This piece was originally an assignment. It turned into a piece of my writing. This is my "mentor paper".
I was a freshman in high school and he was a senior. He had style. He was dark and wore the same chain around his neck everyday. He had a pocket watch. He was tall, much taller than me. And his teeth glistened because of their pearl perfection, not the bands of metal straightening them like my own. When I saw him I couldn’t speak. Even if I was mid conversation with another person I would stop and just look at him. My eyes could speak for me. I bet my pupils would get small the way they do now when my heart beats fast and I can only see one thing. His name was A.J and I thought I loved him.
The first time I saw him he was getting a breakfast burrito at the schools cafeteria. He looked glorious smearing hot sauce and ketchup onto that burrito and smashing it into his freshly stoned mouth. He drank coffee and I can remember thinking to myself about how mature and how handsome that was.
I was always early to my classes the first few weeks of school. I was nervous that I would get lost between one classroom and another, as if the school wasn’t composed of three buildings. I made my way to my Creative Writing class. So I sat in Sunny Wright’s classroom, which looked out into the courtyard. I could see some of my team mates from my JV Gold soccer team; the stoners were playing hacky-sack and casually recalling the previous nights joint sessions; the senior girls in their matching white tank tops with neon bras sticking out getting lectured about school dress code by the Dean of Students; and then there was him. He sat alone on a bench. But, he didn’t look alone. He had a book and it was his company. Him and his book. The bell rang. I looked toward the front of the room and when I looked back he was gone. My heart sank.
Then it rose, straight into my throat. There he was, looking around the room I sat in for an open seat. I watched him brush the hair out of his face and he brushed my eyes aside.
Sunny asked us to write. We could write about anything. I wrote about him. I wrote about how I wanted to read the time from his pocket watch only and sweep the hairs from his eyes so he could look into mine and see that I was in love.
I could hear a chair slide back and he cleared his throat as I looked up. He began to read:
“I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
Silent, starving I prowl through the streets.
Bread does not nourish me, dawn disquiets me,
I search the liquid sound of your steps all day.”
It was this poem that gave me courage. When he finished his words my mouth made its openness worth it and I asked him, “What did you just read?” I created it in my mind that he would tell me he wrote it about me when he saw me in the cafeteria that morning.
He didn’t, though. He sat down, scooted his char in, looked at me, and replied, “Neruda.”
At that point, I didn’t know what I longed more for—his eye contact or Neruda. I copied that name down in my notebook and changed my free write topic from the boy in my classroom to the man in his book.
***
I ended up being good friends with A.J. and consider Pablo Neruda to be a good friend of mine as well. I told A.J. about my infatuation with his dreaminess one night over a beer after one of his shows. Our conversation turned into comparing favorite poems and deciding you couldn’t consider only one poet your favorite. However, if I were to consider one poet, one writer, one passionate communicator to consider my mentor it would be my precious Pablo.
Pablo Neruda has encouraged me to inspire my poems to dance. The thing that grasped me about Neruda’s work is that each poem has a specific dance. Sometimes, like in “I Crave Your Mouth”, the poem grabs you lightly around your tailbone with one arm and locks its fingers with your other hand. And with each verb like want, hunger, and search it holds you a little lighter. And when it comes to the end of the song, and the poem reads “like a puma in the barren wilderness”, you are dipped and your hair sweeps the ground you feel you float on. At that point you wish for a kiss just behind the ear.
Then there are the times where you’re dancing and before you know it your holding on so tight you’re standing still. You eyes are shut and your heart is fluttering and you think, you know, that at that point in time nothing more could create such perfection. It is the feeling of being confined to one area but that area is so large you could get lost and that person would still be there to find you. Neruda and I danced like this when I read “In My Sky At Twilight”. He spoke to me and whispered truth in my ears, he said to me:
“You are taken in the net of my music, my love,
and my nets of music are wide as the sky.
My soul is born on the shore of your eyes of mourning.
In your eyes of mourning the land of dreams begin.”
And when he was finished I opened my eyes and all I could see was the depth of an imaginary neck and my body felt held.
***
I remember not using my headphones on the walk to town from my high school the day A.J. introduced me to Pablo Neruda. I kept repeating Neruda’s words in my head and even spoke them out loud as I walked past things that were beautiful: Autumn outside the Orvis fishing store, someone unhooking a trout in the Batenkill river behind The Jelly Mill.
I was late for work that day at Ben & Jerry’s. My co-workers were pissed when I showed up and had a “lame” excuse.
I looked at my boss and said, “Jon, you wouldn’t believe what happened to me today. I had to go to the bookstore and get this book.” I held onto my first collection of poetry: The Essential Neruda: selected poems. And it was essential, and I had selected it to be mine. My boss, Jon, laughed at me, called me Slacker like usual and threw me an ice cream scoop.
That book dealt with a lot of my bullshit. It moved out of my Mom’s house with me and caught all the tears no one else would reach out for. It got addicted with me when I had surgery and ate and breathed nothing but Percocets. We broke up with my pig-farming-cop-running-good-girl-heart-breaking first love together. I wrote in this book the way the words made me feel and when. It documented how my emotions changed throughout years and different addictions ranging from drugs, to people, and adrenaline rushes.
I have never had many girl friends. But, I have always had one. Her name is Hannah. She is the friend I lied for in high school when her mom asked if she spent the night when in reality she was at deer camp with a 22-year-old, the one whose arms I cried in when I moved two hours north for college, and the one I drove across the country when she ran from that 22-year-old at deer camp. I have always been the one who gets pleasure from things that aren’t only physically beautiful. I am the one who can cry to the melody of a song or dance to the words of a poem. I wanted to share this with her.
I knew I wouldn’t be with her on her 20th birthday, and it would be the first birthday she didn’t have me to light her candles since we were six. I wanted her to have something special. I made her a card and wrote to her about how I knew that distance wouldn’t hurt us and we would always be holding hands. I tucked the card into the pages of special Neruda book.
She took the card out and handed the book back to me.
I smiled, laughed, and looked up at the sky. I knew, at that point, that the book I held in my hands could not dance with another. And we would dance till our feet were tired. We were to stay together through the rest of my story. The smile on my face is for all eternity; just as my collection of Neruda will be everlasting company.
Saturday, December 19, 2009
Monday, December 14, 2009
Arizona
A stranger tells me I am beautiful,
As I discover soft hands
Playing with my fingers.
My easy going lips;
The soft caress of his tounge.
In a place where they don’t recycle,
Not even for the extra few dollars,
My eyes wander
Around streets and parking lots
Filled with Beamers and the newest Volkswagens.
Discussions about the green buds from California,
And the eighty-degree difference between the town that turns red when the sun sets
And the white valleys
Where I find my home.
Background noise of traffic and music unlike my own,
Heavy with strong voices.
I smile in hundreds of photos,
With the people from conversations at 3 in the morning.
My face subtly glows,
In a crown of overused eye shadow, new breasts, fake teeth,
And acne hidden with a week’s work of make-up.
I question why I don’t want to leave.
***
He rests under a sweating sun,
As it trips over the red rocks,
It bleeds through a city,
Full of clay houses and hungry nocturnal beasts.
***
I sat an wondered who
Tossed the snow globe I lived in,
As feathers fell and coated
The valleys full of freeze stricken maples and uncovered hands.
I found myself,
In a photo with a familiar stranger.
The temptation overflowing between out noses,
Brushing lips brought locked eyes.
Caught in a moment of curiosity,
He can see romance
Distantly standing still and alone in my eyes.
As I discover soft hands
Playing with my fingers.
My easy going lips;
The soft caress of his tounge.
In a place where they don’t recycle,
Not even for the extra few dollars,
My eyes wander
Around streets and parking lots
Filled with Beamers and the newest Volkswagens.
Discussions about the green buds from California,
And the eighty-degree difference between the town that turns red when the sun sets
And the white valleys
Where I find my home.
