I am going to miss both of my classes Tuesday.
Now, if I had said that 30 years ago, I doubt it would have raised any eyebrows among the people to whom I would have made that confession. (My folks would not have been in that number, for obvious reasons).
The motivation behind my decision to miss class Tuesday is much different than it was three decades ago, too. In that earlier time, it would probably have involved something alcohol or co-ed related.
Until now, my attendance record has been pristine this time around. But I will lose the Gold Star for Attendance on Tuesday so that I can attend the Career Day event at the MSU Coliseum.
Career Day is held once each semester and provides corporate recruiters a chance to meet prospective employees who will be soon be graduating and looking for work.
Actually, Career Day is a two-day event, with one day (Wednesday) devoted to technical fields such as engineering, which is one of Mississippi State’s strongest fields.
Tuesday, by contrast, is the day where students from non-technical fields can meet with possible employers.
There will be about 100 employers at the Coliseum on Tuesday and I plan to press the flesh with every single one of them.
When I first arrived on campus, I planned to teach. That may be an option yet. But here lately, I’m beginning to broaden my horizons a bit.
While it is true that I’ve spent a career as a newspaper journalist, I do believe that some of the talents and skills I have honed can be of value in other fields, too.
So I plan to nose around the Coliseum and see how many of those employers I can charm silly. My suit is ready. My white dress shirt is starched stiff. My dress shoes have a new shine and I’ve got a folder full of updated resumes.
In order to attend the Career Day, I had to arrange to take my regularly-scheduled Public Speaking test at 6 p.m. So it will be a long and, I hope, productive day.
On Monday, I had a test in Geography and Mass Media Law and feel pretty good about my effort in both. I have the aforementioned test on Tuesday, followed by a semi-major project for Journalism Ethics due on Wednesday.
Monday night, I went to a prayer service at the local Mosque as part of an Extra Credit assignment for our Geography class. The fact that Starkville has a mosque would be surprising were it not for the fact that half of the Middle-East seems to be enrolled in the various engineering programs at MSU.
I had had some exposure to Islam, mainly through some freelance work I did for a ministry whose sole purpose is to win Muslims to Christianity by living and working in predominantly Muslim countries. So I was not surprised by what I encountered. Muslims are generally kind, gracious, intelligent people.
There were probably about 60 Geography students at the prayer service. All the girls wore scarves in keeping with Islamic requirements. I looked to see if any of the girls were wearing the same scarf and wondered if they would be embarrassed to see another girl in the same one. But I didn’t see any duplicates.
After the prayers, we were escorted into the basement of the Islamic Center and be-headed for being infidels.
Just kidding.
They had a power-point presentation where they explained what Muslims believe and don’t believe. The MSU professor who led the presentation stressed in her introduction that they were not trying to convert us Geography students, but during the Q&A session that followed, it seemed to me that some of the Geography students were very much trying to convert our hosts.
Bless their hearts. Their motives were good, but it’s a silly notion to think that somehow these folks were less sincere and less devoted to their religion than the good Christian geography students.
There is a time and place for such meaningful dialogue, of course. Monday at the Islamic Center in Starkville was most definitely not one of those times.
It ended amicably, though. Our hosts were gracious. They gave us cookies.
Muslims believe in cookies!
Did you know that?
Monday, January 31, 2011
Friday, January 28, 2011
Jan. 28: "To Sir, With Love''
Dr. Mark Goodman may be the best college professor of all-time. He is wise and wonderful, intelligent and funny, nurturing and inspiring.
Somehow, all of these marvelous qualities had managed to elude me until Friday, when I took my normal seat in Dr. Goodman’s Mass Media Law class.
As you may recall from a previous post, during our last class the students were divided into groups and given a case law, from which we were to assess whether or not Wikileak founder Julian Assange should be extradited and charged for leaking sensitive classified documents.
My group was to view the Assange matter from the context of the case law, “Holder v. Humanitarian Law Project.’’
As you may further recall, while I was satisfied with my own portion of my group’s presentation, I had reservations about the effort turned in the other members of my group.
So, when Dr. Goodman, distributed our grade sheets on Friday, I was a little apprehensive.
I was pleasantly surprised that he gave our group a perfect score, noting: “This group made really excellent arguments, which were set up by a good introduction and a strong conclusion.’’
But it was only upon reading the part of his grade sheet that applied to my individual contribution to the presentation, that I realized what a truly outstanding professor Dr. Goodman has turned out to be.
“Tim,’’ it read. “I liked your argument so much that I am going to use it in a paper I am writing on “Holder.’’
Clearly, this man is a genius.
Mass Media law was my last class of the day and, hence, my last class of the week. I doubt I’ll ever have a better end to a week than this, of course.
So I left campus in a buoyant mood and it seemed to me as I made the long walk from class to the Commuter West parking lot, the whole campus seemed to be caught up in an almost giddy mood.
Now, since it’s obvious that all 19,000 students do not have the good fortune of having the wise and wonderful Dr. Goodman as their professor, the source of their enthusiasm must come from a different source.
And I’m not so old as to not recognize what that might be: The week is over! Let the weekend begin.
This can be dangerous, especially if you are a pedestrian.
Back in Arizona, drivers are generally very accommodating to pedestrians and will stop even as you approach the crosswalk. But here, it’s anybody’s guess as to whether the driver is going to give the walker the right of way.
And this is particularly true on a Friday afternoon, when the campus tends to empty out in much the manner of a jail break.
There will be one Friday this term where that figures to be an exception, however.
At breakfast, I picked up a copy of The Reflector, which is the student newspaper. The lead story was on the school’s announcement that the snow day we had on Jan. 10 would be made up on an unspecified Saturday, sometime between now and the first of May.,
A co-ed at the next table happened to steal at glance at the paper I was holding.
“Can you believe that we’ll have to go to school on a Saturday?’’ she said, wrinkling her brow in disbelief and disapproval. “Who wants to have class on a Saturday?’’
“I don’t know,’ I said. “I prefer to think of it as “The Breakfast Club’’ for 19,000.’’
“Huh?’’ she responded.
I laughed. “Never mind,’’ I said, realizing that she wasn’t even born when “The Breakfast Club’’ hit the big screen in 1985.
It is safe to say that my fellow classmates are not excited by the prospects of going to school on Saturday. But I sort of wish we had school every Saturday because it is the loneliest day of the week for me.
Monday through Friday, I go to class and have some interaction with people, students, staff and professors. I go to church on Sunday and there is some human contact.
But on Saturdays, there is neither class nor church and I have found that when I stay here in Starkville, there is a good chance I’ll have very little interaction with people. And when I’m that alone, the depression, the doubt, the regrets and loneliness seem to rush in and fill the void.
The worst kind of alone you can be is to be alone with your thoughts.
So I would just as soon go to school on Saturday, if it were up to me.
It is not.
Next week, I have two tests on Monday, one on Tuesday and a major project due on Wednesday.
I can hardly wait.
Somehow, all of these marvelous qualities had managed to elude me until Friday, when I took my normal seat in Dr. Goodman’s Mass Media Law class.
As you may recall from a previous post, during our last class the students were divided into groups and given a case law, from which we were to assess whether or not Wikileak founder Julian Assange should be extradited and charged for leaking sensitive classified documents.
My group was to view the Assange matter from the context of the case law, “Holder v. Humanitarian Law Project.’’
As you may further recall, while I was satisfied with my own portion of my group’s presentation, I had reservations about the effort turned in the other members of my group.
So, when Dr. Goodman, distributed our grade sheets on Friday, I was a little apprehensive.
I was pleasantly surprised that he gave our group a perfect score, noting: “This group made really excellent arguments, which were set up by a good introduction and a strong conclusion.’’
But it was only upon reading the part of his grade sheet that applied to my individual contribution to the presentation, that I realized what a truly outstanding professor Dr. Goodman has turned out to be.
“Tim,’’ it read. “I liked your argument so much that I am going to use it in a paper I am writing on “Holder.’’
Clearly, this man is a genius.
Mass Media law was my last class of the day and, hence, my last class of the week. I doubt I’ll ever have a better end to a week than this, of course.
So I left campus in a buoyant mood and it seemed to me as I made the long walk from class to the Commuter West parking lot, the whole campus seemed to be caught up in an almost giddy mood.
Now, since it’s obvious that all 19,000 students do not have the good fortune of having the wise and wonderful Dr. Goodman as their professor, the source of their enthusiasm must come from a different source.
And I’m not so old as to not recognize what that might be: The week is over! Let the weekend begin.
This can be dangerous, especially if you are a pedestrian.
Back in Arizona, drivers are generally very accommodating to pedestrians and will stop even as you approach the crosswalk. But here, it’s anybody’s guess as to whether the driver is going to give the walker the right of way.
And this is particularly true on a Friday afternoon, when the campus tends to empty out in much the manner of a jail break.
There will be one Friday this term where that figures to be an exception, however.
At breakfast, I picked up a copy of The Reflector, which is the student newspaper. The lead story was on the school’s announcement that the snow day we had on Jan. 10 would be made up on an unspecified Saturday, sometime between now and the first of May.,
A co-ed at the next table happened to steal at glance at the paper I was holding.
“Can you believe that we’ll have to go to school on a Saturday?’’ she said, wrinkling her brow in disbelief and disapproval. “Who wants to have class on a Saturday?’’
“I don’t know,’ I said. “I prefer to think of it as “The Breakfast Club’’ for 19,000.’’
“Huh?’’ she responded.
I laughed. “Never mind,’’ I said, realizing that she wasn’t even born when “The Breakfast Club’’ hit the big screen in 1985.
It is safe to say that my fellow classmates are not excited by the prospects of going to school on Saturday. But I sort of wish we had school every Saturday because it is the loneliest day of the week for me.
Monday through Friday, I go to class and have some interaction with people, students, staff and professors. I go to church on Sunday and there is some human contact.
But on Saturdays, there is neither class nor church and I have found that when I stay here in Starkville, there is a good chance I’ll have very little interaction with people. And when I’m that alone, the depression, the doubt, the regrets and loneliness seem to rush in and fill the void.
The worst kind of alone you can be is to be alone with your thoughts.
So I would just as soon go to school on Saturday, if it were up to me.
It is not.
Next week, I have two tests on Monday, one on Tuesday and a major project due on Wednesday.
I can hardly wait.
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Jan. 25; "Descarte, I hardly know ye!''
Some of you will note that the pace of my blog entries have slowed considerably over the course of the past couple of weeks.
It’s not as though I have run out of things to write about; rather, I’ve run out of time to write about them.
I blame this primarily on a man who has been dead for 360 years and The First Amendment.
I have been pre-occupied with both. I have also been pre-occupied with trying to avoid being asked to audition for “The Biggest Loser Goes to Campus.’’
This must seem convoluted to the point of frustration, so if you will be patient, I will try to sort out all of this in a way you can understand.
But first, I’d like to make an observation about the differences I’ve noticed between Slim, circa the early 1980s and the Slim of the Present Day.
As I reflect on my first experiences as a college student, it is a marvel to me that I made decent grades. Oh, it’s not as though I was a Dean’s List student, but I did make mainly Bs and Cs in everything. What I find remarkable is that I managed to make those grades despite a near total indifference to learning anything. I hardly ever went to class, rarely remember doing anything that would even vaguely resemble serious study and spent all of my energy on chasing co-eds and drinking beer (more of the latter than the former, as it turned out).
I marvel because I find that the Slim of the Present Day is doing a lot of studying and not only attending every class, but taking copious notes and paying so much attention to the professor that my classmates are beginning to resent me. I have not chased a single co-ed, which would be a very silly thing.
And that leads me back to the dead guy, the First Amendment and Biggest Loser.
The dead guy I refer to is Rene Descartes (1596-1650), widely regarded (at least that’s what I am told) as the Father of Modern Philosophy. We have been studying Descartes’ six Meditations of First Philosophy for two weeks. Since we are only through the third of the six meditations, I suspect will be with Descartes quite a while.
It’s not exactly summer reading, either. It’s confusing, random, self-contradictory and vague. It’s even vaguer when our professor “explains it.’’
So I spent some extra time studying before the last class and slowly a glimmer of understanding began to emerge. And that is when our Professor said, “Now do you really think that’s what he means?’’ He said it in a tone that strongly suggested that the appropriate answer would be “Of course, he doesn’t mean that.’’
So, just when I thought I had a handle on Descartes, I find out that he doesn’t mean what he says at all. What he really means? I have no idea.
Studying Descartes is like trying to nail Jello to a wall.
Less frustrating, but equally time consuming, is this First Amendment business.
In lieu of a test, our Mass Media Law professor divided the class into groups of five and gave each of us a Supreme Court case to use in answering the following question:
“Should Wikileaks founder Julian Assange be extradited and charged for releasing classified documents?’’
