit in here. These boys

have been playing baseball all their lives, and you have an accent”. 1

Jake stood there for a moment, just to gain his bearings. Then he could do little more than nod as

he went out the door and back into the reception room.


39

“Mr. Leavitt,” the secretary said. “I couldn’t help overhearing.” Jake turned to her, wordless. “If

you really are serious about medical school, you might want to try the folks at NYU.”

Jake rose to make himself hot coffee, and thought about the better part of his day to come which

he would spend filling capsules at the pharmacist’s office. As always, in thinking forwards, he reverted

into the past. Rather than drinking his coffee while it was hot, he set it down on his baggage, which was

half unpacked and closed again.

He really ought to finish unpacking. He had lived here for nearly two years. He glanced at the

clock. He’d woken earlier than he had to— he didn’t have to get to work for two hours. So he picked up

the book he’d taken out of the library, Ethan Frome, and began right where he had left off, in a scene of

snow. For what else was there to do in his miserable walkup apartment than to practice the language and

better his chance at everything? What he found peculiar about Ethan was his lameness— both physical

and spiritual. Not only did his lameness check each step “like the jerk of a chain”, but he lacked the

courage to make something of himself, speak for himself or progress at all.

Jake leaned forward, looked into the black depths of his mug and saw the wavy outline of his face

and two sizeable ears. The heady, bitter aroma wafted upward as he brought it to his lips, noticed that the

mug was no longer hot. He was suddenly aware that his rejection from Columbia had nothing to do with

his own merit. He had excellent marks in high school despite the language barrier and despite having to


40

juggle three jobs to support himself. Jake tilted the cup, allowing a thin, dark stream to pour through him

lips, cringed and set it back down. There is little worse than cold, black coffee.

For if this story was his own story, should he continue, or should he wipe it clean and spend the

morning staring at the peeling wallpaper that lined the apartment? Though he imagined it had seemed

opulent to the tenant who had selected it some twenty years ago, to him it seemed more like a field of

flowers had been smeared all over the walls. He desired little more than to strip it clean.

Jake glanced back at the cold bitter mess he had brewed and lightly tapped his fingers on the

thirty-second page. He continued for three minutes before he stopped. He wondered— was this it?

Would one rejection be the end? He looked out through the window at the bustling street. In this motion,

in this foreign arrival at a place in his mind where he rarely ventured; he thought of the probable future.

What was he doing here, in this loud, distant place, so far from home? Outside, Christmas bells

were ringing. Three more days until a holiday that he wouldn’t celebrate. As behind as home may have

been, was he not even more unfashionable here in New York, where the constellations could be put out

with a million little light-switches and the stars shot through the streets in twenty black limousines? Not

to the naked eye, perhaps. Not to the people who rode beside him on the train, not to the man in room

405 (whom he had never met) but to himself— yes, to himself— he didn’t quite fit. No matter how he

dressed or how hard he strove to master the language of his peers, it seemed he would always be inferior


41

to the elite.

He thought back again, now ever dwelling on the possible future, and he rose from his seat. He

put on his coat and hat and went out the door. Perhaps he’d try another name yet.

(Endnotes)1 Indeed, Columbia had set a quota on the number of Jews that could be admitted. Quotas limiting the admittance of Jewish students— particularly among Ivy League schools— have been well documented. See Halperin 142 (Halperin, Edward C. “The Jewish Problem in U.S. Medical Education, 1920-1955.” Journal of the History of Medicine and Allied Sciences 56.2 (2001): 140-67. Print.)


42

Les Montagnards

By: Paige Henderson

University of Kansas

Tracing smooth circles with her thumb on her third finger, the flesh there, soft and weathered with age,

still felt foreign after she’d become accustom to the embrace of the golden band. For a few weeks now,

the wedding band was kept inside a small music box which had rested quietly on her bed side table for

many years. The ring’s absence, it was strange. Stranger yet, however, was the sight of the dinner table

set only for one or, on occasion, the bit of junk mail for a Mr. Allan Audley advertising subscriptions to

magazines he never read or sales in mall department stores that he so abhorred.

“Ma’am, are you finding everything all right?” one dutiful employee asked Carol Audley politely,

her head cocked slightly, like a curious dog.

“Oh, yes. I am fine. Though, could you tell me, where are your cook books?”

“There,” the girl pointed with her right arm and scratched her earlobe with the other, “Right after

the Self-Help section. Though, if you reach Religion & Spirituality, you’ve gone too far.”

“Thank you very much.” She turned and began walking in the direction the girl had pointed. The

bookshelves were endless; a sea of bound and gagged pages, yellowed and torn. And Allan, he could

have devoured them all in a weekend if he felt like it. In fact, she recalled the summer of nineteen ninety-

three when he had refused to come out from the guest room, rarely accepting meals or speaking to his


43

wife or his fifteen year old daughter, Emerson. But every day, at exactly two o’clock in the afternoon, he

would slide a slip of lined paper beneath the door, with book titles scribbled from corner to corner. These

books—along with his solitude—were Allan’s only requests for those three scorching months.

That episode had neither been the beginning nor the end of Allan’s odd behavior, however. Even

when they were young, he was a bit removed and reserved, she remembered. Back then she found it

charming, and perhaps it was. He wasn’t unhappy then, only a bit eccentric. For instance, he often did

his grocery shopping at three in the morning at the twenty-four hour supermarket all the way across town

because, he told her, lines made him nervous. And it was true; he always waited in the car when she

went in someplace to purchase milk or to buy stamps and other mundane errands, except for one spring

when she was very ill and he had to go to the pharmacy for her medications. He handed them to her with

a smile, but he nearly spilled the glass of water his hands were shaking so badly.