Background noise of traffic and music unlike my own,
Heavy with strong voices.
I smile in hundreds of photos,
With the people from conversations at 3 in the morning.
My face subtly glows,
In a crown of overused eye shadow, new breasts, fake teeth,
And acne hidden with a week’s work of make-up.
I question why I don’t want to leave.
***
He rests under a sweating sun,
As it trips over the red rocks,
It bleeds through a city,
Full of clay houses and hungry nocturnal beasts.
***
I sat an wondered who
Tossed the snow globe I lived in,
As feathers fell and coated
The valleys full of freeze stricken maples and uncovered hands.
I found myself,
In a photo with a familiar stranger.
The temptation overflowing between out noses,
Brushing lips brought locked eyes.
Caught in a moment of curiosity,
He can see romance
Distantly standing still and alone in my eyes.
Halloween
I yelled
in your wide eyes
and confused smile
about your stupid friend.
You tell me,
“He’s a druggie,
Babe.”
“I do drugs
and I’m not an asshole,”
I tell you.
I continued to yell
in our good friends bathroom.
I saw the two
of us in a toothpaste
splattered window.
I try
to get out, wrapping
one of my little hands
around the knob and one
against your high shoulder.
You hold me back
and bring my face up,
grasping my head in your hands
to tell me you love me.
“You’re finally mine.”
I left you
in that bathroom
sitting on the edge
of the scummy tub.
Halloween night
turned into the first
of November while I waited
in a blunt smoke thick
living room
of laser beams, solo cups,
glow sticks, and two kegs
for you to come
find me and my
Michael Jackson inspired shoulders
hips and lips.
“Where’s my beautiful
girlfriend?” I heard
you yell from the porch in distress.
You picked me up off my feet
and kissed me.
As you lowered me
to the ground. My feet
were at the ceiling.
I opened my eyes and you squeezed me
tight
with your arms around my size 4 waist
reaching your pointer fingers to my belly
button.
You slumped
your tall, still body
in a chair in a bedroom.
You saw me
through little cracks
It was time to go and
we left together into
a damp night of costumes
and acid soaked candied lips.
You lifted me up off my bed
and carried me
out of my bedroom.
I saw the reflection
of my tattoo on my naked
hip
in the bathroom mirror.
You threw me
down onto the leather
couch
and we filled its cushions.
We stuck to the leather
with alcohol filled sweat
so I led you
off that couch
to take advantage
of the wide plain of my living room
floor
surrounded by photos
of my roommates family and
the friends we’ve shared
since high school.
Their eyes watched you
follow me
on your knees.
My knees press into the carpet
as I pulled my hair
nothing else was in reach.
in your wide eyes
and confused smile
about your stupid friend.
You tell me,
“He’s a druggie,
Babe.”
“I do drugs
and I’m not an asshole,”
I tell you.
I continued to yell
in our good friends bathroom.
I saw the two
of us in a toothpaste
splattered window.
I try
to get out, wrapping
one of my little hands
around the knob and one
against your high shoulder.
You hold me back
and bring my face up,
grasping my head in your hands
to tell me you love me.
“You’re finally mine.”
I left you
in that bathroom
sitting on the edge
of the scummy tub.
Halloween night
turned into the first
of November while I waited
in a blunt smoke thick
living room
of laser beams, solo cups,
glow sticks, and two kegs
for you to come
find me and my
Michael Jackson inspired shoulders
hips and lips.
“Where’s my beautiful
girlfriend?” I heard
you yell from the porch in distress.
You picked me up off my feet
and kissed me.
As you lowered me
to the ground. My feet
were at the ceiling.
I opened my eyes and you squeezed me
tight
with your arms around my size 4 waist
reaching your pointer fingers to my belly
button.
You slumped
your tall, still body
in a chair in a bedroom.
You saw me
through little cracks
It was time to go and
we left together into
a damp night of costumes
and acid soaked candied lips.
You lifted me up off my bed
and carried me
out of my bedroom.
I saw the reflection
of my tattoo on my naked
hip
in the bathroom mirror.
You threw me
down onto the leather
couch
and we filled its cushions.
We stuck to the leather
with alcohol filled sweat
so I led you
off that couch
to take advantage
of the wide plain of my living room
floor
surrounded by photos
of my roommates family and
the friends we’ve shared
since high school.
Their eyes watched you
follow me
on your knees.
My knees press into the carpet
as I pulled my hair
nothing else was in reach.
Determined Intoxication
We only spend
a few hours together a day
during the work week.
You’ll pick me up
from dinners when I’ve had too much to drink
or show up while I’m writing
a pointless essay
or a poem about you.
When you showed up
in my bedroom tonight
you knew you’d done something wrong
and asked me to get up
out of my desk chair and put down
my pen to join you on my bed.
In my mind, I asked you
to leave. I told you
you could try again tomorrow.
We talked about the weekend
when we could spend
your drug money
and the majority of your time
recuperating from the late night
and early morning hours.
I asked you the date and
you told me, “October 15th, love.”
I dug into the curve of your shoulder
and your long thick neck
and did not speak
until you kissed my hair
for a long five seconds (I wish
it lasted longer).
“I’m going to get really drunk,”
I told you.
Still deep in your shoulder
I told you I was going to drink
all day and
get completely wasted.
You told me
we would get a big bottle of liquor,
but I knew
it wouldn’t be enough.
You were so used
to spending your weekends
getting trashed and progressively closer
to my naked body
in the bed we lay in
you didn’t bother to ask
the reasoning for my
determination to get drunk;
my expecting an
intoxicated entanglement.
I looked
at the frame on my bedside table
with the picture of a young me
with a man I didn’t know.
I told you
that Saturday was my fathers birthday.
a few hours together a day
during the work week.
You’ll pick me up
from dinners when I’ve had too much to drink
or show up while I’m writing
a pointless essay
or a poem about you.
When you showed up
in my bedroom tonight
you knew you’d done something wrong
and asked me to get up
out of my desk chair and put down
my pen to join you on my bed.
In my mind, I asked you
to leave. I told you
you could try again tomorrow.
We talked about the weekend
when we could spend
your drug money
and the majority of your time
recuperating from the late night
and early morning hours.
I asked you the date and
you told me, “October 15th, love.”
I dug into the curve of your shoulder
and your long thick neck
and did not speak
until you kissed my hair
for a long five seconds (I wish
it lasted longer).
“I’m going to get really drunk,”
I told you.
Still deep in your shoulder
I told you I was going to drink
all day and
get completely wasted.
You told me
we would get a big bottle of liquor,
but I knew
it wouldn’t be enough.
You were so used
to spending your weekends
getting trashed and progressively closer
to my naked body
in the bed we lay in
you didn’t bother to ask
the reasoning for my
determination to get drunk;
my expecting an
intoxicated entanglement.
I looked
at the frame on my bedside table
with the picture of a young me
with a man I didn’t know.
I told you
that Saturday was my fathers birthday.
Dear Molly
Speak out loud. Yell
at the people around you; yell
at the open air.
Tell everyone
how you feel hate
for your solid skin, hard boned limbs.
How you hurt
when you think of his body
tangled in the dashboard;
how you find yourself
crying
when you’re alone.
Tell them how you can feel
the hair on the back of your neck rise
and how you crack your knuckles
when eyes that sink into wrinkled faces
sympathize.
Be embarrassed
For those who can not
Express the pain.
Be unimpressed with those
Who do not attend
The final farewell
and sit among the photos
of fifteen years at deer camp in Dorset
at the church where you watch
a mother clutch and stain
her sons football jersey with tears.
Be ecstatic
When you see the faces
Of those who do.
Do not shy away
From car rides
To smoke joints,
To go to Burr and Burton for class,
To go to dinner.
Do not restrict
Yourself
From thinking of his body
Between the seat and the dashboard;
Of his sister
Still breathing
Next to him.