So my group’s assignment was:
Based on Holder v. Humanitarian Law Project, should Wikileaks founder Julian Assange be extradited and charged for releasing classified documents?
Now, I am sure many of you have often pondered that question.
But I’ll admit, I had never thought of such a thing.
Our group met to discuss what each of our roles would be. Each of us has to deliver a part of the presentation. The group can get up to 25 points and each individual can get 5 points. So a perfect score would be 30 points.
But I don’t feel good about this at all.
We broke down our assignments this way: Carolyn will make the introduction, Connor will discuss the point of law relating to the “necessary link to a terrorist organization.’’ Danielle will handle the point of law relating to “material support.’’ Deanna will do the summary.
My role is to discuss the “limitations applied to “bad tendency.’’
I have to tell you that I suggested all of these topics. The rest of the group just stared at me as if I were – oh, I don’t know - Rene Descartes. We agreed each of us would email a copy of our presentation to the other members of the group.
Here is what I put together for my part, followed by what Conner came up with. You will note a difference, I am certain.
Limitations Applied to Bad Tendency
In general, Holder v. Humanitarian Law Project supports the idea of “bad tendency’’ being grounds for prior restraint. But it is important to note the condition under which ‘Holder’ makes this distinction – i.e., its connection to a foreign terrorist group.
It should be noted, however, that even under ‘Holder,’ the “bad tendency’’ argument is limited.
This is noted in the opinion where Justice Roberts wrote, “In particular, we in no way suggest that a regulation of independent speech would pass constitutional muster, even if the Government were to show that such speech benefits foreign terrorist organization.’’
Court precedent certainly supports this idea.
In New York Times v. United States, the Supreme Court held that a “prior restraint” on publication of government documents was unconstitutional in the strikingly similar leak of Daniel Ellsberg’s famous “Pentagon Papers,” which shed light on the decision to go to war in Vietnam.
Since then, it has been taken for granted that the news media enjoys broad protection under the First Amendment, even to publish information that could pose a national security risk, and was obtained originally through legally questionable means.
Clearly, if ‘Holder’ revives the “bad tendency’’ standard, it does so on a limited scale.
Now here is Connor’s presentation:
The necessary link to a terrorist group
One of the most important elements of the Holder case is that the people wanting to donate money were directly linking themselves to a terrorist organization. Julian Assange, however, has not been proven to have any link to terrorist groups or groups affiliated with terrorism. Without this link, the justice system cannot extradite.
OK. Do you see the disparity here? I strongly suspect Connor had a frat party and was unable to devote more than, say, four minutes to the presentation. Slim circa 1980 would have no problem at all with this. It’s a matter of priorities and beer and co-eds are involved. You gotta respect that, right?
But Slim of the Present Day has grave concerns about the success of this “group effort.’’
I took the liberty of sending Connor a portion of the majority opinion in ‘Holder’ that applies to the “necessary link’’ aspect and strongly suggested that it would be wise to work it into the presentation because, well, it’s awfully hard drinking beer through a straw. (Hey, I’ve been to prison; don’t mess with me.)
Finally, the other reason I have been away from the blog is that I’ve been spending an hour at the gym every day.
There are two reasons. First, MSU has an awesome gym and it’s free for students as part of our student fees. This works well with my new Life Motto: “If it’s free, it me!’’
Second, I have discovered the hazard of the meal plan. I have unlimited access to the school cafeteria and since it is a school cafeteria located in the southern United States, the places simply oozes calories.
I have discovered that if, on a daily basis, you eat biscuits and gravy, waffles, hash browns, omelets and doughnuts for breakfast; fried chicken, pasta, 12 varieties of baked goods, fried foods of all sorts and endless arrays of desserts for lunch and dinner, you are likely to blow up like one of those Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade balloons.
So I am back to watching the breads and carbs and hitting the treadmill for a hour every single day.
If possible, I am an even more conspicuous presence at the gym than I am in class.
The sorority girls show up to the gym as if one of those vampires from the “Twilight’’ movies might show up suddenly looking for a date: Full make-up, color-coordinated work-out clothes, no noticeable body fat. They are Cute! Cute!, Cute!
Invariably, a Chi Omega will grab the treadmill to my left and a Tri-Delta will grab the one on my left. So, looking left to right, it is: Cute! Cute! Cute!; followed by Old! Gray! Sloppy!; followed again by Cute! Cute! Cute!
It ain’t easy being a college student. At least, it ain’t as easy as it used to be.
But, really, what is?
It’s not as though I have run out of things to write about; rather, I’ve run out of time to write about them.
I blame this primarily on a man who has been dead for 360 years and The First Amendment.
I have been pre-occupied with both. I have also been pre-occupied with trying to avoid being asked to audition for “The Biggest Loser Goes to Campus.’’
This must seem convoluted to the point of frustration, so if you will be patient, I will try to sort out all of this in a way you can understand.
But first, I’d like to make an observation about the differences I’ve noticed between Slim, circa the early 1980s and the Slim of the Present Day.
As I reflect on my first experiences as a college student, it is a marvel to me that I made decent grades. Oh, it’s not as though I was a Dean’s List student, but I did make mainly Bs and Cs in everything. What I find remarkable is that I managed to make those grades despite a near total indifference to learning anything. I hardly ever went to class, rarely remember doing anything that would even vaguely resemble serious study and spent all of my energy on chasing co-eds and drinking beer (more of the latter than the former, as it turned out).
I marvel because I find that the Slim of the Present Day is doing a lot of studying and not only attending every class, but taking copious notes and paying so much attention to the professor that my classmates are beginning to resent me. I have not chased a single co-ed, which would be a very silly thing.
And that leads me back to the dead guy, the First Amendment and Biggest Loser.
The dead guy I refer to is Rene Descartes (1596-1650), widely regarded (at least that’s what I am told) as the Father of Modern Philosophy. We have been studying Descartes’ six Meditations of First Philosophy for two weeks. Since we are only through the third of the six meditations, I suspect will be with Descartes quite a while.
It’s not exactly summer reading, either. It’s confusing, random, self-contradictory and vague. It’s even vaguer when our professor “explains it.’’
So I spent some extra time studying before the last class and slowly a glimmer of understanding began to emerge. And that is when our Professor said, “Now do you really think that’s what he means?’’ He said it in a tone that strongly suggested that the appropriate answer would be “Of course, he doesn’t mean that.’’
So, just when I thought I had a handle on Descartes, I find out that he doesn’t mean what he says at all. What he really means? I have no idea.
Studying Descartes is like trying to nail Jello to a wall.
Less frustrating, but equally time consuming, is this First Amendment business.
In lieu of a test, our Mass Media Law professor divided the class into groups of five and gave each of us a Supreme Court case to use in answering the following question:
“Should Wikileaks founder Julian Assange be extradited and charged for releasing classified documents?’’
So my group’s assignment was:
Based on Holder v. Humanitarian Law Project, should Wikileaks founder Julian Assange be extradited and charged for releasing classified documents?
Now, I am sure many of you have often pondered that question.
But I’ll admit, I had never thought of such a thing.
Our group met to discuss what each of our roles would be. Each of us has to deliver a part of the presentation. The group can get up to 25 points and each individual can get 5 points. So a perfect score would be 30 points.
But I don’t feel good about this at all.
We broke down our assignments this way: Carolyn will make the introduction, Connor will discuss the point of law relating to the “necessary link to a terrorist organization.’’ Danielle will handle the point of law relating to “material support.’’ Deanna will do the summary.
My role is to discuss the “limitations applied to “bad tendency.’’
I have to tell you that I suggested all of these topics. The rest of the group just stared at me as if I were – oh, I don’t know - Rene Descartes. We agreed each of us would email a copy of our presentation to the other members of the group.
Here is what I put together for my part, followed by what Conner came up with. You will note a difference, I am certain.
Limitations Applied to Bad Tendency
In general, Holder v. Humanitarian Law Project supports the idea of “bad tendency’’ being grounds for prior restraint. But it is important to note the condition under which ‘Holder’ makes this distinction – i.e., its connection to a foreign terrorist group.
It should be noted, however, that even under ‘Holder,’ the “bad tendency’’ argument is limited.
This is noted in the opinion where Justice Roberts wrote, “In particular, we in no way suggest that a regulation of independent speech would pass constitutional muster, even if the Government were to show that such speech benefits foreign terrorist organization.’’
Court precedent certainly supports this idea.
In New York Times v. United States, the Supreme Court held that a “prior restraint” on publication of government documents was unconstitutional in the strikingly similar leak of Daniel Ellsberg’s famous “Pentagon Papers,” which shed light on the decision to go to war in Vietnam.
Since then, it has been taken for granted that the news media enjoys broad protection under the First Amendment, even to publish information that could pose a national security risk, and was obtained originally through legally questionable means.
Clearly, if ‘Holder’ revives the “bad tendency’’ standard, it does so on a limited scale.
Now here is Connor’s presentation:
The necessary link to a terrorist group
One of the most important elements of the Holder case is that the people wanting to donate money were directly linking themselves to a terrorist organization. Julian Assange, however, has not been proven to have any link to terrorist groups or groups affiliated with terrorism. Without this link, the justice system cannot extradite.
OK. Do you see the disparity here? I strongly suspect Connor had a frat party and was unable to devote more than, say, four minutes to the presentation. Slim circa 1980 would have no problem at all with this. It’s a matter of priorities and beer and co-eds are involved. You gotta respect that, right?
But Slim of the Present Day has grave concerns about the success of this “group effort.’’
I took the liberty of sending Connor a portion of the majority opinion in ‘Holder’ that applies to the “necessary link’’ aspect and strongly suggested that it would be wise to work it into the presentation because, well, it’s awfully hard drinking beer through a straw. (Hey, I’ve been to prison; don’t mess with me.)
Finally, the other reason I have been away from the blog is that I’ve been spending an hour at the gym every day.
There are two reasons. First, MSU has an awesome gym and it’s free for students as part of our student fees. This works well with my new Life Motto: “If it’s free, it me!’’
Second, I have discovered the hazard of the meal plan. I have unlimited access to the school cafeteria and since it is a school cafeteria located in the southern United States, the places simply oozes calories.
I have discovered that if, on a daily basis, you eat biscuits and gravy, waffles, hash browns, omelets and doughnuts for breakfast; fried chicken, pasta, 12 varieties of baked goods, fried foods of all sorts and endless arrays of desserts for lunch and dinner, you are likely to blow up like one of those Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade balloons.
So I am back to watching the breads and carbs and hitting the treadmill for a hour every single day.
If possible, I am an even more conspicuous presence at the gym than I am in class.
The sorority girls show up to the gym as if one of those vampires from the “Twilight’’ movies might show up suddenly looking for a date: Full make-up, color-coordinated work-out clothes, no noticeable body fat. They are Cute! Cute!, Cute!
Invariably, a Chi Omega will grab the treadmill to my left and a Tri-Delta will grab the one on my left. So, looking left to right, it is: Cute! Cute! Cute!; followed by Old! Gray! Sloppy!; followed again by Cute! Cute! Cute!
It ain’t easy being a college student. At least, it ain’t as easy as it used to be.
But, really, what is?
Friday, January 21, 2011
Jan. 21: "Joy for Joy''
It was almost 10 o’clock and I turned in my seat to see if Joy had made it to class.
Until last week, we had sat next to each other, and it was on that basis that we were ordered to be “friends.’’ Our geography professor figured that having a designated friend would be of value in the event that we ever had to miss a class. Our friend could share the notes we missed.
But last week, I arrived at class a little later than normal to discover that someone else had taken “my’’ seat next to Joy. No big deal. I just moved a couple of rows closer to the front of the class – the front row, in fact.
So that’s why I had to turn to see if my friend had made it to class.
She arrived just as the professor was beginning our lecture. “I’ve got some news,’’ she whispered quickly. “I’ll tell you after class.’’
I assumed she was going to tell me how she did on our last map quiz last Wednesday. The scores were posted early Friday morning, apparently.
I was relieved to learn that all of my answers corresponded with all of the questions this time. That means on two map quizzes, I’ve answered 39 of 40 questions correctly. So, I’m doing pretty well.
Oddly enough, I’ve had no tests or quizzes in any of my other classes. So I’m a Phi Beta Kappa as far as it goes and as far as I know.
Our lecture was on the physical characteristics of the Planet Earth. I’m not going to refer to my notes here, but – if memory serves – 70 percent of the earth is covered by water. The other 30 percent is covered with Walgreen’s Drug Stores.
When the class ended, Joy rushed down to where I was collecting my stuff. Old people take a lot longer to get there stuff together after class, by the way. Most of my peers were out the door as though the gates had sprung open at the Kentucky Derby and they were the horses everybody was betting on.
Before she could say a word, I knew that her “news’’ was something far more interesting than the results of the most recent map quiz.