Lost momentarily in reflection, she found herself far from the cookbooks and home living

magazines. She’d wound up in the adjacent corner of the store, where the memoirs and biographies were

kept. She read the names as she passed them, mostly politicians (as if they had nothing better to do than

write books about themselves, Allan would have said) or television celebrities she didn’t know of. There

were so many; nearly filling three entire bookcases. She couldn’t fathom it. She herself had written in a

journal since she was fourteen, but she never would’ve thought to publish anything she’d written. She’d

lived nothing so glamorous.

She kept walking, not even looking for the cookbooks anymore. She didn’t really need any more.

She’d purchased and received hundreds over the years and they were just fine. These trips to the old


44

bookstore were more out of habit from fetching novel after novel for Allan for the six years prior to his

eventual disappearance. After the first two years, he left for hours at a time to secret places, but Carol

never bothered to inquire of his whereabouts. In recent months however, she had heard from the

florist that she had often saw him standing around the Buddhist temple downtown. It was possible that

she’d lost him to religion, she thought, but she found it unlikely, as he always denounced any facet of it.

Though, the lifestyle of a monk; celibate, silent, and starving, seemed suitable of him, even if for all the

wrong reasons.

Then, passing through the Travel section, she paused. There were maps and guides, globes and

foreign language discs used to learn helpful phrases like “Where is the restroom?” (“Où est la toilette?”)

and “How do you get to the hotel?” (“¿Cómo va al hotel?”) This caused her to dwell no longer on the

disappearance of her husband, but on the death of their youngest son, David. He was only barely nine

years old when he passed, dying of bone cancer, but she liked to remember him from the earlier days of

his short life, before his suffering aged him. Even in his sickness, he was a bright child and smiled as often

as he could. Six months before he was diagnosed, she remembered, he had talked endlessly about the

montagnards of Vietnam, who rode around on elephants like horses, after swiping a National Geographic

magazine from his elementary school’s modest library.

The night after they learned about the cancer, Carol found her son stuffing a miniature suitcase full

of clothing and notebooks and pens in his bedroom, endearingly messy and boyish, in the dim yellow light

of his desk lamp. She sat down on his unmade bed, watching him. He didn’t seem to notice her at first,

focused so intently on digging up his necessities from the swamp of dirty garments and toys on the floor.


45

Finally, she spoke.

“David, are you running away from us?”

“No.” He shook is head. “Why?”

“Well, you certainly appear to be going someplace.”

“Sure! But just ‘cause somebody’s going somewheres, it don’t mean they’re running away.”

“Doesn’t. It doesn’t mean. And, yes, I suppose you’re right. Where are you going to?”

“The mountains.”

“Which mountains?”

“Oh, I don’t know their name. The Vietnam mountains.”

“To see the elephants, you mean?”

“Yeah, the elephants, but the mountain people too. Wanna see the picture I found?”

“You’ve shown me before, but sure. I don’t remember it very well.”

He reached into the pocket of his pajamas and handed the magazine clipping to her. It had two

thick, white and crumbling creases from being folded and unfolded over and over again in his small hands.

The mountains were gorgeous and profusely green, different from American mountains, David remarked.

In the foreground, to the right, there was an elderly woman, hunched over from decades of labor holding

a walking stick and a basket of strange Asiatic fruits. Her mouth was part-way opened, revealing her

darkly colored, crooked teeth. Down the dirty path she stood upon, rising up with the curve of the hill,

were several huts. They were hazy in the distance, but Carol could make out two children outside and

a small black dog with pointed ears sleeping in a shady spot. On the woman’s left side, the soft green


mountainside shot upward from the valley. The steep incline was littered with men on the backs of great,

gray elephants, hauling beautiful, empty woven bags eager to be filled. She refolded the picture in her

hands and held it delicately, like a Monarch butterfly reposing in her palms.

He sat down beside her with his suitcase in his lap, and took the picture from her. “I don’t really

know where it is. I found Vietnam on Emerson’s globe, the one Aunt Helena bought her for Christmas,

but I can’t see the mountains. So, I figure, once I get to Vietnam, I’ll just show them this picture, and they

can tell me how to get there.”

“Hm, it sounds like you’ve thought this through very well. Except, how do you plan on asking

them for directions? They don’t speak English there, you know. They speak Vietnamese, naturally.”

“Oh. I forgot that.” He looked down at his suitcase and began tracing shapes into its hard, dusty

cover. “Does that bookstore Dad likes—the one with all the old books—does it have dictionaries like the

one you have, with the Mexican words? But, for Vietnamese?”

“Spanish. Not Mexican. It’s possible they do, yes. Would you like one?”

“Yeah. And maybe another book, too. But not like the dictionary. A good book, one for reading.”

“To read on the plane, you mean?”

“Well, no. I packed all my books already. I want to give it who ever helps me find the mountain

people something, and I think maybe a book would be nice.”

At this she half-smiled, a melancholy upward twisting of her mouth. He was such a thoughtful boy.

“Have you packed everything?”

“I think. I mean, I stuffed it until I could barely close it. I don’t think anything else’ll fit.”

46


47

“David,” she sighed and hesitated, “You know you can’t go to Vietnam.”

“I know,” he said in a way that startled her a trifle. “But I got to.”

“What do you mean?”

“Because of what the doctor told you,” he explained while picking at a scab on his arm, “I

mean, he said he don’t know. He don’t know how much time there is.”

“Honey—”

“And I got to thinking. I got to thinking I wanted to see the elephants and the mountain

people someday, but if I wait too long, then maybe I can’t see them. There’s other places I want to

go to, but I want to see the mountain people first. I got to. I got to go.”

After a moment of silence Carol asked, “Does it hurt today?” He didn’t answer her. “David,

does it still—”

“It hurts.”

“Then I think, at least for tomorrow, you better stay home. And maybe when you’re feeling a

little better, you and me, your father, and Emerson can all go to see the mountains together.”

“Really? I can? Except, I want to go by myself.”

“Why’s that?”

“I’ll just feel like it.”