Restrict yourself
From not considering
Your own young body
In that car;
From those adult eyes
On someone else’s
Breathing, hunting, woodworking
Body.
And restrict yourself
From the windshield
With your seatbelt.
at the people around you; yell
at the open air.
Tell everyone
how you feel hate
for your solid skin, hard boned limbs.
How you hurt
when you think of his body
tangled in the dashboard;
how you find yourself
crying
when you’re alone.
Tell them how you can feel
the hair on the back of your neck rise
and how you crack your knuckles
when eyes that sink into wrinkled faces
sympathize.
Be embarrassed
For those who can not
Express the pain.
Be unimpressed with those
Who do not attend
The final farewell
and sit among the photos
of fifteen years at deer camp in Dorset
at the church where you watch
a mother clutch and stain
her sons football jersey with tears.
Be ecstatic
When you see the faces
Of those who do.
Do not shy away
From car rides
To smoke joints,
To go to Burr and Burton for class,
To go to dinner.
Do not restrict
Yourself
From thinking of his body
Between the seat and the dashboard;
Of his sister
Still breathing
Next to him.
Restrict yourself
From not considering
Your own young body
In that car;
From those adult eyes
On someone else’s
Breathing, hunting, woodworking
Body.
And restrict yourself
From the windshield
With your seatbelt.
Is It Because You Love Fall?
I can’t help
but think that timing has everything
to do with what happens
in this life.
What if your parents
hadn’t moved north before
you were born? What if
they hadn’t sold the house
they built in the neighborhood
where my mother raised me?
Would you have thrown snowballs at me
on days they cancelled class
at what would have been
our elementary school?
Would you have been the boy
next door who I rejected
when he asked me to the prom?
We’ve been friends
for three years and I’ve loved
you for at least two.
You’ve loved me back, now,
for several months,
and you’ve let me see you
without your hat
for thirty nine days.
Why now? Why are we
waking up together now instead
of six months ago or six months
from now?
Is it because you love fall?
You told me of your admiration
the other day with arms
around each other. Yours draped
across my shoulders and mine wrapped
around your waist. We walked
around North Hero on streets
decorated with dead leaves and bright
un-carved pumpkins.
We noticed all the gorgeous dogs—
Boxers, Pit Bulls, and a Great Dane
who licked a toddler’s face.
Children bundled
in one piece fleece suits,
strawberry hats, and mittens
rolled in piles of leaves.
You kissed
my chilly forehead.
You left me
in my bed one Sunday night.
You had to work and my classes
were canceled
for Columbus Day the following morning.
“I won’t be able to leave you
in this bed tomorrow morning,
if I stay,” you said.
So I watched a girly movie
and had to write you
a letter because I can’t help
but see the reflection
of our relationship
in a movie like P.S. I Love You.
I find it ironic
and it makes me burn
that as this season you love dies for the year
and winter is born again,
I am leaving.
I ask myself,
why will I have
to read
this poem to people
drinking
pints of Guinness in a pub
in Dublin
who have never seen you
And never will?
but think that timing has everything
to do with what happens
in this life.
What if your parents
hadn’t moved north before
you were born? What if
they hadn’t sold the house
they built in the neighborhood
where my mother raised me?
Would you have thrown snowballs at me
on days they cancelled class
at what would have been
our elementary school?
Would you have been the boy
next door who I rejected
when he asked me to the prom?
We’ve been friends
for three years and I’ve loved
you for at least two.
You’ve loved me back, now,
for several months,
and you’ve let me see you
without your hat
for thirty nine days.
Why now? Why are we
waking up together now instead
of six months ago or six months
from now?
Is it because you love fall?
You told me of your admiration
the other day with arms
around each other. Yours draped
across my shoulders and mine wrapped
around your waist. We walked
around North Hero on streets
decorated with dead leaves and bright
un-carved pumpkins.
We noticed all the gorgeous dogs—
Boxers, Pit Bulls, and a Great Dane
who licked a toddler’s face.
Children bundled
in one piece fleece suits,
strawberry hats, and mittens
rolled in piles of leaves.
You kissed
my chilly forehead.
You left me
in my bed one Sunday night.
You had to work and my classes
were canceled
for Columbus Day the following morning.
“I won’t be able to leave you
in this bed tomorrow morning,
if I stay,” you said.
So I watched a girly movie
and had to write you
a letter because I can’t help
but see the reflection
of our relationship
in a movie like P.S. I Love You.
I find it ironic
and it makes me burn
that as this season you love dies for the year
and winter is born again,
I am leaving.
I ask myself,
why will I have
to read
this poem to people
drinking
pints of Guinness in a pub
in Dublin
who have never seen you
And never will?
Come On Now, Let's Be Civilized!
Advice Column for the November issue of The Champlain Current
I mumbled comments to myself that I wished I had just said aloud this morning in my Human Rights & Responsibilities course. Of course, these comments weren’t concerning the origins of Islam or the Cairo Declaration of Independence. No, my comments were concerning my fellow students and I. To be exact, it was concerning my fellow students and I being criticized for being young, being of a new generation.
I am going to guess that I am not the only twenty-year-old young adult at Champlain College who grew up without going to church every Sunday. I don’t know the Bible like the back of my hand. And, it’s this characteristic, being uninformed about Christianity, that qualifies me to be called a “heathen”. That’s right! We were referred to as “heathens” by a professor.
As a third year COR student, I attend the Human Rights & Responsibilities class. Our professor was referring to the Bible and asked the class if someone could tell the class one of the biblical stories. The room fell silent. He asked us, “Come on guys, didn’t any of you attend Sunday school?” The room stayed silent.
From the far corner of the room, an observing professor made his statement.
He said, “They are a bunch of heathens!”
Whether he thought he was being funny, or trying to be an ass, his comment was simply inappropriate, offensive, and obviously uncalled for.
Let me lay down the word “heathen” for you with the help of the Merriam-Webster dictionary. The noun has two parts to its definition. The first part states that a heathen is “an unconverted member of a people or nation that does not acknowledge the God of the Bible.” Okay, I agree. I do not acknowledge the big guy in the sky. However, the second part of the definition is where the burn in my chest, my muttered comments, and my feelings of being disrespected come from. The second part of the definition regards a “heathen” as “uncivilized”.
Really?...Really!?
Because I don’t I clothe myself before entering the streets of Burlington. I don’t shower on a regular basis to keep myself feeling (and smelling) clean. I didn’t graduate from high school and make my way into Champlain College.
NOT.
I do the things that a civilized human being does. And, I can guarantee if you didn’t spend your Sundays at church and in Sunday school, you do these CIVILIZED things as well.
I grew up without religious beliefs. However, I do consider myself spiritual. I faced tragedy at the early age of eight and created my own opinions how to live my life and where I would “go” when my life ended. It is topics like one’s religiousness that should be left out of one’s professor’s mouth.
To my main point, when you feel you are being disrespected, you need to stand up for yourself. Whether it be that your professor calls you a “heathen” because you are of the second millennium or if your professor tells you that you aren’t capable of writing a paper when you clearly are—stand up for yourself! Chances are, you aren’t the only one who feels the burning sensation deep down inside your stomach that makes you want to yell, to curse the college you spend so much money on your education at. And if you’re scared to say something to your professor seeing how he or she has clearly already denounced you, then hell, go to their superior.
But don’t just run, jump, and skip to their office. I mean, come on, now, let’s be civilized. Make a plan for yourself, an outline of outrage! Make a list of the things you want to say. Make sure to include the course you are in, the professor (of course), the issue at hand, and why it upsets you the most. Also, don’t show up looking like a bed creature. Make sure you jump out of your jammies and into your professional pants. You can’t point a finger without your whole arm behind it. Make sure you give your reasons for you pure and utter distaste in the way this human being has treated you.