There was a shine in her eyes that is reserved for something truly wonderful.
“Look!’’ she said, thrusting out her little hand.
And on that little hand, on her little ring finger there was a little ring with a cluster of little diamonds.
“We’re engaged!’’ she blurted out happily, as if I would not have been able to figure it out.
It’s funny how joy can be contagious, huh?
All at once, I was smiling and pressing her for details as if I were one of her sorority sisters. Pretty funny, now that I think about it.
Her boyfriend, whose name I know but can’t remember, popped the question on Monday night. She had not expected it. Turns out, he hadn’t, either.
“We were just hanging at his apartment and all the sudden he does it,’’ she said, beaming. “He said he had thought about doing something elaborate, but the feeling just came over him that this was the right time. Can you believe it?’’
She furrowed her brow.
“Gosh, this is going to be complicated. I still plan to go to Chattanooga (for grad school) (what’s his name?) wants to go to grad school. He’s thinking maybe he should wait for me to finish and get a job instead then go later, but maybe he could get in the Master’s program there, too. Oh, I don’t know. It’s all so complicated.’’
But her expression gave her away. The wrinkled brow had dissolved into a broad smile and her eyes sparkled with delight.
You know, when you are in love there are no really big problems.
I used to feel like that, not so awfully long ago.
I can still remember that feeling, though, and Joy’s news made me think of those happier times.
I had mentioned that I have not taken any tests in my other classes. But I did get one score: The speeches we gave on Tuesday were graded. I got my results back during Thursday’s class – a perfect 25 out of 25.
The professor’s notes said that my material was good and she thought my pauses were effective and well-timed. “Watch your time!’’ She said. I ran over by two seconds. Sheesh!
So the academics are going well and my friend is a happy little girl.
It’s been a good week.
Until last week, we had sat next to each other, and it was on that basis that we were ordered to be “friends.’’ Our geography professor figured that having a designated friend would be of value in the event that we ever had to miss a class. Our friend could share the notes we missed.
But last week, I arrived at class a little later than normal to discover that someone else had taken “my’’ seat next to Joy. No big deal. I just moved a couple of rows closer to the front of the class – the front row, in fact.
So that’s why I had to turn to see if my friend had made it to class.
She arrived just as the professor was beginning our lecture. “I’ve got some news,’’ she whispered quickly. “I’ll tell you after class.’’
I assumed she was going to tell me how she did on our last map quiz last Wednesday. The scores were posted early Friday morning, apparently.
I was relieved to learn that all of my answers corresponded with all of the questions this time. That means on two map quizzes, I’ve answered 39 of 40 questions correctly. So, I’m doing pretty well.
Oddly enough, I’ve had no tests or quizzes in any of my other classes. So I’m a Phi Beta Kappa as far as it goes and as far as I know.
Our lecture was on the physical characteristics of the Planet Earth. I’m not going to refer to my notes here, but – if memory serves – 70 percent of the earth is covered by water. The other 30 percent is covered with Walgreen’s Drug Stores.
When the class ended, Joy rushed down to where I was collecting my stuff. Old people take a lot longer to get there stuff together after class, by the way. Most of my peers were out the door as though the gates had sprung open at the Kentucky Derby and they were the horses everybody was betting on.
Before she could say a word, I knew that her “news’’ was something far more interesting than the results of the most recent map quiz.
There was a shine in her eyes that is reserved for something truly wonderful.
“Look!’’ she said, thrusting out her little hand.
And on that little hand, on her little ring finger there was a little ring with a cluster of little diamonds.
“We’re engaged!’’ she blurted out happily, as if I would not have been able to figure it out.
It’s funny how joy can be contagious, huh?
All at once, I was smiling and pressing her for details as if I were one of her sorority sisters. Pretty funny, now that I think about it.
Her boyfriend, whose name I know but can’t remember, popped the question on Monday night. She had not expected it. Turns out, he hadn’t, either.
“We were just hanging at his apartment and all the sudden he does it,’’ she said, beaming. “He said he had thought about doing something elaborate, but the feeling just came over him that this was the right time. Can you believe it?’’
She furrowed her brow.
“Gosh, this is going to be complicated. I still plan to go to Chattanooga (for grad school) (what’s his name?) wants to go to grad school. He’s thinking maybe he should wait for me to finish and get a job instead then go later, but maybe he could get in the Master’s program there, too. Oh, I don’t know. It’s all so complicated.’’
But her expression gave her away. The wrinkled brow had dissolved into a broad smile and her eyes sparkled with delight.
You know, when you are in love there are no really big problems.
I used to feel like that, not so awfully long ago.
I can still remember that feeling, though, and Joy’s news made me think of those happier times.
I had mentioned that I have not taken any tests in my other classes. But I did get one score: The speeches we gave on Tuesday were graded. I got my results back during Thursday’s class – a perfect 25 out of 25.
The professor’s notes said that my material was good and she thought my pauses were effective and well-timed. “Watch your time!’’ She said. I ran over by two seconds. Sheesh!
So the academics are going well and my friend is a happy little girl.
It’s been a good week.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Jan. 18: "Toshi Rules!''
Well, I delivered my first speech this morning in my Introduction to Public Speaking class and my first thought was to write about that.
I thought it turned out well enough. The biggest obstacle was trying to cram my subject material into the mandated two minutes that each student was given. A guy near the front was designated the timekeeper and it was his job to hold up signs that said “One Minute Left’’ and “30 seconds left,’’ so that the speaker can pace himself.
When I saw the “30 seconds left’’ sign, I realized I had about a minute’s worth of material left. Up until that point, I was “killin it,’’ as they say. But I saw the “30 seconds’’ sign and lost my train of thought for a moment and then rushed through the end of my speech. The net result was that it was an OK speech.
But the real star of the day was my new friend Toshi, a Wildlife and Fisheries Major from Tokyo, Japan. Toshi’s speech was about fishing.
It wasn’t the subject matter that made me want to hug him, nor even his presentation.
It was his courage.
He opened his speech by apologizing for his English skills.
“I am still learning,’’ he explained. “I hope maybe that you understand. If not, I apologize.’’
Well, I could not have been more proud if it had been my own son up there.
Can you imagine what he must have been feeling as he stood there?
Try playing a little role reversal and imagine yourself standing in a Tokyo classroom, giving a speech in Japanese to an audience for whom Japanese is the native tongue.
That takes guts – and intelligence, too.
As a group, I was impressed with almost all of the speeches. For a bunch of 18-to-21-year-olds, I was amazed by their poise. Oh, there was some fidgeting, some stammering, a few awkward pauses. A couple of students just got up and read their speech, hardly bothering to look up and meet the gaze of their audience.
But for the most part, the kids displayed great stage presence.
My Tuesday evenings are going to be spent cramming for geography map quizzes, I realize. Each Wednesday, we have a map quiz on a geographical region.
Last week, you will recall, the first map quiz was on North America.
I was able to go online and find my score. I made a 95, which OK, but a little frustrating. I cannot imagine which question I could have missed. I had the material down cold.
I had all the right answers. One of the questions was wrong, obviously.
Even with the gaffe, I’m still in the top 10 percent of the class, but I should have had a perfect score.
In fact, I am determined to have a perfect score when I take the quiz on Central America, South America and the Caribbean tomorrow morning.
So I’ll say goodbye for now.
I need to make sure I don’t confuse the Atacama Desert for the Altiplano.
You know how embarrassing that is, right?
I thought it turned out well enough. The biggest obstacle was trying to cram my subject material into the mandated two minutes that each student was given. A guy near the front was designated the timekeeper and it was his job to hold up signs that said “One Minute Left’’ and “30 seconds left,’’ so that the speaker can pace himself.
When I saw the “30 seconds left’’ sign, I realized I had about a minute’s worth of material left. Up until that point, I was “killin it,’’ as they say. But I saw the “30 seconds’’ sign and lost my train of thought for a moment and then rushed through the end of my speech. The net result was that it was an OK speech.
But the real star of the day was my new friend Toshi, a Wildlife and Fisheries Major from Tokyo, Japan. Toshi’s speech was about fishing.
It wasn’t the subject matter that made me want to hug him, nor even his presentation.
It was his courage.
He opened his speech by apologizing for his English skills.
“I am still learning,’’ he explained. “I hope maybe that you understand. If not, I apologize.’’
Well, I could not have been more proud if it had been my own son up there.
Can you imagine what he must have been feeling as he stood there?
Try playing a little role reversal and imagine yourself standing in a Tokyo classroom, giving a speech in Japanese to an audience for whom Japanese is the native tongue.
That takes guts – and intelligence, too.
As a group, I was impressed with almost all of the speeches. For a bunch of 18-to-21-year-olds, I was amazed by their poise. Oh, there was some fidgeting, some stammering, a few awkward pauses. A couple of students just got up and read their speech, hardly bothering to look up and meet the gaze of their audience.
But for the most part, the kids displayed great stage presence.
My Tuesday evenings are going to be spent cramming for geography map quizzes, I realize. Each Wednesday, we have a map quiz on a geographical region.
Last week, you will recall, the first map quiz was on North America.
I was able to go online and find my score. I made a 95, which OK, but a little frustrating. I cannot imagine which question I could have missed. I had the material down cold.
I had all the right answers. One of the questions was wrong, obviously.
Even with the gaffe, I’m still in the top 10 percent of the class, but I should have had a perfect score.
In fact, I am determined to have a perfect score when I take the quiz on Central America, South America and the Caribbean tomorrow morning.
So I’ll say goodbye for now.
I need to make sure I don’t confuse the Atacama Desert for the Altiplano.
You know how embarrassing that is, right?
Friday, January 14, 2011
Jan. 14: "Gone to Gulfport''
This is going to be a quickie.
I breezed through Geography and Mass Media Law, my only classes on Friday, and after lunch headed back to my apartment to pack.
I’m driving down to Gulfport to see my daughter and take my son’s stuff back to him. The original plan was for Corey to be a roommate here in Starkville now that I have the luxury of a two-bedroom apartment.
He had spent the last month living in my little box-of-a-house in Tempe and we had great fun despite the close quarters. We moved to Starkville together, and spent several days fixing up our place. Gosh, he’s a good kid. I don’t think I ever really appreciated that before now. So in my mind’s eye, having my son as a roomie in Starkville would be a thing of great joy. I could use the company, you know?
I was divorced when Corey was 14, so I thought this would also get a chance for me to get to know my own son. Sad, really, when I think that I’m pretty much on the periphery of a lot of people’s lives – I know and am known in a limited context, for a limited purpose. And I guess that’s the root of my unhappiness, the lonely feeling that deals me I’m nowhere near the center of anybody’s universe. I just feel like an extra part, not exactly unwanted, to be sure, but certainly not essential. Not even to my own kids.
So this was sort of a do-over for me, I thought.
But Corey’s job prospects back in Gulfport, where his mom lives, are much better than they are here. And so, while losing Corey is my roommate is a net loss for me, I can’t stand in the way of something that is good for Corey. Sometimes, the best you can do is get out of the way.
So I guess I won’t have the opportunity to reconnect with him to quite the degree that I once imagined. Still, I am happy to know that I’m only a few hours’ drive away from both Corey and my daughter, Abby.
At lunch, I got another fortune cookie. It read, “You will find what you have lost within the month.’’
And, of course, I don’t have to tell you where that leads this beat up old heart of mine.
She can’t be found. She doesn’t want to be found. At least, not by me.
So I’m loading up the truck and heading south to Gulfport.
You remember that previous fortune cookie message I got, right?
“Traveling to the south will bring you unexpected happiness.’’
I’m all for that…
I breezed through Geography and Mass Media Law, my only classes on Friday, and after lunch headed back to my apartment to pack.
I’m driving down to Gulfport to see my daughter and take my son’s stuff back to him. The original plan was for Corey to be a roommate here in Starkville now that I have the luxury of a two-bedroom apartment.
He had spent the last month living in my little box-of-a-house in Tempe and we had great fun despite the close quarters. We moved to Starkville together, and spent several days fixing up our place. Gosh, he’s a good kid. I don’t think I ever really appreciated that before now. So in my mind’s eye, having my son as a roomie in Starkville would be a thing of great joy. I could use the company, you know?
I was divorced when Corey was 14, so I thought this would also get a chance for me to get to know my own son. Sad, really, when I think that I’m pretty much on the periphery of a lot of people’s lives – I know and am known in a limited context, for a limited purpose. And I guess that’s the root of my unhappiness, the lonely feeling that deals me I’m nowhere near the center of anybody’s universe. I just feel like an extra part, not exactly unwanted, to be sure, but certainly not essential. Not even to my own kids.
So this was sort of a do-over for me, I thought.