The pain only grew worse from then on, but he hardly said a word of it. He was admitted to

the hospital and spent the remaining months going back and forth between his bed at home and

the mechanical monster of a hospital bed. He carried the picture of the montagnards everywhere


48

he went, and told each new nurse and doctor all about them and how one day he was going to live

in a hut there just like the children in the picture. One of the nurses happened to be of Vietnamese

heritage and taught him a few words and phrases she thought would be useful to him. He recited

them under his breath continuously like a prayer.

After David’s death, that’s when Allan became something of a recluse. He grew very thin in that

room, neglecting himself and sleeping in a disheveled nest dirty quilts and paper scraps with ink stains

on his fingers. Reading over the spines of the travel books, her fingers tracing the names of country

after country she’d never been, thinking of the way her husband had let himself wilt and rot more in

the past decade of his lifetime than David had in the few remaining days before his death, she hated

him. He was her son too, after all, and she’d lost him just the same. She ached inside every day in his

absence, but she was still alive, and what an obscenity it would be to neglect that privilege. To neglect

life the way Allan had.

Emerson Audley-Callahan parked her black Honda in the driveway and eased out of the car, as if it were

a circus act, very cautiously so as to maintain her balance. She held a coffee cup in her left hand, using

her left arm to cradle three notebooks and a soft briefcase against her chest, and jangled her keys in

the other hand. Her heels clicked up onto the white wooden porch, which she noted needed to be

repainted. She opened the door and went in, making sure to step over the pile of envelopes that had

been slipped in through the mail slot at some time during the day. She laid out her belongings on the

kitchen counter, grabbed a dinner roll from the night before and took one terrific bite. She chewed


in easy satisfaction. Making her way back to the pile of mail, she placed the roll in her mouth and held

it there like a dog does a tennis ball. She collected the pile neatly and began to sort through it as she

returned to the kitchen. It was mostly junk and bills, and also a letter from her daughter’s school, and a

sports magazine for her husband. Lastly, she came across a letter from her mother whom she hadn’t seen

in nearly a year. They spoke often, on the telephone, but recently she’d heard nothing. Taking a final bite

into the roll, Emerson began to cut open the envelope neatly. Chewing and furrowing her brows, she

began to read its contents:

Dear Emerson,

I have sold all of your father’s belongings and also my wedding band and engagement ring. This

was not done in spite of him, but merely in practicality. They were only collecting dust in that tomb of a

chamber he stayed in all of those years. With the money, I have decided to take a peregrination to see

those ancient montagnards and their aging elephants that David wanted to visit so badly. I may be gone

very long, and a may travel to other places, but I wanted you to know that I am not running away or

disappearing. I am only going to someplace else for a time.

I am enclosing what is left of the money in the form of a check, and it is yours to do with what you

wish. I hope I have not offended you by not inviting you to come along with me, but I think it is best that

you stay with Wilson and little Jezebel for the time being. (Tell her to always be good and that Grandma

loves her very much.)

Love,

Mother

P.S. I should mention, I think, that the last thing I sold was your father’s house.

49


50

Old Men

By: Dan Schlegel

University of California, Irvine

I was sitting in the passenger seat of my teal Buick behind a shopping center in Silver Lake, just a

few miles north of downtown Los Angeles. Parked by the loading docks under a street lamp near a blue

dumpster, I smelled rotten meat and stale beer creeping into my car through the back seat window. The

window had been broken for about a year, stuck and always rolled down a few inches.

I finished off my tall can and shoved it under my seat, the aluminum cracking as it wedged

between the seat and the floor of the car. I hopped over the center console and slid my ass onto the

driver seat. In the process of pulling my legs over from the passenger side, my left foot scraped across the

radio console, knocking off the volume knob. I searched on the floor near the pedals, bending my head

down between my knees, but didn’t see the plastic piece. My phone buzzed in my pocket, so I stopped

looking. My phone lit up the name Brian on the screen. He was an old family friend from high school. I

didn’t answer, and put the phone back in my pocket.

In my side mirror, I saw someone walking toward the dumpster holding two black bags of trash.

When he reached the yellow light of the street lamp, I saw that he was wearing a white apron along with

a hairnet that held back his long hair, forcing it to sit in a ball on the back of his neck. He glanced at my

boat-like Buick as he threw the bags one at a time over the rim of the dumpster. He squinted into my


51

driver side window and kept staring, his eyes unwavering. He walked by the backside of my car and I

heard two knocks on the metal lid of the trunk. The hollow sound vibrated through the steering wheel

and into my hands. I didn’t know what the knock meant, but I turned the keys in the ignition in response.

The radio hummed barely audible enough to catch that I was listening to a sports commentator. With the

slow pace of the commentating, I assumed it was a baseball game. I reached to turn up the volume when

I saw a silver stub where the knob used to be just a minute before. I wrapped my thumb and forefinger

around the stub and tried to turn it, adjusting the volume up, but it wouldn’t budge. I pressed the power

button to stop the quiet hum.

The day before, my Mom had called to tell me the news of my older brother Cameron’s death in

Iraq. I was at work at the time, at the office of an independent production company, writing a summary

on a screenplay about two boys who are on the run after killing their abusive father. It was a cheap thrill

of a screenplay, written only with plot in mind. The two boys are shot down in the end, riddled with

bullets, like a bad version of Bonnie and Clyde or Thelma and Louise. No matter how bad the submitted

screenplays were, my job was to write a full summary for my boss, Mel, and give my recommendation of

whether or not to produce the film.

On the phone, my Mom cleared her throat then spoke in a low tone when she told me that my

brother had been shot in the face while poking his head out of the top of a Humvee. The soldiers had

thought the area was secure. The military personnel assured my mom that the man who shot her son

was killed immediately following the incident.

As a side note worth mentioning, my mother was the one who had pushed my brother into the


52

military, and my father never decided to let go of that particular detail. Five years prior, Cameron had

gotten into trouble for petty drug dealing in his last year of college, losing his scholarship and being

expelled. My mother persuaded him to join the army six months later against my Dad’s specific request

for neither of his two sons to ever join the military for a country he so often disagreed with when it came

to war.