I had an issue with a professor my sophomore year. In between telling the details of an assignment and giving us a due date she said, “You guys don’t know how to write papers.” Even if I wasn’t Professional Writing major, I would have been offended. I felt degraded and had no desire to write her the paper. If she thought we couldn’t write papers, why would I write her one? Finally, after I had cooled down, I went to her office and told her how I was offended and felt discouraged when doing the assignment. She apologized, and admitted she had used the wrong words. It can be effective to politely approach your professor and say something like, “You said something in class that I wanted to talk more about,” or, “I didn’t get the grade I was expecting, could we discuss how I could improve my work?”
However, there are many ways to communicate whatever issue is at hand. If you don’t feel comfortable talking to someone in person, you can send an e-mail or type up a letter and put it in their on campus mailbox.
So, I’m going to give you a little inspiration. And, believe me, I am not encouraging you to complain about getting a C on a paper when you think you should have gotten a B and in reality you wrote it ten minutes before class and deserve a D. I’m talking real disappointment in the relationship between student and professor. I am going to provide you with some contacts that may be useful if the problem is beyond a conversation with a demeaning professor. Listed below are the Deans of divisions on campus who can be found in the “Contacts” area on your MyMail account:
o Communications & Creative Media: Jeff Rutenbeck
o Business: Renee Florsheim
o Education & Human Studies: Sue Rowley
o Information Technology & Sciences: Ali Rafieymehr
o COR: Betsy Beaulieu
Well, good luck, young-fresh-minded-new-age-knowing-future-experiencer. And lastly, get on YouTube and get yourself fired up with some Michael Franti. You can find some inspiration in his song “Hey World”. So, in the words of Franti, “Don't ever doubt the power of just one mind.”
I mumbled comments to myself that I wished I had just said aloud this morning in my Human Rights & Responsibilities course. Of course, these comments weren’t concerning the origins of Islam or the Cairo Declaration of Independence. No, my comments were concerning my fellow students and I. To be exact, it was concerning my fellow students and I being criticized for being young, being of a new generation.
I am going to guess that I am not the only twenty-year-old young adult at Champlain College who grew up without going to church every Sunday. I don’t know the Bible like the back of my hand. And, it’s this characteristic, being uninformed about Christianity, that qualifies me to be called a “heathen”. That’s right! We were referred to as “heathens” by a professor.
As a third year COR student, I attend the Human Rights & Responsibilities class. Our professor was referring to the Bible and asked the class if someone could tell the class one of the biblical stories. The room fell silent. He asked us, “Come on guys, didn’t any of you attend Sunday school?” The room stayed silent.
From the far corner of the room, an observing professor made his statement.
He said, “They are a bunch of heathens!”
Whether he thought he was being funny, or trying to be an ass, his comment was simply inappropriate, offensive, and obviously uncalled for.
Let me lay down the word “heathen” for you with the help of the Merriam-Webster dictionary. The noun has two parts to its definition. The first part states that a heathen is “an unconverted member of a people or nation that does not acknowledge the God of the Bible.” Okay, I agree. I do not acknowledge the big guy in the sky. However, the second part of the definition is where the burn in my chest, my muttered comments, and my feelings of being disrespected come from. The second part of the definition regards a “heathen” as “uncivilized”.
Really?...Really!?
Because I don’t I clothe myself before entering the streets of Burlington. I don’t shower on a regular basis to keep myself feeling (and smelling) clean. I didn’t graduate from high school and make my way into Champlain College.
NOT.
I do the things that a civilized human being does. And, I can guarantee if you didn’t spend your Sundays at church and in Sunday school, you do these CIVILIZED things as well.
I grew up without religious beliefs. However, I do consider myself spiritual. I faced tragedy at the early age of eight and created my own opinions how to live my life and where I would “go” when my life ended. It is topics like one’s religiousness that should be left out of one’s professor’s mouth.
To my main point, when you feel you are being disrespected, you need to stand up for yourself. Whether it be that your professor calls you a “heathen” because you are of the second millennium or if your professor tells you that you aren’t capable of writing a paper when you clearly are—stand up for yourself! Chances are, you aren’t the only one who feels the burning sensation deep down inside your stomach that makes you want to yell, to curse the college you spend so much money on your education at. And if you’re scared to say something to your professor seeing how he or she has clearly already denounced you, then hell, go to their superior.
But don’t just run, jump, and skip to their office. I mean, come on, now, let’s be civilized. Make a plan for yourself, an outline of outrage! Make a list of the things you want to say. Make sure to include the course you are in, the professor (of course), the issue at hand, and why it upsets you the most. Also, don’t show up looking like a bed creature. Make sure you jump out of your jammies and into your professional pants. You can’t point a finger without your whole arm behind it. Make sure you give your reasons for you pure and utter distaste in the way this human being has treated you.
I had an issue with a professor my sophomore year. In between telling the details of an assignment and giving us a due date she said, “You guys don’t know how to write papers.” Even if I wasn’t Professional Writing major, I would have been offended. I felt degraded and had no desire to write her the paper. If she thought we couldn’t write papers, why would I write her one? Finally, after I had cooled down, I went to her office and told her how I was offended and felt discouraged when doing the assignment. She apologized, and admitted she had used the wrong words. It can be effective to politely approach your professor and say something like, “You said something in class that I wanted to talk more about,” or, “I didn’t get the grade I was expecting, could we discuss how I could improve my work?”
However, there are many ways to communicate whatever issue is at hand. If you don’t feel comfortable talking to someone in person, you can send an e-mail or type up a letter and put it in their on campus mailbox.
So, I’m going to give you a little inspiration. And, believe me, I am not encouraging you to complain about getting a C on a paper when you think you should have gotten a B and in reality you wrote it ten minutes before class and deserve a D. I’m talking real disappointment in the relationship between student and professor. I am going to provide you with some contacts that may be useful if the problem is beyond a conversation with a demeaning professor. Listed below are the Deans of divisions on campus who can be found in the “Contacts” area on your MyMail account:
o Communications & Creative Media: Jeff Rutenbeck
o Business: Renee Florsheim
o Education & Human Studies: Sue Rowley
o Information Technology & Sciences: Ali Rafieymehr
o COR: Betsy Beaulieu
Well, good luck, young-fresh-minded-new-age-knowing-future-experiencer. And lastly, get on YouTube and get yourself fired up with some Michael Franti. You can find some inspiration in his song “Hey World”. So, in the words of Franti, “Don't ever doubt the power of just one mind.”
Come One, Come All, Welcome to the Circus that is Champlain College!
Advice Column for the September issue of The Champlain Current
The roustabout music starts (the Bassnectar remix, that is), the light flickers through the trees that surround the main ring (the Hauke courtyard); and, the spotlight is on you (or so it seems). Face it, we are all circus freaks. Everyone is different—the bare-foot-grooving-sunshine daydreamers, the fitted-wearing-fist-pounding-Air Force One admirers, and the tech-savvy-game-creating masterminds. And you, you just don’t seem to fit in anywhere. Your eyes spot hair wraps and beaded braids of a sunshine daydreamer engulf around a head topped with a Boston Fitted. A clash of characteristics—welcome to College.
When my dorm, 215 South Prospect Street, got settled in, I was named the Hippie. Sublime, The Dead, and morning Marley were casually bumping through my open door and windows. I spent the first few weeks getting wild—which resulted in me going home, not drinking for a while, and dropping a class. The first year of school can, and most likely will, be the most difficult social adjustment of your life. In my first year I got emotionally destroyed by a boyfriend from home and a Disco Biscuit-bumping upperclassman from UVM, found a life long friend and troublemaking team member with the first homosexual person I’ve ever gotten to know, and found friends better described as family. If you don’t let your guard down and let the natural order of your future take place, who’s life are you living? I’ll suggest a song to you. Get on your computer and check out Xavier Rudd. Not only are his lyrics legit, but he plays a didgeridoo! Listen to his song Let Me Be. His word will explain how and why I want our community to be.