But Corey’s job prospects back in Gulfport, where his mom lives, are much better than they are here. And so, while losing Corey is my roommate is a net loss for me, I can’t stand in the way of something that is good for Corey. Sometimes, the best you can do is get out of the way.
So I guess I won’t have the opportunity to reconnect with him to quite the degree that I once imagined. Still, I am happy to know that I’m only a few hours’ drive away from both Corey and my daughter, Abby.
At lunch, I got another fortune cookie. It read, “You will find what you have lost within the month.’’
And, of course, I don’t have to tell you where that leads this beat up old heart of mine.
She can’t be found. She doesn’t want to be found. At least, not by me.
So I’m loading up the truck and heading south to Gulfport.
You remember that previous fortune cookie message I got, right?
“Traveling to the south will bring you unexpected happiness.’’
I’m all for that…
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Jan. 13: "Broken''
In my Introduction to Public Speaking class, our instructor gave us the low-down on the first speech we will have to make. Her instructions were to bring with us some object that is relevant to our lives and use it to tell the rest of the class – our audience – something about ourselves.
I was up at 6 this morning and since I didn’t have class until 11, I used some of that time to prepare the speech I will present to the class next Tuesday. Because I am prone to fiddle with finished things, I suspect the speech will go through some alterations between now and then. But I thought I would give you, my faithful blog readers, a sneak peek at the speech in its present form.
It is as follows:
Good morning!
This is my printer. More specifically, it is my Hewlitt-Packard Model 4315 Ink Jet printer.
From where you sit, I doubt you would notice anything remarkable about this printer and even upon close inspection, you would discover no obvious flaw. There are no dings or scratches; no missing parts. You would judge that while it’s not the latest model, neither is it a relic. It’s just a printer, ordinary in every discernable way.
But I am here to tell you that it is worthless, because a few years ago something happened to it and it just stopped working.
When I connected it to my computer that day, everything seemed normal. I heard the whir of ink cartridges as they moved into position, heard the clicking of the gears on cylinder that bring a piece of paper into position and even heard the hiss of the ink jets applying the letters to the page.
But nothing came out of the other end, not even a blank page.
It just doesn’t work anymore.
As you can see, it looks fine. But something deep inside, something hidden from view, is broken. And so it doesn’t work.
I once wrote a story about a man who had a knack for fashioning broken things into useful, even clever, new things. It seemed he could make a planter or a lamp or even a piece of furniture out of just about anything.
But I don’t think even he would think about turning a broken printer into something that could serve another purpose. It’s of no use and has no value. It’s just clutter.
Now, if this were your printer, I know just what you would do. You wouldn't bother to have it fixed. It isn't worth fixing. Printers aren't expensive, so it would make more sense to simply buy a new one, the latest model.
So without a moment's hesitation, you would just toss this printer into the trash bin and be done with it.
Because to all the world, it is a worthless thing.
But somehow I can’t bring myself to throw it away, for reasons I am sure will seem silly to you.
First, it’s my printer. It worked faithfully for a number of years. And even in its broken state, when I listen to the printer – the various whirs and clicks and hisses – I almost imagine it is saying, “Hey, I’m trying. I really am. So, please, don’t give up on me.’’
And so I keep it. From time to time, I hook it up and hope that somehow when the whirs and clicks and hisses have ended, a printed page will, by some miraculous means, slide out the other end. It never does, of course.
I guess for most of us, there is a deeply ingrained belief that when things break down, all that is required is to keep fighting; that if you work through it and persevere that - through strength of will and diligence- things will work out.
That’s a good attitude to have, of course, but things don’t always turn out that way.
And yet there is something almost noble about fighting a good fight in a lost battle, I think.
This printer whirs and clicks and hisses and I hear it saying “I am going down, it is true. But I am going down swinging, at least.’’
And that is what I tell myself these days.
I was up at 6 this morning and since I didn’t have class until 11, I used some of that time to prepare the speech I will present to the class next Tuesday. Because I am prone to fiddle with finished things, I suspect the speech will go through some alterations between now and then. But I thought I would give you, my faithful blog readers, a sneak peek at the speech in its present form.
It is as follows:
Good morning!
This is my printer. More specifically, it is my Hewlitt-Packard Model 4315 Ink Jet printer.
From where you sit, I doubt you would notice anything remarkable about this printer and even upon close inspection, you would discover no obvious flaw. There are no dings or scratches; no missing parts. You would judge that while it’s not the latest model, neither is it a relic. It’s just a printer, ordinary in every discernable way.
But I am here to tell you that it is worthless, because a few years ago something happened to it and it just stopped working.
When I connected it to my computer that day, everything seemed normal. I heard the whir of ink cartridges as they moved into position, heard the clicking of the gears on cylinder that bring a piece of paper into position and even heard the hiss of the ink jets applying the letters to the page.
But nothing came out of the other end, not even a blank page.
It just doesn’t work anymore.
As you can see, it looks fine. But something deep inside, something hidden from view, is broken. And so it doesn’t work.
I once wrote a story about a man who had a knack for fashioning broken things into useful, even clever, new things. It seemed he could make a planter or a lamp or even a piece of furniture out of just about anything.
But I don’t think even he would think about turning a broken printer into something that could serve another purpose. It’s of no use and has no value. It’s just clutter.
Now, if this were your printer, I know just what you would do. You wouldn't bother to have it fixed. It isn't worth fixing. Printers aren't expensive, so it would make more sense to simply buy a new one, the latest model.
So without a moment's hesitation, you would just toss this printer into the trash bin and be done with it.
Because to all the world, it is a worthless thing.
But somehow I can’t bring myself to throw it away, for reasons I am sure will seem silly to you.
First, it’s my printer. It worked faithfully for a number of years. And even in its broken state, when I listen to the printer – the various whirs and clicks and hisses – I almost imagine it is saying, “Hey, I’m trying. I really am. So, please, don’t give up on me.’’
And so I keep it. From time to time, I hook it up and hope that somehow when the whirs and clicks and hisses have ended, a printed page will, by some miraculous means, slide out the other end. It never does, of course.
I guess for most of us, there is a deeply ingrained belief that when things break down, all that is required is to keep fighting; that if you work through it and persevere that - through strength of will and diligence- things will work out.
That’s a good attitude to have, of course, but things don’t always turn out that way.
And yet there is something almost noble about fighting a good fight in a lost battle, I think.
This printer whirs and clicks and hisses and I hear it saying “I am going down, it is true. But I am going down swinging, at least.’’
And that is what I tell myself these days.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Jan. 12: "Feels like 7''
One of the first things I do each morning is turn on my computer and see what the weather is going to be.
Thursday morning the little "Weather Outlook'' on my home page read: “Current Temp. 21 degrees; Feels like 7 degrees.’’ I suppose the fact that there was a 16 mph wind factored into the equation.
An hour or so later, as I was walking from my truck to the cafeteria for breakfast, I began to think about that "Weather Outlook.'' What I was wondering mainly was: How do they know what it “feels like?’’
I imagined the guy in charge of putting these Weather Outlooks together sitting in a little office somewhere in Starkville. I suspect he asks his assistant, most likely an intern, to go outside and look at the thermometer.
“Hey, Bob, what’s it say?’’ the guy in charge yells though the tightly closed door.
“Uh, Al, it looks like it’s 21 degrees.’’
“OK, then. 21. Got it. What’s it feel like?’’
“Seven, maybe?’’
“Allrighty then... 21, feels like 7. Now you can go get the doughnuts.’’
Now, I’m not at all sure that this is how they compile this information. It’s pure speculation. Maybe instead, Al just calls random cell phone numbers and asks whoever answers if he or she has been outside in the last few minutes. If the person says, yes, he asks what it “feels like.’’
If that is how they arrive at this information, all I know is that if he had called me as I walked that quarter-mile from my truck to the cafeteria, I do not believe I would have said, “Well, Al, it feels like 7.’’
I think my response would have been along these lines.
Me: “What does it feel like? Really? What does it feel like? Well, Al, it feels like I am sucking sharp stalagmites into my lungs with every breath I take. It feels like all of my internal organs have balled themselves into tight little angry fists. It feels like my nose is running like a slush-puppy fountain but I do not dare wipe it for fear that even the slight brush will cause my entire face to shatter and fall to the ground into a million little pieces. It feels like my hair is frozen, Al. I don’t know what my legs, feet or toes feel like, Al. They seem to have cut off all communication with the rest of my body. I secretly suspect they have formed some sort of suicide pact and have somehow located a gun and put themselves out of their misery. That’s what it feels like, Al. OK?’’
Al: “Allrighty, then. We’ll go with feels like 7.’’
Suffice to say, it was cold Thursday. I don’t remember being this cold, certainly not since 1996 when I left for the Bay Area and, later, Arizona. It was so cold people were going into walk-in freezers in the cafeteria just to warm up.
I made it to cafeteria, noticed that they were serving hot, steaming grits and wondered what would happen if I just leaned over and buried my face in the big serving bowl.
Instead, I just asked for an extra helping and began to un-layer as the feeling began to slowly creep back into my hands and fingers and feet and toes.
A couple of other notable events from Thursday:
I had my first test. It was in Geography and it was a map quiz on North America. We were told we needed to be able to locate on a map all of the U.S. states and Canadian provinces, major bodies of water, mountain ranges, prominent cities and bays, capes, rivers, etc.
I studied very hard for the test, since I felt it was important to get off to a good start. (Interesting Geography Note: Did you know there was a Canadian province by the name of Nunavut? Me, neither. It’s way up north, even if you’re in Canada. Nunavut hasn’t been in the news much, maybe because about the only thing that happens there is people spontaneously turning into popsicles and that’s happened frequently enough that readers are bored and don’t want to read about it anymore.)
Anyway, I knew all the states, provinces, rivers, oceans, mountains, mud puddles, funny-looking trees that sort of look like presidents when look at that knothole right there, forks in the road, roadside attractions that have closed but the sign on the freeway is still up for some reason, etc., etc.
The test was only 20 questions. I had about 500 answers. The good thing is I am absolutely certain I got all 20 right. So I’m off to a good start.
The other good thing that happened was lunch.
For the first time since I’ve been on campus, I actually had lunch with somebody. She microwaved soup, I brought crackers. We ate in her office (She is an MSU employee).
The lunch was arranged through one of my old high school classmates. Her cousin works at MSU. I should get in touch with her, my old high school friend said.
So I did. I friended her of Face Book and we exchanged some comments, so it wasn’t like I was having lunch with a total stranger.
Now, I’m pretty sure this was not a “date.’’ I don’t think anybody involved viewed it in that context. But I will say that Kathy (that’s her name) is very attractive in just about every way you can measure it.
I was relieved to know that Kathy had been reading this blog, so she knew my “condition’’ before I ever arrived at her office. So the burden of explaining my train-wreck-of-a-life was lifted and we were able to talk about something more pleasant – tennis (she plays, I don’t), kids (she has three, I have two), how cold it was (feels like 7, we agreed).
So it was my best meal since I arrived, mainly because of the company. (Canned soup is canned soup, after all.)
It’s going to be cold again tomorrow, I am told.
I don’t know how cold.
Or what it’s going to feel like.
That's Al's business, I figure.
But I shivered through the morning and found some warmth at lunch.
It was a good day.
Thursday morning the little "Weather Outlook'' on my home page read: “Current Temp. 21 degrees; Feels like 7 degrees.’’ I suppose the fact that there was a 16 mph wind factored into the equation.
An hour or so later, as I was walking from my truck to the cafeteria for breakfast, I began to think about that "Weather Outlook.'' What I was wondering mainly was: How do they know what it “feels like?’’
I imagined the guy in charge of putting these Weather Outlooks together sitting in a little office somewhere in Starkville. I suspect he asks his assistant, most likely an intern, to go outside and look at the thermometer.
“Hey, Bob, what’s it say?’’ the guy in charge yells though the tightly closed door.
“Uh, Al, it looks like it’s 21 degrees.’’
“OK, then. 21. Got it. What’s it feel like?’’
“Seven, maybe?’’
“Allrighty then... 21, feels like 7. Now you can go get the doughnuts.’’
Now, I’m not at all sure that this is how they compile this information. It’s pure speculation. Maybe instead, Al just calls random cell phone numbers and asks whoever answers if he or she has been outside in the last few minutes. If the person says, yes, he asks what it “feels like.’’
If that is how they arrive at this information, all I know is that if he had called me as I walked that quarter-mile from my truck to the cafeteria, I do not believe I would have said, “Well, Al, it feels like 7.’’
I think my response would have been along these lines.
Me: “What does it feel like? Really? What does it feel like? Well, Al, it feels like I am sucking sharp stalagmites into my lungs with every breath I take. It feels like all of my internal organs have balled themselves into tight little angry fists. It feels like my nose is running like a slush-puppy fountain but I do not dare wipe it for fear that even the slight brush will cause my entire face to shatter and fall to the ground into a million little pieces. It feels like my hair is frozen, Al. I don’t know what my legs, feet or toes feel like, Al. They seem to have cut off all communication with the rest of my body. I secretly suspect they have formed some sort of suicide pact and have somehow located a gun and put themselves out of their misery. That’s what it feels like, Al. OK?’’