On my Mom’s side of the phone conversation, after she told me how my brother died, I heard

my Dad say, “At least you don’t have to worry about him anymore,” followed by a loud crashing sound. I

figured it was a slammed door. My mom began to yell. Her voice rattled in the ear speaker of my cell

phone and I couldn’t make out what she said. I hung up.

I started the Buick and drove away from the loading docks listening to the wind continually flap in

through the broken backseat window. I tried to visualize Cameron in a bloodstained Army Uniform. The

past five years I’d had trouble picturing him in the Army as it was, standing erect with good posture and

taking orders without questions. My mind kept returning to an old memory of him as a scrawny older

brother. It wasn’t a good memory, or an attractive memory, necessarily, but it was vivid, and that was all

I needed. I was about nine at the time of the memory, and my brother, twelve. My family had a portable

hot tub that sat in the far corner of our small yard near a bed of untended roses. My brother, two of his

friends and I went in the hot tub one night without our parents. Cameron stripped my red bathing suit off

of me while the two other boys held my arms. I kicked violently underwater to stop him from getting hold

of my shorts. I landed a few desperate kicks on his stomach and chest. Once he got the shorts off, he got

out of the hot tub and walked over to the patio cover while his friends held me with their hands, chafing


my armpits. “Come get it,” Cameron said as he jumped up and hooked my shorts onto a nail that stuck

out of the top of the patio cover. His friends let go and I ran out of the hot tub, naked and skinny. They

watched me jump up and down trying to retrieve my wet dangling shorts. Water dripped onto my face as

I stood under them and the boys laughed from the hot tub. “Do you want a boost?” one of them said. I

ran to the side of the h ouse and slipped on the tile as I rushed in the sliding glass door. My knee ached,

but I got up immediately and ran to the bathroom and locked the door.

Driving on an unmarked road, before I reached Hollywood, I picked up an old man off the side of

the highway. He was holding a sign, but I couldn’t read it in the dark and the flash of my headlights on

him was too quick. All I caught were the words VETERAN and NEED. I pulled over onto the gravel and

specks of weedy grass. He opened the back door, tossed in his sign, a pillowcase packed with his things

and a brown paper bag, and then sat in the seat. He took heavy, harsh breaths as if the air alone was

damaging his body. He didn’t say anything. At the next red light, I turned and examined him. He had a

scraggly gray beard, its whiskers were matted together with human oils, a nd he was wearing a gray sweat

suit. He smelled like vodka, dirt and old sweat, but I didn’t mind. “Where you headed?” I asked. He

grunted something then continued to breath deeply. “Where you headed, man?”

“Take me to get some food, son.”

“What do you like?”

“I don’t know. Just food.”

“I know of a good Chinese place a few blocks from here.”

“No Oriental food,” he said. “Goddamn it.” I watched him cough in the rearview mirror. He


5454

brought his fist to his mouth and heaved forward. The cough rumbled in his throat and turned into a

wheeze.

“Has it been cold out there?” I asked.

“I want Italian food. Come on, son. Don’t you know of any Italian places?”

“How about I drop you off right here?” The old man laughed horrendously, choking on it until it

turned into a fit of his wheezing coughs. “Don’t bark orders at me,” I said. “I’m doing you a favor.”

“I’ll pay you.” Just then, something whizzed by my head and crashed against the windshield.

“That’s what you’re worth,” he said, and laughed again. I think he threw a coin of some kind. I assumed it

was a penny.

His coughs became more violent and sounded like he was throwing up, heaving nothing but

phlegm. “How do you open this God damn window? Open this damn window.” I saw in the rearview

mirror that he was trying to force down the already partially open window, wrenching down on the glass

with his hands. He quit trying then placed his mouth up to the few inches of open window and spit his

phlegm out of the car. I turned around and saw a spit string dangling from his beard to the glass of the

window. He wiped his mouth and said, “How about that Italian, son?”

I took the old man to a place called Mangia about a mile back towards my apartment. I asked him

if he wanted me to order him some take-out, but he said, “Hell no. I need to shit, too. Let’s go inside.”

I told him he had to behave if that was the case and he laughed at me again. The old man carried his

pillowcase full of possessions with him into the restaurant, carrying it over his shoulder.

The walls were covered in heavy maroon curtains. They looked elegant from a distance, but were


55

riddled with holes and frayed edges when examined up close. We sat down at a leather booth. The

young, blond hostess that seated us was a bit uneasy, looking back at us several times with wide eyes

while she walked us to our table. She sat us on a side of the restaurant that was segregated from the rest

of the guests, which I preferred anyway. Without looking at the menu, the old man ordered spaghetti

with meatballs and a bottle of red wine. I ordered vegetable soup. After we ordered, the old man got up

to go to the bathroom, leaving his pillowcase on the booth seat. He was gone long enough for the food to

be ready and served to our table by the time he made it back. “These restaurants are too damn big,” he

said. He began eating immediately. He shoved the spaghetti into his small mouth, not talking for some

time. With his wild beard covering much of his face, it looked as if he had no lips and just a black hole

for a mouth. His tongue would periodically jut out of the black hole to lick the tomato sauce out of his

moustache. I poured myself a glass of the wine and he took the rest, drinking straight from the bottle.

“What’s in your pillowcase there?” I asked him.

“Oh no,” he said. “You can’t look inside.” I stood up and reached across the table to grab the

pillowcase, but the old man pushed his hand into my chest. I sat back down.

“Show me something. At least one thing.” The old man brought the pillowcase to his lap and

began rummaging through his possessions.

“Here,” he said, “I found that in a dumpster.” He set it on the table. “Do you believe that?” It was

a dome-shaped piece of glass with a golden brown scorpion perfectly preserved inside of it. The stinging

tail curled up above the body like it was about to strike. I reached to touch the glass, but the old man

slapped my hand away and grabbed his treasure, placing it back into his pillowcase.