So, here is my first piece of advice: do not let your interests limit you from being interested in people that are completely different from yourself. This isn’t high school, you know. There aren’t cliques. People obviously connect quicker with people who listen to the same music or play the same games (physical or on the screen). There is no need for an icebreaker when you share interests with someone. You don’t have to leave your comfort zone and enter the other persons. Having a simple interest, like gardening or a baseball team, can lead to an array of conversations. I got to know more about myself by meeting new people. By getting to know someone, you realize that you too, are different. It’s healthy, and expected, that your opinions on certain things like sexuality, racial diversity, and even substance abuse will change after you see the effect these things have on other people. And remember, one topic can lead to a million different conversations. So, Sit down (even better—take a walk) and listen to someone else’s music. Try out a video game in your neighbor’s dorm room for the first time. Hell, at lease say “hello” to people when you walk past them.
Please, Oh Please, do not let Me become The Fat Lady!
Then don’t. It is as simple as this: Burlington is far too fun of a city to sit on your—toosh. Plug up your ears with your headphones and go for a run or grab a new friendly face to cruise Church Street with. If you’re not ready to tackle the sweet city yet, the Champlain Fitness Center offers a variety of exercise programs as well as intramural sports. Although intramural sports do not compete with other schools, there is solid dedication to teams. It can be difficult to dedicate a weeknight to a sport when you’re trying to get work done. But, remember how good it felt in high school to accomplish something with a team—a goal, spike, or basket? However, if team sports aren’t for you, I guarantee if you head to campus with a Frisbee, you will attract a crowd of disc throwing maniacs and break a solid sweat before you know it. Not only will you stay looking fresh, but you will feel better, too. Staying healthy doesn’t have to be a hassle, make it fun! Exercising for 30 minutes a day not only produces more energy, but will keep your metabolism up…which leads me to the second part of not becoming the fat lady…
Monitor what you eat in the cafeteria. I know, the grilled cheese dripping with butter looks good after a night of partying. It’s hard to resist eating pizza at every meal since eating it twice (or more) a day has been a dream of yours since childhood. Face it— “childhood” is over. You’re at College and if you don’t start giving your body what it needs (NOT what your brain wants), you’ll be thirty years down the road wishing you had switched your diet when you could still mold your metabolism. It’s healthy to treat yourself in moderation. But, it’s also healthy to trade Captain Crunch for Cheerios; snack on an apple or banana instead of Dorito’s between classes; Request a veggie burger; Go with wheat instead of Wonderbread; Ask for light on the mayo (or just use Hummus!) and heavy on the veggies; Cut back on caffeine and put back a tall glass of water. Choose a meal a day to splurge on a burger or some pizza. Just keep one word in mind: moderation.
My Roommate is a Trapeze Artist and I Ride Pretty Ponies
The difficulty of dorm life does not usually begin with cramming all the belongings of two people in one room. However, when those two people actually have to spend time together in that room it can cause chaos, catfights, and complete catastrophe. Champlain College has a wide variety of interests considering the student body. There is even a chance you won’t have anything in common at all. Between different majors, types of music, opinion on drugs and alcohol, and even sports teams.
Don’t think that you have to be best friends because you live together, but don’t let your differences make you dislike each other either. Living in the dorms is a convenience of college, not the student body form of match making. You can come to compromises on most issues—when to listen to who’s music, what time to be back in the room on nights before classes. Make sure to discuss issues before you’re already down Awkward Ally—bringing home a guy or girl after a party or who has rights to what in the fridge, and especially Alcohol. My roommate did not approve of having Alcohol in our room—I sucked it up. Not only did she have to school to back her up, it really isn’t a necessity when in reality you spend most of your time drinking in living rooms around Burlington.
You may get a perfect fit for a roommate. Plenty of people stay close with their College roommate for life. My roommate when I lived at 215 South Prospect Street and I didn’t have much in common—I can’t actually think of a single thing to be honest. We agreed a switch was necessary because of our…conflicting interests. Just remember, you don’t have to be best friends. You may never want to go a day without them! Either way, have lunch with the person you live with once a week. Remember though, in if your discomfort living with your roommate is extreme, you can always inquire about getting switched! It can be magical, mysterious, and miserable—but it’s an experience.
Run to your Ring Leader!
Your RA (resident advisor) chose to be the leader of the pack in your dorm. Although they have friends, classes, and lives in general, they get paid to sit in their room while on duty. So, take advantage of having him or her around. They are trained to be helpful and not slam you when you’re at your lowest. However, we are all adults. There are right and wrong ways to address things. Be smart. Chose your words wisely. And please, don’t whine. Whether you got drunk and did something stupid, can’t handle a full load of classes, or plain old miss your mom—talk to your RA. My RA was one of my favorite people in our dorm. Where there is respect, there is less Documentation, more dorm dinners, and generally more comfort. They are your closest and fastest source of advice. They may even become a friend and you’ll be the one giving advice.
The roustabout music starts (the Bassnectar remix, that is), the light flickers through the trees that surround the main ring (the Hauke courtyard); and, the spotlight is on you (or so it seems). Face it, we are all circus freaks. Everyone is different—the bare-foot-grooving-sunshine daydreamers, the fitted-wearing-fist-pounding-Air Force One admirers, and the tech-savvy-game-creating masterminds. And you, you just don’t seem to fit in anywhere. Your eyes spot hair wraps and beaded braids of a sunshine daydreamer engulf around a head topped with a Boston Fitted. A clash of characteristics—welcome to College.
When my dorm, 215 South Prospect Street, got settled in, I was named the Hippie. Sublime, The Dead, and morning Marley were casually bumping through my open door and windows. I spent the first few weeks getting wild—which resulted in me going home, not drinking for a while, and dropping a class. The first year of school can, and most likely will, be the most difficult social adjustment of your life. In my first year I got emotionally destroyed by a boyfriend from home and a Disco Biscuit-bumping upperclassman from UVM, found a life long friend and troublemaking team member with the first homosexual person I’ve ever gotten to know, and found friends better described as family. If you don’t let your guard down and let the natural order of your future take place, who’s life are you living? I’ll suggest a song to you. Get on your computer and check out Xavier Rudd. Not only are his lyrics legit, but he plays a didgeridoo! Listen to his song Let Me Be. His word will explain how and why I want our community to be.
So, here is my first piece of advice: do not let your interests limit you from being interested in people that are completely different from yourself. This isn’t high school, you know. There aren’t cliques. People obviously connect quicker with people who listen to the same music or play the same games (physical or on the screen). There is no need for an icebreaker when you share interests with someone. You don’t have to leave your comfort zone and enter the other persons. Having a simple interest, like gardening or a baseball team, can lead to an array of conversations. I got to know more about myself by meeting new people. By getting to know someone, you realize that you too, are different. It’s healthy, and expected, that your opinions on certain things like sexuality, racial diversity, and even substance abuse will change after you see the effect these things have on other people. And remember, one topic can lead to a million different conversations. So, Sit down (even better—take a walk) and listen to someone else’s music. Try out a video game in your neighbor’s dorm room for the first time. Hell, at lease say “hello” to people when you walk past them.
Please, Oh Please, do not let Me become The Fat Lady!