Al: “Allrighty, then. We’ll go with feels like 7.’’
Suffice to say, it was cold Thursday. I don’t remember being this cold, certainly not since 1996 when I left for the Bay Area and, later, Arizona. It was so cold people were going into walk-in freezers in the cafeteria just to warm up.
I made it to cafeteria, noticed that they were serving hot, steaming grits and wondered what would happen if I just leaned over and buried my face in the big serving bowl.
Instead, I just asked for an extra helping and began to un-layer as the feeling began to slowly creep back into my hands and fingers and feet and toes.
A couple of other notable events from Thursday:
I had my first test. It was in Geography and it was a map quiz on North America. We were told we needed to be able to locate on a map all of the U.S. states and Canadian provinces, major bodies of water, mountain ranges, prominent cities and bays, capes, rivers, etc.
I studied very hard for the test, since I felt it was important to get off to a good start. (Interesting Geography Note: Did you know there was a Canadian province by the name of Nunavut? Me, neither. It’s way up north, even if you’re in Canada. Nunavut hasn’t been in the news much, maybe because about the only thing that happens there is people spontaneously turning into popsicles and that’s happened frequently enough that readers are bored and don’t want to read about it anymore.)
Anyway, I knew all the states, provinces, rivers, oceans, mountains, mud puddles, funny-looking trees that sort of look like presidents when look at that knothole right there, forks in the road, roadside attractions that have closed but the sign on the freeway is still up for some reason, etc., etc.
The test was only 20 questions. I had about 500 answers. The good thing is I am absolutely certain I got all 20 right. So I’m off to a good start.
The other good thing that happened was lunch.
For the first time since I’ve been on campus, I actually had lunch with somebody. She microwaved soup, I brought crackers. We ate in her office (She is an MSU employee).
The lunch was arranged through one of my old high school classmates. Her cousin works at MSU. I should get in touch with her, my old high school friend said.
So I did. I friended her of Face Book and we exchanged some comments, so it wasn’t like I was having lunch with a total stranger.
Now, I’m pretty sure this was not a “date.’’ I don’t think anybody involved viewed it in that context. But I will say that Kathy (that’s her name) is very attractive in just about every way you can measure it.
I was relieved to know that Kathy had been reading this blog, so she knew my “condition’’ before I ever arrived at her office. So the burden of explaining my train-wreck-of-a-life was lifted and we were able to talk about something more pleasant – tennis (she plays, I don’t), kids (she has three, I have two), how cold it was (feels like 7, we agreed).
So it was my best meal since I arrived, mainly because of the company. (Canned soup is canned soup, after all.)
It’s going to be cold again tomorrow, I am told.
I don’t know how cold.
Or what it’s going to feel like.
That's Al's business, I figure.
But I shivered through the morning and found some warmth at lunch.
It was a good day.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Jan. 11: Garcia and me
He was one of the first persons I really noticed at Mississippi State.
It was Wednesday, Jan. 5, my first day of classes at MSU. I was having breakfast at the MSU Cafeteria when I saw him a few tables away.
I think it was his long, gray beard that captured my eye; Moses among a sea of young students. He was dressed in layers and the chair opposite him was occupied with a bulging backpack, with a rolled up sweater tied to the top. He looked to be in his 60s, I estimated.
Too old to be a student, too unkempt to a professor, no uniform to suggest he was staff.
I figured him for a homeless person, based on his unkempt appearance, his layered clothing and the bulging backpack, all tell-tale signs of someone who, by circumstance, must kept all of their possessions with them wherever they roam.
As I left, I walked past his table and noticed he was reading The Wall Street Journal and my immediate thought was, “wow, even homeless people on college campuses are well-read.’’
I was thinking that maybe somebody who works at MSU brought him in off the street and treated him to a meal.
But as the days passed, I kept seeing him in the cafeteria.
On Tuesdays and Thursdays, I have two classes that meet one after the other. I start class at 11 and finish at 1:45. I went to the cafeteria for a late lunch and there he was. My curiosity got the best of me and I said something like, “Nice to see another old-timer’’ or words to that effect.
“You know, when I got here in 1965, a meal was 60 cents,’’ he said.
“What was tuition, about $400?’’ I asked.
“No! I think it was $245.’’
“I have a book that cost that much this semester.’’
I introduced myself and he told me his name was Garcia Berry.
I told him that I had a brother who was at State at roughly the same time.
“I remember one day when I was a kid, my folks went out to get the newspaper and there was a picture of my brother on the front page,’’ I told him. “There he was, wearing his wire-rimmed glasses waving a finger in the face of an MP during a Vietnam War protest. My parents were horrified.’’
Garcia laughed. “What was your brother’s name?’’
“Fred Smith,’’ I said.
“I know him,’’ he said. “He’s a friend on my Face Book page.’’
Now, I admit there have been some advances in homeless-ness, but I seriously doubt those include subscriptions to The Wall Street Journal and Face Book.
So, obviously, my first impression had been wrong. He was not homeless, after all.
Turns out, he is a photographer. Figures. I’m sure all of my photographer friends back in Arizona will chuckle at my confusing a photographer for a homeless person. Sartorial splendor is not something generally associated with “shooters,’’ after all.
What I know about Garcia is pretty limited. I asked him if he worked at MSU. He said he taught photography from 1998-2002 and still shoots some events around campus. That’s about all I know.
G.K. Chesterton wrote that there are really only two ways to go home. One way is to leave home and go completely around the world until you arrive back where you started. The other way is to never leave.
Well, Garcia Berry never left.
I left too soon.
And now I am back.
And where am I going next?
I look at Garcia. I look at myself.
I wonder if it really matters, if it ever did.
If it ever will.
It was Wednesday, Jan. 5, my first day of classes at MSU. I was having breakfast at the MSU Cafeteria when I saw him a few tables away.
I think it was his long, gray beard that captured my eye; Moses among a sea of young students. He was dressed in layers and the chair opposite him was occupied with a bulging backpack, with a rolled up sweater tied to the top. He looked to be in his 60s, I estimated.
Too old to be a student, too unkempt to a professor, no uniform to suggest he was staff.
I figured him for a homeless person, based on his unkempt appearance, his layered clothing and the bulging backpack, all tell-tale signs of someone who, by circumstance, must kept all of their possessions with them wherever they roam.
As I left, I walked past his table and noticed he was reading The Wall Street Journal and my immediate thought was, “wow, even homeless people on college campuses are well-read.’’
I was thinking that maybe somebody who works at MSU brought him in off the street and treated him to a meal.
But as the days passed, I kept seeing him in the cafeteria.
On Tuesdays and Thursdays, I have two classes that meet one after the other. I start class at 11 and finish at 1:45. I went to the cafeteria for a late lunch and there he was. My curiosity got the best of me and I said something like, “Nice to see another old-timer’’ or words to that effect.
“You know, when I got here in 1965, a meal was 60 cents,’’ he said.
“What was tuition, about $400?’’ I asked.
“No! I think it was $245.’’
“I have a book that cost that much this semester.’’
I introduced myself and he told me his name was Garcia Berry.
I told him that I had a brother who was at State at roughly the same time.
“I remember one day when I was a kid, my folks went out to get the newspaper and there was a picture of my brother on the front page,’’ I told him. “There he was, wearing his wire-rimmed glasses waving a finger in the face of an MP during a Vietnam War protest. My parents were horrified.’’
Garcia laughed. “What was your brother’s name?’’
“Fred Smith,’’ I said.
“I know him,’’ he said. “He’s a friend on my Face Book page.’’
Now, I admit there have been some advances in homeless-ness, but I seriously doubt those include subscriptions to The Wall Street Journal and Face Book.
So, obviously, my first impression had been wrong. He was not homeless, after all.
Turns out, he is a photographer. Figures. I’m sure all of my photographer friends back in Arizona will chuckle at my confusing a photographer for a homeless person. Sartorial splendor is not something generally associated with “shooters,’’ after all.
What I know about Garcia is pretty limited. I asked him if he worked at MSU. He said he taught photography from 1998-2002 and still shoots some events around campus. That’s about all I know.
G.K. Chesterton wrote that there are really only two ways to go home. One way is to leave home and go completely around the world until you arrive back where you started. The other way is to never leave.
Well, Garcia Berry never left.
I left too soon.
And now I am back.
And where am I going next?
I look at Garcia. I look at myself.
I wonder if it really matters, if it ever did.
If it ever will.
Monday, January 10, 2011
Jan. 10: "Unexpected Happiness''
Today was a snow day. The snow started falling about 1:45 p.m. on Sunday and about 15 minutes later I got a “Maroon Alert’’ via text message informing me that Monday classes had been cancelled.
When I went to bed Sunday night a couple of inches had fallen and more was predicted, although it didn’t materialize.
All day Sunday I had made a big production of how much fun I was going to have playing in the snow on Monday. I guess maybe I’m all talk.
It’s been a tough day, a day of doubt and regret and deep sadness, the cause of which I cannot reveal since, like the bread crumbs dropped by Hansel and Gretel, it would lead to someone else and, thus, betray a confidence.
Today was the day I really faced the truth I have been trying to avoid: I am alone.
Like the snowstorm that gathered west of here and slowly pushed my direction, the clouds of loneliness had been building through the weekend and the storm arrived today.
I am thinking it was a mistake to come here and try to start over. In Arizona, I had a few friends I could run to, if things got too bad.
I came here, at least in part, to be closer to her. Now she is a million miles beyond the moon.
One of my Face Book friends put me in touch with a cousin of hers who works at MSU and we’ve made plans to have lunch on Wednesday. I intend to follow through, although the thought of mustering enough strength to put on a happy face and be “pleasant company’’ makes me all the more tired.
Today reminds me of those days after I was released from prison: All I wanted to do then was to find a place to hide away. I hadn’t felt like that in a great while.
Until today, that is.
There is still a little flicker in me, though, enough to push me out the door and, into my truck for the short drive to campus for lunch. Although classes were cancelled, the cafeteria was open. Since I bought a meal plan, I aim to use it.
I had Chinese for lunch and my fortune cookie read, “Traveling to the south will bring you unexpected happiness.’’
I may have opened the world’s first sarcastic fortune cookie, I’m thinking.
After lunch, I walked around campus a bit. I watched a group of students slide down the hill on cafeteria trays and observed a small snowball “fight’’ that broke out near the Student Union. Nobody asked me if I wanted to play, so I just watched a while.
Walking past the post office, I happened to look down and saw a $10 bill lying on the snow. I picked it up and stuffed it in my coat.
It was unexpected, but I wouldn’t call it happiness.
Another Face Book friend posted a comment that said contentment is not the fulfillment of what you want, but the appreciation of what you have. I have been thinking about that saying all weekend. I’m convinced it may the most unintentionally insensitive comment I have seen in a long while.
It is only 4 o’clock and it’s already beginning to get dark outside. Melting snow is drip, drip, dripping off the balcony roof as I look out my window and that white layer of snow, like a bum’s blanket, is beginning to show some holes. No more snow, they say. It will be too cold for that - lows of 14, 17 and 17 the next three days.
I would very much like to stay inside where I can be as miserable as I want to be and no one would be the wiser. But I know that something will push me out of bed in the morning.
I’ll get up, take a shower, dress and head off for class, mainly because something deep inside me, something immune to reason, stubbornly clings to the distant hope of “unexpected happiness.’’
I wish I could see that far.
When I went to bed Sunday night a couple of inches had fallen and more was predicted, although it didn’t materialize.
All day Sunday I had made a big production of how much fun I was going to have playing in the snow on Monday. I guess maybe I’m all talk.
It’s been a tough day, a day of doubt and regret and deep sadness, the cause of which I cannot reveal since, like the bread crumbs dropped by Hansel and Gretel, it would lead to someone else and, thus, betray a confidence.
Today was the day I really faced the truth I have been trying to avoid: I am alone.
Like the snowstorm that gathered west of here and slowly pushed my direction, the clouds of loneliness had been building through the weekend and the storm arrived today.
I am thinking it was a mistake to come here and try to start over. In Arizona, I had a few friends I could run to, if things got too bad.
I came here, at least in part, to be closer to her. Now she is a million miles beyond the moon.
One of my Face Book friends put me in touch with a cousin of hers who works at MSU and we’ve made plans to have lunch on Wednesday. I intend to follow through, although the thought of mustering enough strength to put on a happy face and be “pleasant company’’ makes me all the more tired.
Today reminds me of those days after I was released from prison: All I wanted to do then was to find a place to hide away. I hadn’t felt like that in a great while.