56

“Alright, damnit,” I said. “You old bastard. I’m getting the check.” The old man chugged the rest

of the wine while I got out of the booth to find our waiter.

Once outside, I offered to drive the man somewhere else, but he insisted on staying there. He was

quite drunk and wandered off into the alley behind the restaurant before I could say much else to him.

Crazy bastard, I thought, and got into my car.

I saw the brown paper bag and the old man’s sign sitting in the back seat of the Buick. The bag contained

a half-drunk bottle of vodka. I was surprised that he forgot to grab it, despite how drunk he was. On the

cardboard sign was a message scrawled with thick, black marker in uneven strokes. It read, VETERAN,

NEED COMPANY BEFORE I DIE.


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The Wedding Guests

By: John McCabe

The University of Pennsylvania

As the wedding guests arrived, I found a place at the bar. I bowed my head, staring at my drink. The news

that morning about a possible war in Iraq was unsettling everybody. I read the old newspaper article

again. It was about us when we were teenagers in Burholme stealing cars, and getting in gang trouble. I

don’t even know how I ended up with it, except I save everything. When I raised my head, I was in the

company of my old friends; the ones I grew up with. They were all around the bar and out on the floor.

I put the paper back in my pocket. My friend Greeny’s eyes met mine and he unflinchingly said, “We

were surrounded by a battalion of N.V.A. I turned and asked the Forward Observer what he was doing.

He and I called in artillery. He, the 105’s and I got fire in from an Australian Navy ship off the coast.” I

hadn’t realized he was talking to me. When I did and heard that he was talking about himself in the war

in Vietnam, I for some reason, saw us all crouched along a railroad bank in North Philadelphia. We were

teenagers waiting to “rumble’ as we called it, with another gang. The cops came that night and Greeny

and I were running away, I remembered how fast he could run. I saw him with his chin pointed out.

Greeny went on with the story but I was distracted. I was looking at his son’s eyes beside him,

and the military cut of his hairline and that soldier’s posture in the shoulders. His son was busy entering


58

manhood. He had been to Kosovo. He said, “We flew right over the Serbian Army while they were

walking out.” I wondered if Greeny’s son ever ran fast like his Dad did fleeing the Philadelphia cops when

we were boys

Then I turned back to Green’s face. He looked old. He was older, of course, older than ever,

though I still thought he looked strong, even handsome. No wonder he had a girlfriend at his age. We

were both in our sixties now. Then I saw him in my mind with soaking wet gloves squeezed in his hands

on the sloping hills of Burholme Park. We were twelve and sledding. Sledding all afternoon, and soaking

wet on the soft snow amidst the pillows, and walking cat paws of foggy air. We were twelve and it was

really all just beginning. There was the sound of crows, the alarming cry of crows always in the park.

They shouted at us over and over, but we were twelve and didn’t know they fretted about us.

Greeny’s girlfriend came over and stood looking at his son and then at me. I nodded to her and

we walked away to the dessert table. I had known her since I was ten. We were in parochial school

together. I could still see her in her blue Catholic uniform with her unbagged books held against her

breasts. She always held her books against her breasts, even later when she was in high school and had

breasts.

We picked at the pastries on the wedding buffet, and she obviously looked for her favorite things.

Dark chocolates got nudged first, small things with thick soft icing, bitten right in half and one white

trimmed swirl of lime green brilliance carried off. After the bites she had discarded the bitten remains

defiantly. I smiled at her, recognizing and remembering her playfulness. I thought, “Green’s lucky.”

When we walked back, Greeny was taking us through the same battle in Vietnam. I was surprised


to hear him speak about it in such detail. People think some of these guys don’t tell these things because

none of us really know what they went through. Maybe they think, no matter what they say to us we

won’t understand.

“We were deployed perfectly to defend ourselves. My 3rd Platoon was in reserve so we had our

rear covered. They couldn’t just get around us.” I started thinking about him having gloves in the cold

snow when we were twelve in 1955. I never had gloves. My hands were always reddened and biting

cold all the time. Maybe he had better parents so he had gloves, I thought. Maybe that’s why he went

to Vietnam, because he was the kind of guy who would have gloves and artillery fire and the things he

needed wherever he was. Maybe I didn’t go to Vietnam because I wouldn’t have had even bullets and no

artillery or naval ship fire. It is strange how your mind works. I saw the dessert table being blown up by

105 rounds. His girlfriend was looking and I knew she would have laughed if she saw what I was thinking.

All those cakes and pastries flying around. His son said, “We met with all the children when we marched

into Yugoslavia. They greeted us as heroes. We even cried with them. No one could beat us. We were

linked to each other, we knew it.”

I remembered how we all walked home from those sledding days in Burholme Park. For

a moment while Green talked to his son about war and soldiering, I drifted to one of those walks.

Something I didn’t want to have happen was happening. I was going back into our past, that untouchable

youth before the great shocks. I wanted to deny or eradicate us as serving Spartans or pawns of the

empowered classes and corporate Politicians. Something seemed always to cancel those thoughts out,

but this thinking had energy. The two veterans kept me in their conversation, acknowledging my time in

59


the Infantry, and my unfortunate involvement with nuclear weapons. I think they had to tell some stories

to each other and I facilitated their exchange. It was important. You could see that in their eyes as plain

as sunshine. I was glad to help them but I was walking far away at the same time, walking down the tree-

lined path to our streets, those streets in the neighborhood. Sloane was there and Big D and Mickey, Joe,

Danny Bates and me, Nick the Stick. We were smoking the same cigarette, passing it around, a Camel.

Donna and the two Mary’s were sitting on our sleds, letting us pull them along home. Nails and the

Forward Look was half a block ahead with Johnny Mac whom we called Jimmy Dean. They were all there

in my daydream, and they were all around me at the wedding except Big “D” and Sloane. They had been

killed.