Then don’t. It is as simple as this: Burlington is far too fun of a city to sit on your—toosh. Plug up your ears with your headphones and go for a run or grab a new friendly face to cruise Church Street with. If you’re not ready to tackle the sweet city yet, the Champlain Fitness Center offers a variety of exercise programs as well as intramural sports. Although intramural sports do not compete with other schools, there is solid dedication to teams. It can be difficult to dedicate a weeknight to a sport when you’re trying to get work done. But, remember how good it felt in high school to accomplish something with a team—a goal, spike, or basket? However, if team sports aren’t for you, I guarantee if you head to campus with a Frisbee, you will attract a crowd of disc throwing maniacs and break a solid sweat before you know it. Not only will you stay looking fresh, but you will feel better, too. Staying healthy doesn’t have to be a hassle, make it fun! Exercising for 30 minutes a day not only produces more energy, but will keep your metabolism up…which leads me to the second part of not becoming the fat lady…
Monitor what you eat in the cafeteria. I know, the grilled cheese dripping with butter looks good after a night of partying. It’s hard to resist eating pizza at every meal since eating it twice (or more) a day has been a dream of yours since childhood. Face it— “childhood” is over. You’re at College and if you don’t start giving your body what it needs (NOT what your brain wants), you’ll be thirty years down the road wishing you had switched your diet when you could still mold your metabolism. It’s healthy to treat yourself in moderation. But, it’s also healthy to trade Captain Crunch for Cheerios; snack on an apple or banana instead of Dorito’s between classes; Request a veggie burger; Go with wheat instead of Wonderbread; Ask for light on the mayo (or just use Hummus!) and heavy on the veggies; Cut back on caffeine and put back a tall glass of water. Choose a meal a day to splurge on a burger or some pizza. Just keep one word in mind: moderation.
My Roommate is a Trapeze Artist and I Ride Pretty Ponies
The difficulty of dorm life does not usually begin with cramming all the belongings of two people in one room. However, when those two people actually have to spend time together in that room it can cause chaos, catfights, and complete catastrophe. Champlain College has a wide variety of interests considering the student body. There is even a chance you won’t have anything in common at all. Between different majors, types of music, opinion on drugs and alcohol, and even sports teams.
Don’t think that you have to be best friends because you live together, but don’t let your differences make you dislike each other either. Living in the dorms is a convenience of college, not the student body form of match making. You can come to compromises on most issues—when to listen to who’s music, what time to be back in the room on nights before classes. Make sure to discuss issues before you’re already down Awkward Ally—bringing home a guy or girl after a party or who has rights to what in the fridge, and especially Alcohol. My roommate did not approve of having Alcohol in our room—I sucked it up. Not only did she have to school to back her up, it really isn’t a necessity when in reality you spend most of your time drinking in living rooms around Burlington.
You may get a perfect fit for a roommate. Plenty of people stay close with their College roommate for life. My roommate when I lived at 215 South Prospect Street and I didn’t have much in common—I can’t actually think of a single thing to be honest. We agreed a switch was necessary because of our…conflicting interests. Just remember, you don’t have to be best friends. You may never want to go a day without them! Either way, have lunch with the person you live with once a week. Remember though, in if your discomfort living with your roommate is extreme, you can always inquire about getting switched! It can be magical, mysterious, and miserable—but it’s an experience.
Run to your Ring Leader!
Your RA (resident advisor) chose to be the leader of the pack in your dorm. Although they have friends, classes, and lives in general, they get paid to sit in their room while on duty. So, take advantage of having him or her around. They are trained to be helpful and not slam you when you’re at your lowest. However, we are all adults. There are right and wrong ways to address things. Be smart. Chose your words wisely. And please, don’t whine. Whether you got drunk and did something stupid, can’t handle a full load of classes, or plain old miss your mom—talk to your RA. My RA was one of my favorite people in our dorm. Where there is respect, there is less Documentation, more dorm dinners, and generally more comfort. They are your closest and fastest source of advice. They may even become a friend and you’ll be the one giving advice.
No Sex In The Champlain Room
Advice Column from the October issue of The Champlain Current
You toss the empty Trojan wrapper from your hand. Your headboard knocks against the wall—much louder than the Lil’ Wayne or Ratatat coming from your laptop on your desk. You have someone panting in your ear as your screams are ignited because of their pulling you hair and digging their nails into your back.
Then, there’s another scream, its low and in disgust. It’s not from your tiny dorm bed, but from your roommates. They rise from the bottom bunk howling, storm out of the room and slam the door behind them.
Don’t ever want to find yourself in this situation? Then don’t!
There are many ways to avoid hearing the passionate groans of people from across your small dorm room, or sadly, from the top bunk. Here are a few:
Solution 1: Scheduled Sleepovers
No joke, make a schedule. A literal calendar, color coded to show who gets the room what night. Follow it strictly, too. Don’t break any of the rules. If you know it’s not your night to get sexy in your room, don’t take your companion back with you. If you feel embarrassed when you have to tell someone you can’t go back to your room with them, whisper something cute in their ear. For example, “I wanna’ see where you wake up from your dreams.”
Solution 2: Mark your territory!
So, sometimes the…. urge, can’t be controlled. And, lucky you, your roommate happens to be out of the room when you and your sexy time friend get back to your dorm. Take a break from kissing their neck or throwing them up against a wall and hang a sock, hat, or bandana on the door. Even better—come up with some silly comment to leave on your white board or on a sticky note. For example, I would write “Giggity, Giggity!” However you chose, it’s important to let the person you live with know that you are getting your horizontal groove on before they walk into it.
Another way is to simply let them know that you need to room for a while. If you know you’re going to get saucy and want to get sassy when you go home, let your roommate know. Send a text saying, “I’m going to be knockin’ boots and I don’t want our boots to be walkin’ all over you.”
Solution 3: Cock block—yourself.
Face it; you can’t always get what you want. Regardless if you plan who gets the room for the night, circumstances can always change. You might leave a party with a new lady or man friend and think you are going to get down and dirty. You can’t wait to get into your dorm, out of your clothes, and into the sack. As you get ready to hit the hay, you are faced with the urge to hit your roommate. They are sitting at their desk playing a game on the computer or in bed watching a movie. The three of you just stand there in silence. You have the idea that you can just hop into bed and say, “Screw you, man!” But, you can’t. You’ve been “cock blocked” by your roommate, but in the end, you need to “cock block” yourself. It is going to be difficult but you are going to have to tell your condom-using companion that it just isn’t going to happen. You probably have been whispering sexy silliness in their ear, so let them down easy. You can be honest, and lay down the situation to them. Or, you can make up something about how you don’t have the appropriate romancing equipment like candles or not enough Marvin Gaye on your computer. You might be embarrassed and find yourself lying. Be careful, if you tell them that your roommate has H1N1, you may never see them again.
I hope you have found some good advice in my column in the first two issues of The Current. If anything, I hope you have found some comic relief. I wrote the first two columns by thinking of issues we all run into, but feel free to send me an e-mail if you have a question. I will do my best to give you the best answer. If you want an immediate answer, let me know. I would like nothing more than to actually help you out. Whether you want some advice on where to go for help in school, what to do because of a health issue, or something that has happened between you and your friends. I myself have dealt with some interesting situations while being in College, and I would love to share them with you. I managed to make some sense out of my experiences, let me help you. Send me an e-mail at Emma.Devine@Mymail.Champlain.Edu
You toss the empty Trojan wrapper from your hand. Your headboard knocks against the wall—much louder than the Lil’ Wayne or Ratatat coming from your laptop on your desk. You have someone panting in your ear as your screams are ignited because of their pulling you hair and digging their nails into your back.
Then, there’s another scream, its low and in disgust. It’s not from your tiny dorm bed, but from your roommates. They rise from the bottom bunk howling, storm out of the room and slam the door behind them.
Don’t ever want to find yourself in this situation? Then don’t!
There are many ways to avoid hearing the passionate groans of people from across your small dorm room, or sadly, from the top bunk. Here are a few:
Solution 1: Scheduled Sleepovers
No joke, make a schedule. A literal calendar, color coded to show who gets the room what night. Follow it strictly, too. Don’t break any of the rules. If you know it’s not your night to get sexy in your room, don’t take your companion back with you. If you feel embarrassed when you have to tell someone you can’t go back to your room with them, whisper something cute in their ear. For example, “I wanna’ see where you wake up from your dreams.”
Solution 2: Mark your territory!