Until today, that is.
There is still a little flicker in me, though, enough to push me out the door and, into my truck for the short drive to campus for lunch. Although classes were cancelled, the cafeteria was open. Since I bought a meal plan, I aim to use it.
I had Chinese for lunch and my fortune cookie read, “Traveling to the south will bring you unexpected happiness.’’
I may have opened the world’s first sarcastic fortune cookie, I’m thinking.
After lunch, I walked around campus a bit. I watched a group of students slide down the hill on cafeteria trays and observed a small snowball “fight’’ that broke out near the Student Union. Nobody asked me if I wanted to play, so I just watched a while.
Walking past the post office, I happened to look down and saw a $10 bill lying on the snow. I picked it up and stuffed it in my coat.
It was unexpected, but I wouldn’t call it happiness.
Another Face Book friend posted a comment that said contentment is not the fulfillment of what you want, but the appreciation of what you have. I have been thinking about that saying all weekend. I’m convinced it may the most unintentionally insensitive comment I have seen in a long while.
It is only 4 o’clock and it’s already beginning to get dark outside. Melting snow is drip, drip, dripping off the balcony roof as I look out my window and that white layer of snow, like a bum’s blanket, is beginning to show some holes. No more snow, they say. It will be too cold for that - lows of 14, 17 and 17 the next three days.
I would very much like to stay inside where I can be as miserable as I want to be and no one would be the wiser. But I know that something will push me out of bed in the morning.
I’ll get up, take a shower, dress and head off for class, mainly because something deep inside me, something immune to reason, stubbornly clings to the distant hope of “unexpected happiness.’’
I wish I could see that far.
Friday, January 7, 2011
Jan. 7: Kant touch this!
OK. I’ll get to the salient point. No, my geography teacher did not go topless today. I guess I somehow misread her signals. Of course, that wouldn’t be the first time that’s happened when it comes to the female population.
Instead, she wore some sort of outfit that reminded me of what some Catholic bishop from some obscure corner of the world might wear whenever a new Pope is trotted out at the Vatican. She even wore a funny-looking hat.
So, with the last bit of intrigue sucked out of the day, I proceeded to my two Friday classes – Geography and Mass Media Law.
And it occurred to me that the getting-acquainted period for classes is over. In both classes, we dove right into the subject matter. I wish I could say it was fascinating, but the truth is, the material in both classes was pretty much devoid of anything exciting. Mainly, the professor talked. We listened and took notes. Definition of professor: A person who talks in somebody else’s sleep.
OK. It wasn’t really that bad. But it was obvious to me that I am really, really into this college thing now and the grind has begun.
I bought/rented the last of my textbooks in the afternoon and my backpack now weighs the equivalent of your aunt Mildred.
The vague disoriented feeling I mentioned previously persists. Right now, the jumble of reading assignments and the class schedule are all mixed up in my head. In the morning, before my coffee could work its magic, I stare at all of my books, notebooks and binders in bewilderment, wondering which one I need to take with me that day.
I am also realizing that each day, I forget something.
Today, I forgot my iPad, which isn’t much of a big deal in the working world. But when you are a student, such an omission marks you in a most humbling way. It is a mark of shame, apparently, to walk across campus with those ear buds sticking out.
Also, I need to invest in an umbrella. I dodged a bullet on Thursday, when the rain I woke up to had diminished to a sort of misty cloud by the time I went to class.
In Arizona, nobody really has an umbrella. Well, I shouldn’t say that. Old Asian and Hispanic women have umbrellas. You see them out on the corners waiting for the bus, umbrellas shielding them from the angry Arizona sun.
But nobody else bothers. It just doesn’t rain often enough and even if you own an umbrella by the time you have figured out where you put it, the rain has stopped.
So I have to get an umbrella. I also have to read. A lot. I’m heading for Tupelo tonight to see my sister and pick up some more furniture, but I’ll be home Saturday night, reading about Western Philosophy, Geography, Journalism Ethics and case law for Mass Media Law.
This is not the life I expected. I expected there to be girls, girls, girls on the weekends.
Instead I’ve got Kant and U.S. v. Schenk...or is it Schenk v. U.S.?
Party on, dude!
Instead, she wore some sort of outfit that reminded me of what some Catholic bishop from some obscure corner of the world might wear whenever a new Pope is trotted out at the Vatican. She even wore a funny-looking hat.
So, with the last bit of intrigue sucked out of the day, I proceeded to my two Friday classes – Geography and Mass Media Law.
And it occurred to me that the getting-acquainted period for classes is over. In both classes, we dove right into the subject matter. I wish I could say it was fascinating, but the truth is, the material in both classes was pretty much devoid of anything exciting. Mainly, the professor talked. We listened and took notes. Definition of professor: A person who talks in somebody else’s sleep.
OK. It wasn’t really that bad. But it was obvious to me that I am really, really into this college thing now and the grind has begun.
I bought/rented the last of my textbooks in the afternoon and my backpack now weighs the equivalent of your aunt Mildred.
The vague disoriented feeling I mentioned previously persists. Right now, the jumble of reading assignments and the class schedule are all mixed up in my head. In the morning, before my coffee could work its magic, I stare at all of my books, notebooks and binders in bewilderment, wondering which one I need to take with me that day.
I am also realizing that each day, I forget something.
Today, I forgot my iPad, which isn’t much of a big deal in the working world. But when you are a student, such an omission marks you in a most humbling way. It is a mark of shame, apparently, to walk across campus with those ear buds sticking out.
Also, I need to invest in an umbrella. I dodged a bullet on Thursday, when the rain I woke up to had diminished to a sort of misty cloud by the time I went to class.
In Arizona, nobody really has an umbrella. Well, I shouldn’t say that. Old Asian and Hispanic women have umbrellas. You see them out on the corners waiting for the bus, umbrellas shielding them from the angry Arizona sun.
But nobody else bothers. It just doesn’t rain often enough and even if you own an umbrella by the time you have figured out where you put it, the rain has stopped.
So I have to get an umbrella. I also have to read. A lot. I’m heading for Tupelo tonight to see my sister and pick up some more furniture, but I’ll be home Saturday night, reading about Western Philosophy, Geography, Journalism Ethics and case law for Mass Media Law.
This is not the life I expected. I expected there to be girls, girls, girls on the weekends.
Instead I’ve got Kant and U.S. v. Schenk...or is it Schenk v. U.S.?
Party on, dude!
Thursday, January 6, 2011
Jan. 6: The Outsiders
Today’s subject is diversity.
And, yes, I can hear your groaning even now.
The mere sight of the word “diversity’’ probably conjures those mandatory meetings that you could never weasel your way out of, long boring meetings with binders that the instructor went through word by word while you sat there bored to tears.
At least, that was what always came to my mind whenever I heard that word.
But I will beg your forbearance and ask that you maintain some confidence in my ability to make this tedious topic both relevant and interesting.
Now, it’s not as though I ever had in mind that I would write about “diversity’’ as it relates to my new experience as an old student.
But throughout the day, the topic just sort of muscled its way into my consciousness and I feel obliged to commit these observations to print.
With two classes Thursday, I have now attended a class in all five of my subjects for the semester, which may well be a personal record. In my previous academic career as a disinterested student, it took me about two weeks to reach that milestone.
In each of those classes, the real implications of diversity emerged. I am talking about diversity as it applies to real people rather than some abstract notion, which is generally how the subject is presented in those torturous mandatory meetings held in a million stuffy conference rooms.
But I began to think of what diversity means a couple of hours before my first class started. I was sitting in the Student Union, killing time and watching the student world go by, when I noticed MSU basketball player John Riek walking toward me, a Chick-Fil-A bag in his hand.
This required no great powers of observation to pick him out. He is 7-foot-1, literally head and shoulders above the rest of the students who wandered through the food court.
It occurred to me that John Riek, by virtue of his enormous height, is conspicuous wherever he goes. I suspect there are many, many times when this is more of a burden than an asset for him.
Riek is a native of Sudan and is still trying to grasp English, from what I had read of him. He is far from a star player on the team. In fact, in what is now his second season at State, he rarely plays. So while he is almost always recognized, I doubt he is treated with the deference that most athletes at a major university enjoy. I suspect his life is full of uninviting stares, a life compounded by what is certain to be cultural barriers that he must find difficult to cross.
I suspect that John Riek must often feel alone and alien, an outsider, a stranger in a strange land. I bet he misses his family back in the Sudan. I bet he misses fitting in, culturally, if not physically. And he’s just a kid, still. It makes you wonder how he copes, to be honest.
It was just a passing thought and I soon headed off for my first class of the day, Journalism Ethics. As the instructor was going over the roll, she stopped on my name.
“Hmm...You’ve had some experience in the journalism field, haven’t you?’’ she asked.
“Yeah, about 30 years,’’ I said.
Turns out, the instructor – Frances McDavid – was working at the Columbus paper when I went to work there after leaving school.
At her insistence, I went over my resume’ briefly. It was a mistake. She spent the rest of the class, making side comments to me…”Slim can tell you about this’’ or “Was that your experience, Slim?’’ or “Tell them what this means in the real world, Slim?’’
It made me uneasy, to be honest, for I had the feeling that my presence in the class made her self-conscious. And that’s not right, either. Mrs. McDavid has been teaching journalism for 20 years. She knows the subject in a way that I can never know it, never having taught.
After class, I lingered so that I could tell her that I did not want to be treated with any deference, that she should consider me as just another student. But while I was waiting, a young lady was talking with Mrs. McDavid and I could tell by her demeanor that it was not a casual conversation.
The young lady was a Korean and she had approached Mrs. McDavid to express her extreme concern that she would not be able to succeed in the class. She seemed close to tears, shaking slightly. As a broadcast communications major, the class was mandatory. And after listening to Mrs. McDavid’s summary of the course, a great cloud of doubt began to settle on her.
Mrs. McDavid tried to reassure her.
“I can’t tell you whether you should drop this class or not. You’re going to have to take it sooner or later, though. All I can say is that I’ll help you. But I can’t guarantee the outcome.’’
I watched with sympathy. From what I know of foreign students, the stakes are incredibly high. They leave their home, their culture to study abroad at no small expense. For many, the family sacrifices greatly to give their children such an opportunity.
As a result, the expectations and pressures are enormous. They must not only pass, they must excel.
And there was this young Korean girl, thousands of miles from home, studying communications while fumbling with her Korean-to-English dictionary. How impossibly hard is that?
I spoke up.
“I won’t tell you what to do,’’ I told her. “But if you stay in this class, I will help you any way I can.’’
I don’t know if she’ll drop the class or not. I guess I’ll have my answer when class convenes again on Tuesday.
My last class of the day was Introduction to Public Speaking and again I felt myself drawn to two Asian students, who happened to settle into seats to my left and right.
There was Jeoungyong Kim from Seoul, Korea, and Toshiakama Yogamara from Tokyo, Japan (Don’t hold me to the spellings; they are strictly phonetic speculations on my part).
During the class, each student was asked to introduce themselves and tell the class a little about themselves. Both Jeoungyong and Toshi spoke in barely audible voices, often stopping as if trying to translate Korean and Japanese thoughts into English words. You could tell they were painfully aware of their limitations. They very idea that they will have to deliver four speeches during this class must be frightening beyond imagination.
I made a mental note that I will be their biggest fan in the class.
When it times for the speeches to begin – in about two weeks, our instructor told us – I will take both of them aside for a little pep talk. I intend to tell them that speaking before a class is not scary. Moving thousands of miles away from your home and family, that’s scary. Leaving your culture and your friends, that’s scary. Trying to meet the highest of expectations in a culture and language you are still struggling to understand, that’s scary.
When it is their time to deliver a speech, I intend to position myself in a seat in the middle of the back row.
“Keep your eyes on me,’’ I am going to tell them. “I’m an old friendly, non-threatening guy. I am your friend. You watch me. You’ll be fine.’’
I’m not from Sudan or Korea or Japan, but I, too, am an outsider. I’m old, compared to all the students I’m surrounded by. I know what it feels like to be distinctly different. And while no one has been mean to me, I do get the feeling that, at any moment, any of my fellow students may ask me for gas money, you know?
What I am discovering is that diversity isn’t very interesting when you’re looking at it from the outside. But when you are the one who is different, it’s something you never really escape.
Hey, I’ve only been in college for a week and I’m already learning!
And, yes, I can hear your groaning even now.
The mere sight of the word “diversity’’ probably conjures those mandatory meetings that you could never weasel your way out of, long boring meetings with binders that the instructor went through word by word while you sat there bored to tears.
At least, that was what always came to my mind whenever I heard that word.
But I will beg your forbearance and ask that you maintain some confidence in my ability to make this tedious topic both relevant and interesting.