Greeny said, “We slept the next day for hours, right in our position. When we woke up and had to

write the report, the Forward Observer said, ‘God did we do all that? I said, Yeah, we had to.”

“Anyway,” he said looking at me, and then his son, “we couldn’t believe all we had done.”

His son was facing me and sharing his impressions of his father in a combat zone some thirty-five

years back in our time.

Green turned, and walked off a few steps. I heard him call over to the bar, “Mary, c’mon.” She

looked toward him, her pocketbook held against her breasts, and a drink in the other hand, smiling. The

same smile, the smile all the way back to the sledding when the crows tried to chase us away from the

foggy air. That was when it all began, when we were all twelve years old in Burholme. Before anybody

could put us into ranks we knew how to just hang out, loving each other. You could have saved the world

with the likes of us and maybe we have.

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Greeny’s son moved his wheelchair over to the bar and ordered a glass of water to help him with

his pills. Greeny fingered the back of the chair gently kicking at the wheel with his oversized shoe which

he wore since recovering from a Viet-Cong booby trap wire detonation somewhere north of the Mekong

Delta. As I watched, I wondered if either of them, or anyone, would ever believe the health injuries from

those senseless discreet nuclear tests. I remembered the tests on Nevada’s lower basin far from Vietnam,

or Serbia, or any other future nightmare.

The band playing for the wedding began their first set with a song from the fifties, when we were

all kids, in that brief time between all the damn wars. “Imagine,” I thought, “if we had instead, stayed at

peace over the last fifty years, we might be getting used to it by now. Our biggest memories,” I realized,

“would be stuff like running from the cops, falling in love with someone like Greeny’s girlfriend, having

kids like Greeny’s son, and sledding all day on the slopes of Burholme Park.”

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Arizona Immigration Law 1070: An Arizona Officer’s Perspective

By Nick Dial

Kaplan University

Recently Arizona passed into law a new bill, 1070. This new bill has brought on an onslaught of

controversy, rumors, myths, and nonstop attacks. The problem is, when you listen to the outlandish

statements made by those who oppose this new law, it quickly becomes evident that they themselves

either did not read the bill and have no understanding for how the law works in practice or they are

simply ignoring the facts and dishonestly exploiting the issue for political gain.

Recently President Obama made the statement that if you “looked liked an illegal immigrant, and if you

didn’t have your papers and you took your kids out for ice cream, you could be harassed,” (2010). This

statement coming from a sitting president is shocking. My first question is this; tell me, Mr. President,

what does an illegal alien look like? I wasn’t aware that in the United States illegal aliens were labeled as

one race over another. Are there not illegal immigrants that may be Canadian, Asian, or European? The

fact that now the President is insinuating the Latino race as the Poster Child for what an illegal immigrant

looks like, should be troubling and offensive to all Latino people of this nation. In a debate where the

word “racism” often gets thrown around, you must ask yourself, who are the ones really making race a

focal point? It’s certainly not a law that only focuses on legal status. Nowhere in this bill does the law

make any reference to race or skin color in any way.

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President Obama’s statement also demonstrated that he either has no understanding of how law

enforcement works, or he is choosing to ignore the facts and push misinformation to drive more hysteria

in support for his political position on this issue. By stating that you may be “harassed” by simply going

out in public is both false and inflammatory. To have the leader of our nation spread such misinformation

on legislation when Obama himself was a sitting legislator displays gross negligence on his part as the

representative of this nation.

To clear up some of the myths about this bill being spread by activists on the left, let’s take a look at the

popular talking points being repeated.

Myth: Hispanics will be randomly stopped by police when they go out in public.

Fact: This could not be any less true. A police officer must conduct themselves as they always have, and

have probable cause for their stop. Citizenship status is not a primary infraction and therefore does not

constitute probable cause for a stop. It is a secondary infraction. An officer may stop a car for a traffic

violation, then later find the driver has no legal status or identification. At this point an arrest may result

after further investigation. This is no different than a drug charge. You don’t look at a car and say, “hey,

they have drugs.” Once the vehicle is stopped, however, there may be other factors that indicate further

probable cause to look for; drugs for example-an odor being emitted from the vehicle.

Myth: You will be questioned without just cause. What is considered reasonable suspicion?

Fact: Reasonable suspicion is very uniform in its application. If an officer pulls a vehicle over and the

driver does not speak English, has no driver’s license, no state ID, no social security number to give, at this

point there is ample reasonable suspicion for the officer to investigate further. The officer would then run

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a name and date of birth check to see if any DMV (Department of Motor Vehicles) records show. If this

comes back blank with no record, there is probable cause to detain the individual to investigate their legal

status.

Myth: you will now have to carry “papers” on you to prove citizenship.

Fact: Legal immigrants are already required to carry their green card. In most states you must carry a form

of ID and if an officer asks for your identification on a stop, you must give it to them. Arizona’s law is no

different then what is already on the books. When you go to the DMV, you MUST provide vital records

such as a birth certificate in order to obtain a valid driver’s license. If you are not a citizen, you still must

have the proper paper work that shows you are in the nation legally before obtaining the license. When

an officer stops an individual and must enquirer into legal status, whether or not that person holds a valid

driver’s license with the state tells the officer most of what they need to know. Having a valid license

takes the place of a birth certificate. The notion that you would have to carry such papers is false and not

supported by fact, but rather emotional sentiment and misconception.

Myth: This law will lead to racial profiling.

Fact: This is another empty claim with no logic attached. Most police officers conduct themselves in a

professional manner and are careful not to violate a person’s civil rights. The idea that somehow a new

bill will cause racial profiling is an empty one. This statement is based on the assumption that officers

who racially profile would only do so if it were “in the rules.” Racial profiling is illegal, and whether or not

an officer participates in such acts is the choice of that individual. This law will no more encourage the

officer who chooses to profile anymore then racial profiling being illegal will discourage it. This is like the

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empty argument stating that making guns illegal to carry will rid gun crime. If you’re a criminal, you don’t

care about the law hence the title “criminal”, and will carry a weapon anyway regardless of what the law

states. The same concept applies to the corrupt officer. Ethics come down to the individual, not what a

law may or may not state. They will either profile, or they won’t; a bill won’t change that practice.