So, sometimes the…. urge, can’t be controlled. And, lucky you, your roommate happens to be out of the room when you and your sexy time friend get back to your dorm. Take a break from kissing their neck or throwing them up against a wall and hang a sock, hat, or bandana on the door. Even better—come up with some silly comment to leave on your white board or on a sticky note. For example, I would write “Giggity, Giggity!” However you chose, it’s important to let the person you live with know that you are getting your horizontal groove on before they walk into it.
Another way is to simply let them know that you need to room for a while. If you know you’re going to get saucy and want to get sassy when you go home, let your roommate know. Send a text saying, “I’m going to be knockin’ boots and I don’t want our boots to be walkin’ all over you.”
Solution 3: Cock block—yourself.
Face it; you can’t always get what you want. Regardless if you plan who gets the room for the night, circumstances can always change. You might leave a party with a new lady or man friend and think you are going to get down and dirty. You can’t wait to get into your dorm, out of your clothes, and into the sack. As you get ready to hit the hay, you are faced with the urge to hit your roommate. They are sitting at their desk playing a game on the computer or in bed watching a movie. The three of you just stand there in silence. You have the idea that you can just hop into bed and say, “Screw you, man!” But, you can’t. You’ve been “cock blocked” by your roommate, but in the end, you need to “cock block” yourself. It is going to be difficult but you are going to have to tell your condom-using companion that it just isn’t going to happen. You probably have been whispering sexy silliness in their ear, so let them down easy. You can be honest, and lay down the situation to them. Or, you can make up something about how you don’t have the appropriate romancing equipment like candles or not enough Marvin Gaye on your computer. You might be embarrassed and find yourself lying. Be careful, if you tell them that your roommate has H1N1, you may never see them again.
I hope you have found some good advice in my column in the first two issues of The Current. If anything, I hope you have found some comic relief. I wrote the first two columns by thinking of issues we all run into, but feel free to send me an e-mail if you have a question. I will do my best to give you the best answer. If you want an immediate answer, let me know. I would like nothing more than to actually help you out. Whether you want some advice on where to go for help in school, what to do because of a health issue, or something that has happened between you and your friends. I myself have dealt with some interesting situations while being in College, and I would love to share them with you. I managed to make some sense out of my experiences, let me help you. Send me an e-mail at Emma.Devine@Mymail.Champlain.Edu
Deck The Halls--Not Your Parents
Advice Column for the December issue of The Champlain Current
The holiday season has always been a difficult time for me—well, at least since 1997. I learned at the young age of seven that Santa Clause was not real, that my mom was snacking on sugar cookies in the early hours of Christmas morning, and that the things you put on your Christmas list are never guaranteed to end up under your Christmas tree.
I didn’t ask for my two front teeth or a pony. All I wanted for Christmas the year of 1997 was to have my Dad back. On December 21st, 1997 my father suffered a heart attack that took his life. I was young and naïve. Not so naïve in a sense that I thought Santa was real, but that I though that if I asked for my Dad back on my Christmas list, he would be there waiting for me in the morning.
Since that Christmas, I insisted that the holiday was pointless. I put on my worst attitude and dragged myself through aisles of stores with my mom and put up with “Jingle Bells” ring tones. Don’t get me started on holiday concerts in elementary and middle school. My friends nicknamed me after the main characters in stories like A Christmas Carol and The Grinch. However, this Christmas, 12 years later, I have finally let the ends of those classic stories play out in my own story.
I spent our Thanksgiving break in Connecticut with my oldest sister, Heather, and her kids, Alexa who is 7, and Cole who is 3. Heather was 26 when our Dad died and was able to get to know him throughout those years. She actually knew our father. While cooking Thanksgiving dinner, Heather covered up her hand with a Santa Clause oven mitt and pulled the Parmesan Mashed Potatoes out of the oven. I let out a large, disgusted, “Santa pisses me off” sigh.
Heather questioned my noise and when I told her my reasoning, she said, “well, that’s a shame, Christmas was Dad’s favorite holiday.”
Writer François de la Rochefoucauld said, “The only constant in life is change.” If you can disagree with reason, I’m all for hearing it. Shoot me an e-mail. I’m can imagine that when you went home for the Thanksgiving break, you experienced quite a bit of change. You weren’t drinking beers while eating dinner with your family like you do at school. Your siblings might have gotten used to you not being around. Your friends might have changed quite a bit while they were away at school. Your house might have even changed now that your room could be used as a resting place for a guest—hell, you might even be that guest in the house. But get ready; the soon to arrive holiday break is much longer. All the things that changed will run thicker through your days because you are going to have to adjust to them more. So, I am here to give you some advice to handle yourself, and your surroundings, when you head home.
The Zit Analogy
Having a fight with a family member is like having a gigantic zit on the plumpest part of your cheek or on the very top of the ridge of your nose. You think that if you just keep picking at it, removing the hard, crusted part of it, it will be less noticeable. Well, we’re wrong. You should just let the zit go about its nasty process and it will eventually fade out and your skin will be back to its normal status.
Remember this analogy when you head home for the holidays. There is nothing more difficult and unavoidable than arguing with your family. Your argument is you’re your zit—you can get a few good picks at it but in all honesty with yourself—it’s not worth it. Just let it go through its course without adding to the irritation. Rely on the family members that you do get along with; Take a walk in the (maybe not so) wintry wonderland outside your home; call a best friend who can calm you down or Facebook someone from high school you haven’t seen in a while; make sure you let your family know if you have plans with friends seeing how they expect you to be home for the holidays; go out and make a snowman if you can! Just remember, stay calm—the spring semester will be here before you know it!
Deck the halls—Not your parents
It’s difficult living under your parent’s roof after living on your own for several months. When you headed off to college, you were forced to grow up (which is an awesome situation to be forced into). You are now “the college student” in the family. You might be lucky and not be the only one! However, you are stuck between to categories: too young and old enough. At College, you’re old enough. You make your own decisions. You get wasted when you want. You stay out as long as you want. You wake up when you want.
Your parents might not agree.
You can solve this problem together, though. Talk to them. Explain to them how you have changed and how you go about you days. They will probably worry about you going out with your friends and somehow making it home. Simple, ask them to come get you. Chances are, they have been waiting all their life for you to make that responsible decision to ask them to come get you. When I went home for my first Christmas, I spent an evening drinking at a friend’s house in the neighboring town. I realized I was certain to get a DUI and go to jail, so I called my Mom to come get me.
She didn’t answer.
This didn’t mean I grabbed gears in my Forester and drove home. But, when I woke up in the morning to my phone ringing over and over again, I explained to my mom that she didn’t answer so I slept (or passed out) on my friends couch.
Just remember, you parents aren’t there to torture you. If they were, child services would have swooped you out of their nest years ago. They just want you to be safe.
My Mom has always gotten frustrated with my “I hate Christmas” and “Santa’s stupid” attitude. I am the only one of my mother’s children who didn’t know our father and it is difficult for me to enjoy the season that removed him from my life. My sister Heather’s kids are seven and three. They love Christmas and think Santa is somewhat like God. My sister Erin’s first child is about six months and she has a solid ten years of Chris Kringle loving to go. Between my Mom and my sisters, I have realized that I’m not the baby in the family. I am an Aunt, a sister who will help Santa leave gifts under the tree. Times have changed and my opinions needs to as well. So, this Christmas, I will have my picture taken with Santa, decorate my apartment, and have support from my friends, family, boyfriend, and new puppy.
The holiday season has always been a difficult time for me—well, at least since 1997. I learned at the young age of seven that Santa Clause was not real, that my mom was snacking on sugar cookies in the early hours of Christmas morning, and that the things you put on your Christmas list are never guaranteed to end up under your Christmas tree.