Now, it’s not as though I ever had in mind that I would write about “diversity’’ as it relates to my new experience as an old student.
But throughout the day, the topic just sort of muscled its way into my consciousness and I feel obliged to commit these observations to print.
With two classes Thursday, I have now attended a class in all five of my subjects for the semester, which may well be a personal record. In my previous academic career as a disinterested student, it took me about two weeks to reach that milestone.
In each of those classes, the real implications of diversity emerged. I am talking about diversity as it applies to real people rather than some abstract notion, which is generally how the subject is presented in those torturous mandatory meetings held in a million stuffy conference rooms.
But I began to think of what diversity means a couple of hours before my first class started. I was sitting in the Student Union, killing time and watching the student world go by, when I noticed MSU basketball player John Riek walking toward me, a Chick-Fil-A bag in his hand.
This required no great powers of observation to pick him out. He is 7-foot-1, literally head and shoulders above the rest of the students who wandered through the food court.
It occurred to me that John Riek, by virtue of his enormous height, is conspicuous wherever he goes. I suspect there are many, many times when this is more of a burden than an asset for him.
Riek is a native of Sudan and is still trying to grasp English, from what I had read of him. He is far from a star player on the team. In fact, in what is now his second season at State, he rarely plays. So while he is almost always recognized, I doubt he is treated with the deference that most athletes at a major university enjoy. I suspect his life is full of uninviting stares, a life compounded by what is certain to be cultural barriers that he must find difficult to cross.
I suspect that John Riek must often feel alone and alien, an outsider, a stranger in a strange land. I bet he misses his family back in the Sudan. I bet he misses fitting in, culturally, if not physically. And he’s just a kid, still. It makes you wonder how he copes, to be honest.
It was just a passing thought and I soon headed off for my first class of the day, Journalism Ethics. As the instructor was going over the roll, she stopped on my name.
“Hmm...You’ve had some experience in the journalism field, haven’t you?’’ she asked.
“Yeah, about 30 years,’’ I said.
Turns out, the instructor – Frances McDavid – was working at the Columbus paper when I went to work there after leaving school.
At her insistence, I went over my resume’ briefly. It was a mistake. She spent the rest of the class, making side comments to me…”Slim can tell you about this’’ or “Was that your experience, Slim?’’ or “Tell them what this means in the real world, Slim?’’
It made me uneasy, to be honest, for I had the feeling that my presence in the class made her self-conscious. And that’s not right, either. Mrs. McDavid has been teaching journalism for 20 years. She knows the subject in a way that I can never know it, never having taught.
After class, I lingered so that I could tell her that I did not want to be treated with any deference, that she should consider me as just another student. But while I was waiting, a young lady was talking with Mrs. McDavid and I could tell by her demeanor that it was not a casual conversation.
The young lady was a Korean and she had approached Mrs. McDavid to express her extreme concern that she would not be able to succeed in the class. She seemed close to tears, shaking slightly. As a broadcast communications major, the class was mandatory. And after listening to Mrs. McDavid’s summary of the course, a great cloud of doubt began to settle on her.
Mrs. McDavid tried to reassure her.
“I can’t tell you whether you should drop this class or not. You’re going to have to take it sooner or later, though. All I can say is that I’ll help you. But I can’t guarantee the outcome.’’
I watched with sympathy. From what I know of foreign students, the stakes are incredibly high. They leave their home, their culture to study abroad at no small expense. For many, the family sacrifices greatly to give their children such an opportunity.
As a result, the expectations and pressures are enormous. They must not only pass, they must excel.
And there was this young Korean girl, thousands of miles from home, studying communications while fumbling with her Korean-to-English dictionary. How impossibly hard is that?
I spoke up.
“I won’t tell you what to do,’’ I told her. “But if you stay in this class, I will help you any way I can.’’
I don’t know if she’ll drop the class or not. I guess I’ll have my answer when class convenes again on Tuesday.
My last class of the day was Introduction to Public Speaking and again I felt myself drawn to two Asian students, who happened to settle into seats to my left and right.
There was Jeoungyong Kim from Seoul, Korea, and Toshiakama Yogamara from Tokyo, Japan (Don’t hold me to the spellings; they are strictly phonetic speculations on my part).
During the class, each student was asked to introduce themselves and tell the class a little about themselves. Both Jeoungyong and Toshi spoke in barely audible voices, often stopping as if trying to translate Korean and Japanese thoughts into English words. You could tell they were painfully aware of their limitations. They very idea that they will have to deliver four speeches during this class must be frightening beyond imagination.
I made a mental note that I will be their biggest fan in the class.
When it times for the speeches to begin – in about two weeks, our instructor told us – I will take both of them aside for a little pep talk. I intend to tell them that speaking before a class is not scary. Moving thousands of miles away from your home and family, that’s scary. Leaving your culture and your friends, that’s scary. Trying to meet the highest of expectations in a culture and language you are still struggling to understand, that’s scary.
When it is their time to deliver a speech, I intend to position myself in a seat in the middle of the back row.
“Keep your eyes on me,’’ I am going to tell them. “I’m an old friendly, non-threatening guy. I am your friend. You watch me. You’ll be fine.’’
I’m not from Sudan or Korea or Japan, but I, too, am an outsider. I’m old, compared to all the students I’m surrounded by. I know what it feels like to be distinctly different. And while no one has been mean to me, I do get the feeling that, at any moment, any of my fellow students may ask me for gas money, you know?
What I am discovering is that diversity isn’t very interesting when you’re looking at it from the outside. But when you are the one who is different, it’s something you never really escape.
Hey, I’ve only been in college for a week and I’m already learning!
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
Jan. 5: The Possibility of Partial Nudity
I walked into my first class – Intro to World Geography - at 9:55 a.m. Wednesday to the strains of flute and drum music.
When the 100 or so students had wedged themselves into to the tiny seats that looked as though they were designed for first-graders, our instructor – Joan Mylroie – explained that she liked to play music native to some of the far-flung places she had visited over the years.
I figured as much. Obscure, third-world countries may differ in many ways, but in this one respect, there is uniformity: They only have drums and flutes of some sort.
If I accidentally start the next Face Book or Apple, I intend to devote much of my fortune to a charity that will send these people some guitars or trombones or pianos. You can only stand so much flute-and-drum music.
It was obvious to me that our professor has a real passion for her subject, which is a good thing, I figure.
In addition to her affinity for the mind-numbing variations on drum/flute tunes, Mrs. Mylroie also loves the traditional clothes worn by the indigenous natives of the places she visits.
Pointing to her skirt, an ankle-length cream-colored garment with flowered embroidery at the bottom, she said she also liked to wear clothes of the indigenous peoples of the places she had visited.
That is why I half expect to see Mrs. Mylroie topless when we all gather again for class on Friday.
Now, I’m not one to jump to conclusions, nor am I particularly inclined toward putting words in people’s mouths.
But I can draw reasonable inferences.
No sooner had Mrs. Mylroie explained how she just loved to wear the clothes native to the places she visited, she shared this nugget of information on her most recent trip abroad. It was a small island in Micronesia, she said, with a population of only about 140 people. Because the island is so small and so sparsely populated, the natives get awful tired of looking at each other all the time. So when visitors arrive, the whole island turns out to gawk.
Mrs. Mylroie said they were greeted with great warmth.
She made a specific point to say that the native women all wore colorful skirts. And that was all they wore.
I wonder what it's like to be a woman on that island. I imagine the women gathering at the clothes-washing stream and striking up casual conversations:
"Oh, Agnes! I just love what you're doing with your breasts these days!''
Or, "Oh, girl, I'm just having one of those bad breasts days, you know!''
Maybe even, "I hate, hate, hate this humidity. It just ruins my breasts!''
But back to the topic at hand.
It seems to me that Mrs. Mylroie might be trying to prepare us for something, you know? I mean, in one breath she says she likes to dress like the natives and in the next she says that the last place she visited the women went topless.
Now, I’m not saying that Mrs. Mylroie intends to “go all Micronesian on us’’ come Friday. But I cannot rule out the possibility.
We shall see. Literally.
I attended two other classes on Wednesday and, while neither of the other professors alluded to any potential nudity, they seemed pleasant enough.
My Mass Media Law instructor, Mark Goodman, told me not to sweat it if I was chronically late for class, this after I explained that I had roughly 10 minutes to make the 15-minute walk over from Intro to World Geography to his class.
My last class, History of Western Philosophy II (or The Sequel!, as I like to think of it) began late with our professor, Mr. Holt, walking in about five minutes late.
“I’m never late,’’ he said, when a student chided him politely. “Class starts right on time, right when I get here.’’
Mr. Holt seems like a lively guy. He kept writing Greek and Latin words on the chalkboard and making funny comments about various philosophic topics. I say they were funny; they got laughs from the Philosophy majors in the class. But since this was my first Philosophy class, I’m afraid the jokes were lost on me.
But he seems like an amiable, friendly sort and I have a feeling I’ll make out OK.
I am happy to report that in every class, there was someone who I judged to be pretty much my age. Of course, the someone was the professor. Everybody else looked like they were 15.
I had breakfast, lunch and dinner at the cafeteria, a place where you can get seriously fat if you’re not careful. I was not careful Wednesday. For breakfast, I had eggs, bacon, potatoes, biscuit with country gravy and a blue-berry muffin. For lunch, I had fried chicken, black-eyed peas, green beans, mashed potatoes, two pieces of cornbread and banana pudding for dessert. For dinner, I had a salad, so guilty was my conscience.
I bought an unlimited meal plan under the theory that, given my grim financial existence, I’d be able to eat no matter how small my bank account shrinks.
I have to say that my first day of school felt a little odd, almost as if I were on assignment and would soon return to my regular life, whatever that was.
I think part of the reason was that I was alone all day. Alone on my walks to class, alone at each meal. Being alone in a crowd is a special kind of alone. In those circumstances, you feel very much like an observer, an outsider.
I hope I make some friends before too long. I’m going to give it a shot.
But I do have one new friend. Her name is Joy and she’s a tiny little thing with big brown eyes and a gentle smile. We became friends in Geography Class. The teacher made us.
She told us to turn to the person next to us and get that person’s email address.
“You’re going to be classroom friends,’’ she said. “If you miss a class, your friend will share his or her notes.’’
Joy and I dutifully exchanged email addresses. So Joy is my first new friend, for three hours a week, anyway.
I’ll see her again Friday.
I’ll see Mrs. Mylroie on Friday, too.
Queue the flute and drum music. Hubba, Hubba!
When the 100 or so students had wedged themselves into to the tiny seats that looked as though they were designed for first-graders, our instructor – Joan Mylroie – explained that she liked to play music native to some of the far-flung places she had visited over the years.
I figured as much. Obscure, third-world countries may differ in many ways, but in this one respect, there is uniformity: They only have drums and flutes of some sort.
If I accidentally start the next Face Book or Apple, I intend to devote much of my fortune to a charity that will send these people some guitars or trombones or pianos. You can only stand so much flute-and-drum music.
It was obvious to me that our professor has a real passion for her subject, which is a good thing, I figure.
In addition to her affinity for the mind-numbing variations on drum/flute tunes, Mrs. Mylroie also loves the traditional clothes worn by the indigenous natives of the places she visits.
Pointing to her skirt, an ankle-length cream-colored garment with flowered embroidery at the bottom, she said she also liked to wear clothes of the indigenous peoples of the places she had visited.
That is why I half expect to see Mrs. Mylroie topless when we all gather again for class on Friday.
Now, I’m not one to jump to conclusions, nor am I particularly inclined toward putting words in people’s mouths.
But I can draw reasonable inferences.
No sooner had Mrs. Mylroie explained how she just loved to wear the clothes native to the places she visited, she shared this nugget of information on her most recent trip abroad. It was a small island in Micronesia, she said, with a population of only about 140 people. Because the island is so small and so sparsely populated, the natives get awful tired of looking at each other all the time. So when visitors arrive, the whole island turns out to gawk.
Mrs. Mylroie said they were greeted with great warmth.
She made a specific point to say that the native women all wore colorful skirts. And that was all they wore.
I wonder what it's like to be a woman on that island. I imagine the women gathering at the clothes-washing stream and striking up casual conversations:
"Oh, Agnes! I just love what you're doing with your breasts these days!''
Or, "Oh, girl, I'm just having one of those bad breasts days, you know!''
Maybe even, "I hate, hate, hate this humidity. It just ruins my breasts!''
But back to the topic at hand.
It seems to me that Mrs. Mylroie might be trying to prepare us for something, you know? I mean, in one breath she says she likes to dress like the natives and in the next she says that the last place she visited the women went topless.
Now, I’m not saying that Mrs. Mylroie intends to “go all Micronesian on us’’ come Friday. But I cannot rule out the possibility.
We shall see. Literally.