Myth: Most illegal immigrants only want to work; the real problem is drug crime. This bill does nothing to

help fight the drug problem.

Fact: While this bill is not focused specifically at drugs, it does aid in the cartel drug problem in a large

way. Illegal immigrants who come here to work depend on an economic system that caters to their illegal

status. Their ability to find work, employment, earn an income and maintain a place to live is necessary

for their survival. This bill makes it illegal for an undocumented alien to seek employment. It makes it

unlawful for an employer to hire an illegal and unlawful to rent a home to an illegal. The end result of

this will become a natural weeding- out process. The people, who are truly here to work, will leave on

their own merit. They will have no other choice because you must be able to provide an income and

shelter for families to live upon. They will either go back home or simply move to another state that is

lax on immigration law. In 2008 E-verify for employment and immigration sweeps by Sheriff Joe Arpio

made Arizona a more restricted place for illegal aliens to reside. Since 2008, an estimated 100,000

illegal aliens have left the state. The natural result of this will make law enforcement more effective

when fighting drug and cartel crime, because people who are only in AZ to work will have to relocate,

leaving behind the criminal elements. Illegal aliens who are here for sinister reasons, i.e. to traffic, push

drugs, and run cartel errands will not need to relocate. They do not rely on legitimate work to provide

an income. The lack of a general population of illegal aliens to blend in with may even result in cartels

moving operations in cities and states that do not have such strict laws. Because the general population

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would move away, this leaves their operatives exposed for tracking and apprehension. It is much harder

to blend in as just another landscaper looking for work when all the legitimate workers have moved away

to other states where they can still obtain work. This will greatly aid both ICE and local law enforcement in

combating cartel activity and tracking down operatives for such operations.

Bill 1070 is in place simply to enable our local law enforcement with the power to enforce laws that

often get neglected on the federal level. For example, one night I was driving my patrol car when I was

almost T-boned. A vehicle had run a stop sign. I pulled the vehicle over and found a man who did not

speak English and had no driver’s license or State ID on him. He had no DMV record, and was not a legal

citizen. This man had an alcohol level of .218, and was extreme DUI. After processing, I contacted ICE

(U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement). They told me they did not have the man power to send and

could not pick the man up for detainment. Being local law enforcement, we had no authority to hold the

man based on his citizenship and had to let him go. Do you think he showed up for court? Of course not,

now this man was released back into the public and is once again a potential threat to public safety. Had

the man became intoxicated again and killed someone in a fatal accident, people would have screamed

at how the system failed, and the police failed to do their job. The reality was however, we did not have

the tools in place to detain the man. This very situation happened in San Francisco in 2008 when an illegal

alien, Edwin Ramos, gunned down a father and two sons. Edwin was found to have been arrested several

times without being turned over to immigration. If California had a law in place like Arizona’s recent

passing of 1070, this horrible crime may have been prevented the first day they discovered his legal

status.

The outcry against Arizona’s new law is not only silly, but is a complete demonstration of ignorance of the

already existing laws of this nation. Before the passing of bill 1070 it was already illegal to be in Arizona

illegally. The only difference was it was an offense and a felony on the federal level. Now, it is both a

66


federal offense and state offense. It is nothing more than mirroring the federal law and providing our

officers with the tools necessary to keep Arizonians safe. This is absolutely no different than many other

laws already on the books. For example, it is a federal offense to rob a bank. However, it is also a state

offense to rob a bank. If you rob a bank in any state, you will face both federal and local state charges

for the crime. You can even be charged both locally and federally in two different court systems and no,

this is not the same a double jeopardy. Just like it’s both a federal and state offense to rob a bank and is

illegal, Arizona’s new immigration law has made being in Arizona illegally both a federal and state offense.

The question can be asked, “What’s all the fuss about?” The real answer is simple- enforcement. Illegal

aliens and their supporters have long lived comfortably in the United States relying on the complacency

and lack of enforcement of the federal government to thrive. Now that a border state like Arizona has

made a stand to enforce the law the federal government chooses to ignore, they have no more economic

collusion that came with sanctuary policies. They are angry because in Arizona, the gravy train has made

its final stop, and the tax payers have had enough. There will be no more free meals; no more living

in comfort while law abiding immigrants patiently wait for their legal papers to enter this country the

respectful and correct way. The message here is that we reward those who follow the rules, and tell

people who cut the line and break the rules to get in the back. The first step has been taken and hopefully,

many other states will soon follow suit.

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Going Back to School, At Your Age?

By: Dianna Richardson

Kaplan University

What was I thinking? I am old enough to be the mother of most of these students! It has been a

strange feeling once again being the nervous kid at the back of the classroom. It is as though the hands

of time have reversed. Memories long forgotten from high school come flooding back; excitement is

tempered by anxiety.

Becoming a college student later in life has presented challenges on many levels. My younger

counterparts share some of these obstacles. Attempting to balance work and home life was a fulltime job.

Now, another full time position is added with studies. Ironically, the last time sleep was this elusive my

daughter was a newborn. However, now I am gently coaxing understanding out of textbooks at 3 am. Life

begins to repeat itself.

It is amazing to learn text anxiety still exists after all these years. The palms still sweat when a

professor directs a question my way. Very familiar and unfounded fears are surfacing once again. Again, I

question how can I compete with these young students so fresh and unencumbered by the trials of life.

The answer is simple.

We are the same, not one with an advantage over the other. We share the anticipation, anxiety,

excitement, and fear of the unknown. The realization of this fact changed the entire situation. Each

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student has strengths and weaknesses. The online educational environment has presented a unique

setting for developing strengths and overcoming weaknesses.