I didn’t ask for my two front teeth or a pony. All I wanted for Christmas the year of 1997 was to have my Dad back. On December 21st, 1997 my father suffered a heart attack that took his life. I was young and naïve. Not so naïve in a sense that I thought Santa was real, but that I though that if I asked for my Dad back on my Christmas list, he would be there waiting for me in the morning.
Since that Christmas, I insisted that the holiday was pointless. I put on my worst attitude and dragged myself through aisles of stores with my mom and put up with “Jingle Bells” ring tones. Don’t get me started on holiday concerts in elementary and middle school. My friends nicknamed me after the main characters in stories like A Christmas Carol and The Grinch. However, this Christmas, 12 years later, I have finally let the ends of those classic stories play out in my own story.
I spent our Thanksgiving break in Connecticut with my oldest sister, Heather, and her kids, Alexa who is 7, and Cole who is 3. Heather was 26 when our Dad died and was able to get to know him throughout those years. She actually knew our father. While cooking Thanksgiving dinner, Heather covered up her hand with a Santa Clause oven mitt and pulled the Parmesan Mashed Potatoes out of the oven. I let out a large, disgusted, “Santa pisses me off” sigh.
Heather questioned my noise and when I told her my reasoning, she said, “well, that’s a shame, Christmas was Dad’s favorite holiday.”
Writer François de la Rochefoucauld said, “The only constant in life is change.” If you can disagree with reason, I’m all for hearing it. Shoot me an e-mail. I’m can imagine that when you went home for the Thanksgiving break, you experienced quite a bit of change. You weren’t drinking beers while eating dinner with your family like you do at school. Your siblings might have gotten used to you not being around. Your friends might have changed quite a bit while they were away at school. Your house might have even changed now that your room could be used as a resting place for a guest—hell, you might even be that guest in the house. But get ready; the soon to arrive holiday break is much longer. All the things that changed will run thicker through your days because you are going to have to adjust to them more. So, I am here to give you some advice to handle yourself, and your surroundings, when you head home.
The Zit Analogy
Having a fight with a family member is like having a gigantic zit on the plumpest part of your cheek or on the very top of the ridge of your nose. You think that if you just keep picking at it, removing the hard, crusted part of it, it will be less noticeable. Well, we’re wrong. You should just let the zit go about its nasty process and it will eventually fade out and your skin will be back to its normal status.
Remember this analogy when you head home for the holidays. There is nothing more difficult and unavoidable than arguing with your family. Your argument is you’re your zit—you can get a few good picks at it but in all honesty with yourself—it’s not worth it. Just let it go through its course without adding to the irritation. Rely on the family members that you do get along with; Take a walk in the (maybe not so) wintry wonderland outside your home; call a best friend who can calm you down or Facebook someone from high school you haven’t seen in a while; make sure you let your family know if you have plans with friends seeing how they expect you to be home for the holidays; go out and make a snowman if you can! Just remember, stay calm—the spring semester will be here before you know it!
Deck the halls—Not your parents
It’s difficult living under your parent’s roof after living on your own for several months. When you headed off to college, you were forced to grow up (which is an awesome situation to be forced into). You are now “the college student” in the family. You might be lucky and not be the only one! However, you are stuck between to categories: too young and old enough. At College, you’re old enough. You make your own decisions. You get wasted when you want. You stay out as long as you want. You wake up when you want.
Your parents might not agree.
You can solve this problem together, though. Talk to them. Explain to them how you have changed and how you go about you days. They will probably worry about you going out with your friends and somehow making it home. Simple, ask them to come get you. Chances are, they have been waiting all their life for you to make that responsible decision to ask them to come get you. When I went home for my first Christmas, I spent an evening drinking at a friend’s house in the neighboring town. I realized I was certain to get a DUI and go to jail, so I called my Mom to come get me.
She didn’t answer.
This didn’t mean I grabbed gears in my Forester and drove home. But, when I woke up in the morning to my phone ringing over and over again, I explained to my mom that she didn’t answer so I slept (or passed out) on my friends couch.
Just remember, you parents aren’t there to torture you. If they were, child services would have swooped you out of their nest years ago. They just want you to be safe.
My Mom has always gotten frustrated with my “I hate Christmas” and “Santa’s stupid” attitude. I am the only one of my mother’s children who didn’t know our father and it is difficult for me to enjoy the season that removed him from my life. My sister Heather’s kids are seven and three. They love Christmas and think Santa is somewhat like God. My sister Erin’s first child is about six months and she has a solid ten years of Chris Kringle loving to go. Between my Mom and my sisters, I have realized that I’m not the baby in the family. I am an Aunt, a sister who will help Santa leave gifts under the tree. Times have changed and my opinions needs to as well. So, this Christmas, I will have my picture taken with Santa, decorate my apartment, and have support from my friends, family, boyfriend, and new puppy.
Stick Up For Your Uterus!
Commentary
It's the week before final exams. You keep brushing you hair out of your face as it sweeps across your nose, which is pointing directly into a history book. There is a kid three seats down from you who has his ears plugged with headphones so he can't hear anything else going on in the library. Good for him, because all everyone else can hear in the silent library is his electronic Ratatat music blaring.
You keep giving the young man across the table the eye. Not the "meet me in the conference room" eye--the "I'm gonna’ rip that kids headphones out of his ears and hang him from the light" eye. Finally, after three songs of bass and pencil tapping, the kid gets up and approaches the jamming student.
He stands next to the music man's seat until he looks up, smiles, and unplugs an ear. The music gets louder and the crowd in the room sighs, drops their arms from holding up their heads, turns and waits to get a silent night.
"Hey man," Your teammate says.
He removes his other headphone, "What did you say, man? Sorry, I couldn't hear you."
Insisting some quiet time, the boy from across the table explains that everyone else can hear his music because he doesn't want to hear everyone else in the library--seeing how they all are making so much noise reading and typing away at their computers.
The inconsiderate near deaf music man looks up at your teammate, "Geeze man, take some Midol. Knock that PMS out of your system!"
They laugh together. You are now aggravated with both of them.
For as long as I can remember, even way back from before I had gotten my first period, I can recall the boys thinking they were so hysterically funny by making the "PMS Joke". I think the joke is that the majority of young men making these jokes don't even know what PMS stands for! It is certainly nothing to joke about. To them, it may just mean the lead up to a week of no sexual relations with their girlfriend, lover, or even wife. And when in reality, at our young age, they should be grateful their partner is becoming quite irritated. This Premenstrual Syndrome leads to the week of hell, visit from Mother Nature, the feeling of relief for women who are trying to get sexy and sassy but not bring another life into our crazy world (which is apparently filled with not funny jokes).
But, really, there is no joke about PMS. Not at all! It makes everyone around you have an attitude problem; women find themselves adding chocolate chips to their burgers; it makes it seem like an entire woman’s wardrobe has shrunk; women feel it necessary to answer the “how’s my driving?” bumper stickers with angry phone calls to the toll free numbers; everyone’s face seems like a good place to leave some stress (and a mark); women question whether there is a “god” and decide if there is he is clearly male; menopause seems like the honeymoon after the wedding to womanhood; women are convinced there is a world wide scheme to make them miserable; and it just to happens that the bottle of Midol they bought yesterday is already empty. It may seem funny, like the world is out to get women down, but it’s truly not.
Premenstrual Syndrome is literally the opposite of a joke. It’s hell on earth, trapped inside the bodies of women. It layers itself through pelvic areas and tries to read it’s demonic hands through the skin sending cramps through the body and women to their beds. It brings head aches like a man wouldn’t believe—literally! Men do not experience pain the way women do, however the men may be complaining more when they are in pain.
So, next time you hear a PMS joke, and it pisses you off, release the real woman in you—the woman that is there all the time, every day of every month. The woman that can be miserable whenever she wants and withstand pain like no man on earth! Stick up for your Uterus and Uterus’ around the world!
Smiling On The Last Day
After a semester looking into the news, as well as creating it, with Champlain College's fantastic Warren Baker, I have created this blog.
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