I attended two other classes on Wednesday and, while neither of the other professors alluded to any potential nudity, they seemed pleasant enough.
My Mass Media Law instructor, Mark Goodman, told me not to sweat it if I was chronically late for class, this after I explained that I had roughly 10 minutes to make the 15-minute walk over from Intro to World Geography to his class.
My last class, History of Western Philosophy II (or The Sequel!, as I like to think of it) began late with our professor, Mr. Holt, walking in about five minutes late.
“I’m never late,’’ he said, when a student chided him politely. “Class starts right on time, right when I get here.’’
Mr. Holt seems like a lively guy. He kept writing Greek and Latin words on the chalkboard and making funny comments about various philosophic topics. I say they were funny; they got laughs from the Philosophy majors in the class. But since this was my first Philosophy class, I’m afraid the jokes were lost on me.
But he seems like an amiable, friendly sort and I have a feeling I’ll make out OK.
I am happy to report that in every class, there was someone who I judged to be pretty much my age. Of course, the someone was the professor. Everybody else looked like they were 15.
I had breakfast, lunch and dinner at the cafeteria, a place where you can get seriously fat if you’re not careful. I was not careful Wednesday. For breakfast, I had eggs, bacon, potatoes, biscuit with country gravy and a blue-berry muffin. For lunch, I had fried chicken, black-eyed peas, green beans, mashed potatoes, two pieces of cornbread and banana pudding for dessert. For dinner, I had a salad, so guilty was my conscience.
I bought an unlimited meal plan under the theory that, given my grim financial existence, I’d be able to eat no matter how small my bank account shrinks.
I have to say that my first day of school felt a little odd, almost as if I were on assignment and would soon return to my regular life, whatever that was.
I think part of the reason was that I was alone all day. Alone on my walks to class, alone at each meal. Being alone in a crowd is a special kind of alone. In those circumstances, you feel very much like an observer, an outsider.
I hope I make some friends before too long. I’m going to give it a shot.
But I do have one new friend. Her name is Joy and she’s a tiny little thing with big brown eyes and a gentle smile. We became friends in Geography Class. The teacher made us.
She told us to turn to the person next to us and get that person’s email address.
“You’re going to be classroom friends,’’ she said. “If you miss a class, your friend will share his or her notes.’’
Joy and I dutifully exchanged email addresses. So Joy is my first new friend, for three hours a week, anyway.
I’ll see her again Friday.
I’ll see Mrs. Mylroie on Friday, too.
Queue the flute and drum music. Hubba, Hubba!
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
Jan. 4, 2011: The Lion in Wal-Mart
The decision to begin this blog was pretty easy. When I announced my plans to leave Arizona, - where I have lived for the past 12 years - to return to my native Mississippi and enroll again at classes at Mississippi State University, the idea that I should commit the experience to print seems natural enough. I’m a writer, after all.
But where to start?
There seemed to be any number of jumping off points as I considered this initial post.
For dramatic effect, I might start in my bunk at Florence West Prison in Arizona, where I read a letter from my editor informing me that I had been fired as the newspaper’s Metro Columnist and my future went black.
I could also start in the few lonely, desperate years immediately after my release from prison, time marked by a series of low-paying jobs that ranged from car wash attendant to bagel shop cashier to coffee shop barista to graveyard-shift janitor, jobs that kept me fed and sheltered and little more.
I could just as easily start about this time last year, when - no longer legally confined to Arizona – I began to consider the possibility of going back to school to finish that degree I never thought I’d need back in 1982, when I left college in my junior year to begin my newspaper career.
But it seems to me the best place to start is at Wal-Mart.
It is 6 p.m. on Tuesday, Jan. 4th as I pull into the parking lot of the Wal-Mart Supercenter on Highway 12 in Starkville, Miss.
There is an enormous throng of cars in the parking lot and while Starkville is a small town (population just under 22,000), the parking lot is crammed full on a Tuesday night. I’d be willing to bet more than 10 percent of the town’s population is here.
I think this reveals a little about the nature of the people here.
I remember that when I left Mississippi in 1996 for a newspaper job in Northern California, one of the big local stories there was the protest of plans to build a Wal-Mart there. The opposition was bitter and effective. Wal-Mart eventually gave up plans for the store.
I doubt anybody protested when they built the Wal-Mart in Starkville, though. The parking lot attests to its popularity. In fact, I strongly suspect that if I were to have confronted one of the shopper I encountered Tuesday night and explained to them the evils of Wal-Mart, how the company drives small locally-owned businesses into oblivion and keeps costs down by all sorts of dirty tricks played on its employees, that customer would have listened patiently, perhaps nodding occasionally in agreement and then said, in a polite drawl, “Yeah, but you can get a big box of Gain Detergent for $4.97.’’
And that would be the end of that.
It’s about money. Folks here don’t make much of it. And they aren’t inclined to spend any more of it than is absolutely required. Let Californians worry about the moral implications of Big Box store. You just can’t turn away from a chance to save two dollars on a box of Gain detergent.
I wasn’t at Wal-Mart because of the deal on detergent, though. I was there to complete my final task before starting classes the next morning. My list had two items: Sharpie high-lighters and spiral notebook – five notebooks, one for each of my subjects.
I probably should have not made this my last task. When I arrived at the school supplies section, there was a large herd of college kids picking over the merchandise like a pride of lions snarling over the last morsels from the carcass of a wildebeest.
When I got to where the last notebooks were located - I judged that there were fewer than 20 of them remaining – I found a group of eight or nine kids jostling for possession.
Now, I am not proud of what I did at this point. But I needed notebooks. I managed to crowd just close enough to casually wonder aloud: “Hey, why are these notebooks $1,27 when the same notebooks in that big bin in the front of the store are marked 87 cents?’’
I said it just loud enough to be heard and, to my shame and satisfaction, the pack of notebook jackals dropped their prey and scurried toward the front of the score. Alone with the dwindling supply of notebooks, I was able to pick out the five I needed. I was even able to get notebooks with five different colored covers, which would be of some organizational value, I figured.
From a moral point of view, it was not my finest hour, I realize. But if an old lion is going to eat, he has to be resourceful. This is Wal-Mart on the eve of the first day of classes. It’s a jungle out there.
So I’m all set for classes. My first class is Intro to World Geography and I think that’s a good place to start. I mean, it’s not like World Geography has changed any since the last time I sat in a classroom. I’m old, all right, but I’m not that old. So I’m going back to school in the same geological epic, so I don’t figure the long lay-off will be much of a detriment. There shouldn’t be any new material to cover, you know?
Earlier Tuesday, I did my reconnaissance, locating the ideal parking lot and finding the buildings where I’ll be attending classes and charting the best routes from one class to the next. I stopped by the massive cafeteria, which looks more like a cathedral than a dining hall and is one of the many buildings that, like me, have some years on them.
I also stopped by the office of The Reflector, the student newspaper. I don’t know why, really. I just seemed to be drawn there.
The only people in the Reflector office were the advertising director and Amy, the editor.
I talked to Amy a little while, telling her I’d spent almost 30 years in the newspaper business as a reporter, editor and columnist at papers in Mississippi, California and Arizona. To be honest, I wanted her to be impressed.
It did not have the desired effect.
“Well, we have all the editors we need,’’ she said politely. “We might need some reporters, though. We won’t know until classes start and we start publishing again who is coming back. You fill out an application.
You’re probably better than half of the people we have on staff.’’
“Gee, do you really think so?’’ I asked.
“Yeah, probably,’ she said.
Amy told me reporters are paid anywhere from $8 to $20 per story, depending on quality.
I don’t think I’ll resume my newspaper job at The Reflector. I can’t afford it, quite frankly.
So I am all ready for school. I even have the clothes I’m going to wear set out. Apparently, dorkiness has a very long shelf life, huh?
Suddenly, I feel very old and very silly.
I’m ready, I reckon.
But where to start?
There seemed to be any number of jumping off points as I considered this initial post.
For dramatic effect, I might start in my bunk at Florence West Prison in Arizona, where I read a letter from my editor informing me that I had been fired as the newspaper’s Metro Columnist and my future went black.
I could also start in the few lonely, desperate years immediately after my release from prison, time marked by a series of low-paying jobs that ranged from car wash attendant to bagel shop cashier to coffee shop barista to graveyard-shift janitor, jobs that kept me fed and sheltered and little more.
I could just as easily start about this time last year, when - no longer legally confined to Arizona – I began to consider the possibility of going back to school to finish that degree I never thought I’d need back in 1982, when I left college in my junior year to begin my newspaper career.
But it seems to me the best place to start is at Wal-Mart.
It is 6 p.m. on Tuesday, Jan. 4th as I pull into the parking lot of the Wal-Mart Supercenter on Highway 12 in Starkville, Miss.
There is an enormous throng of cars in the parking lot and while Starkville is a small town (population just under 22,000), the parking lot is crammed full on a Tuesday night. I’d be willing to bet more than 10 percent of the town’s population is here.
I think this reveals a little about the nature of the people here.
I remember that when I left Mississippi in 1996 for a newspaper job in Northern California, one of the big local stories there was the protest of plans to build a Wal-Mart there. The opposition was bitter and effective. Wal-Mart eventually gave up plans for the store.
I doubt anybody protested when they built the Wal-Mart in Starkville, though. The parking lot attests to its popularity. In fact, I strongly suspect that if I were to have confronted one of the shopper I encountered Tuesday night and explained to them the evils of Wal-Mart, how the company drives small locally-owned businesses into oblivion and keeps costs down by all sorts of dirty tricks played on its employees, that customer would have listened patiently, perhaps nodding occasionally in agreement and then said, in a polite drawl, “Yeah, but you can get a big box of Gain Detergent for $4.97.’’
And that would be the end of that.
It’s about money. Folks here don’t make much of it. And they aren’t inclined to spend any more of it than is absolutely required. Let Californians worry about the moral implications of Big Box store. You just can’t turn away from a chance to save two dollars on a box of Gain detergent.
I wasn’t at Wal-Mart because of the deal on detergent, though. I was there to complete my final task before starting classes the next morning. My list had two items: Sharpie high-lighters and spiral notebook – five notebooks, one for each of my subjects.
I probably should have not made this my last task. When I arrived at the school supplies section, there was a large herd of college kids picking over the merchandise like a pride of lions snarling over the last morsels from the carcass of a wildebeest.
When I got to where the last notebooks were located - I judged that there were fewer than 20 of them remaining – I found a group of eight or nine kids jostling for possession.
Now, I am not proud of what I did at this point. But I needed notebooks. I managed to crowd just close enough to casually wonder aloud: “Hey, why are these notebooks $1,27 when the same notebooks in that big bin in the front of the store are marked 87 cents?’’
I said it just loud enough to be heard and, to my shame and satisfaction, the pack of notebook jackals dropped their prey and scurried toward the front of the score. Alone with the dwindling supply of notebooks, I was able to pick out the five I needed. I was even able to get notebooks with five different colored covers, which would be of some organizational value, I figured.
From a moral point of view, it was not my finest hour, I realize. But if an old lion is going to eat, he has to be resourceful. This is Wal-Mart on the eve of the first day of classes. It’s a jungle out there.
So I’m all set for classes. My first class is Intro to World Geography and I think that’s a good place to start. I mean, it’s not like World Geography has changed any since the last time I sat in a classroom. I’m old, all right, but I’m not that old. So I’m going back to school in the same geological epic, so I don’t figure the long lay-off will be much of a detriment. There shouldn’t be any new material to cover, you know?
Earlier Tuesday, I did my reconnaissance, locating the ideal parking lot and finding the buildings where I’ll be attending classes and charting the best routes from one class to the next. I stopped by the massive cafeteria, which looks more like a cathedral than a dining hall and is one of the many buildings that, like me, have some years on them.
I also stopped by the office of The Reflector, the student newspaper. I don’t know why, really. I just seemed to be drawn there.
The only people in the Reflector office were the advertising director and Amy, the editor.
I talked to Amy a little while, telling her I’d spent almost 30 years in the newspaper business as a reporter, editor and columnist at papers in Mississippi, California and Arizona. To be honest, I wanted her to be impressed.
It did not have the desired effect.
“Well, we have all the editors we need,’’ she said politely. “We might need some reporters, though. We won’t know until classes start and we start publishing again who is coming back. You fill out an application.
You’re probably better than half of the people we have on staff.’’
“Gee, do you really think so?’’ I asked.
“Yeah, probably,’ she said.
Amy told me reporters are paid anywhere from $8 to $20 per story, depending on quality.
I don’t think I’ll resume my newspaper job at The Reflector. I can’t afford it, quite frankly.
So I am all ready for school. I even have the clothes I’m going to wear set out. Apparently, dorkiness has a very long shelf life, huh?
Suddenly, I feel very old and very silly.
I’m ready, I reckon.
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