Through the magic of technology, we come together as draw off a vast wealth of knowledge

held by fellow students. The fears have been replaced by confidence. The anxiety has been channeled

into a motivational tool. However, the most important change has come from classmates. The open

environment fosters sharing of life experience as it applies to study materials at hand. This in turn has

provided priceless application examples for learned material. Would I do it again? Yes.

Being older does not mean struggling more, nor does it give an unfair advantage over younger

students. It will revive many memories, and decisions will be made from a different prospective. At 50,

the reasons to go to college may be retraining or to better a position in the work force. In my case, it’s

the fulfillment of a life long dream. This differs slightly from classmates trying to decide “what to do with

the rest of their life.” Yet, again it is also the same goal for both generations.

College tests the strengths and weaknesses of each person while providing the tools for self-

improvement. It is so much more than books, tests, and grades. Learning is a life long experience.

Experiencing the exhilaration of daily successes, or recovering from the let down of a lesser than

expected grade helps shape a person’s future.

This educational experience has provided far more than learned knowledge from textbooks.

Older students should prepare for a roller coaster ride filled with twists and turns to take your breath

away. At the end of the ride you will be filled with a new outlook on life, and be strongly motivated to

change the world, again.

69


A Battle Against Time

By: Scott Burgess

University of Dayton

Night after night you find yourself watching the sunrise, depleting your coffee supply as you

frantically plug away at that essay you postponed for two weeks. As the clock ticks, each passing second

is bringing you closer to your dreaded deadline. You start to think of a way to revise your habits. You

start to think of how you first became entangled in this predicament. The past three days begin to play

through your head as if someone pressed the play button on the DVD player. As your brain begins to

grow weary, you finally stumble upon the problem. Two nights ago your next door neighbor swung open

your door like he was Kramer from Seinfeld. He persistently urged you to join him for a late night movie

with friends. This earned a fast track to the top of the priority list. As you joined your friend and said to

yourself you would finish your essay later, not a word of writing ensued until three hours prior to the due

date. Suddenly the credits begin to roll in your autobiographical feature film and you snap back to reality.

Your eyes are immediately captivated by the clock. Twenty minutes remain until your essay needs to be

printed, stapled and placed on your professor’s desk. As the minute hand continues to draw dangerously

close to your 9:00 am English class, as you start acknowledging your defeat, you begin to pray and

hope that your professor will sustain engine trouble or even a flat tire, but you know it’s hopeless. Your

alarm rings, time is up. This wasn’t the ideal night you had imagined when you rolled out of bed and got

70


dressed this morning.

Does this sound like a familiar occurrence in your college life? Are you frequently overwhelmed

with your work load? Compelled to socialize or seek exercise? Or find it your obligation to expend most of

your time with your significant other? As the minutes expire in the hourglass that is a day in your life, how

is it possible to accomplish everything on your task list? There really is only one strategy that allows you

to emerge victorious in the battle against time. That strategy involves an effective self developed form of

time management. I unfortunately do not possess the knowledge of a fool proof time management plan

because it varies from individual. Every student has a different class schedule and a mental image of how

they plan to spend their day. I cannot speak intelligently on behalf of your daily activities, but what I am

able to do, is offer advice and tips to stimulate your own development.

Managing time is like managing a business. It involves three basic steps: planning, organizing,

and implementation. During your planning process you can begin to formulate the day you wish to live.

Create a schedule of mandatory requirements such as classes or teacher meetings, but also input your

desired activities for that particular day. Now you can begin the organization process often characterized

as mission impossible. The lack of organization is the area in which the majority of people struggle to

maintain, but it is a vital component for a functional collegiate lifestyle. Familiarize yourself with the time

frames of your daily classes. After you are familiar with those times you can choose how to integrate

your desired activities into your overarching plan. Whether you plan to exercise between your 9:00 am to

12:00 pm classes, grab a bite to eat, or catch up on “Season 7” of Entourage is your personal preference.

Organization, although critical, does not always sufficiently prepare or properly account for unanticipated

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“speed bumps” you may encounter through your implementation process. Unexpected events occur

throughout your day that your predesigned schedule could not have accounted for, such as extra credit

opportunities, presentation difficulties, illness, or the misplacement of your dorm key. There is an infinite

list of unexpected occurrences that even a course on probabilities couldn’t address, but it is something

everyone in this world will endure, even the most notable iconic figures. For example, this past June Apple

CEO Steve Jobs, displayed Apple’s new Iphone-4 model during his WWDC keynote speech. During Job’s

display he endured a page loading error, as he struggled to show his audience an internet feature. Due to

an overpopulated Wi-Fi server it took Jobs several minutes to recover. Apple may consider the creation

of a separate server solely for the demonstration device next time. Just as Mr. Jobs and his team will

undoubtedly learn from their unanticipated disaster, your experiences will guide you in the same way.

Time management isn’t just an acquired skill, it is an art that takes years to perfect, but when you

get the hang of it you will find your life more manageable. Even if you are the unfortunate soul whose

last name happens to randomly fall into the last window for scheduling, all hope is not lost. Rather than

running to your faculty advisor demanding a scheduling change, save your breath and time. Make the best

of your adverse situation and devise a plan. Although you may not have the luxury of sleeping until the

afternoon, you will still be able to complete everything you desire. Whether it means going to bed earlier

or fitting in a nap, with the right attitude and practice you can make it work.

Don’t worry if you struggle your first year, only a select few are able to master the craft. Balance

is the key. You will be living multiple lives: social, education, physical, and romantic. It’s a tough challenge

to tackle. Don’t be discouraged if you struggle early in the game, practice makes perfect. I hope that this

72


advice helps you go down a path where you can develop your own plan to conquer the battle against

time. As St. Francis of Assisi said, “Start by doing what’s necessary; then do what’s possible; and suddenly

you are doing the impossible.”

73

summer 2010 collegiate scholar

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