In Which Kevin and Perry Force My Hand

I don't know if I can do it, you guys. Maybe Morris has spoiled me too much, or maybe my childhood was too sheltered, or maybe I'm just not the right kind of person. But I don't know if I can be friends with these people.

They're so judgmental, and so unfriendly towards anyone who's even the least bit different.

For example, one guy in our group, Kevin (name has been changed), is a talker, and can be a little obnoxious about it. He doesn't try to be; in fact, I think it's obvious that he means well, and that that he's trying to be impressive and outgoing in order to make friends, but evidently the other people in the group don't see it that way. They mock him constantly. They spent the whole two and a half hour bus ride today baiting him with ridiculous questions, and then video recording his equally ridiculous answers so they could laugh at him later. As we got on the bus for the ride back, there was actually a small argument between two boys over who had to ride next to Kevin. And Kevin was sitting right there.

Later on, I was walking home from the bus stop with a group of kids from my dorm, and they were making fun of yet another guy in our group, Perry, who's from Texas, and is a perfectly nice, friendly person. But evidently he doesn't drink. Evidently he had a glass of wine with dinner tonight, but evidently that wasn't good enough. Evidently a mere glass of wine is grounds for eternal damnation. They were talking about making fun of Sam Houston, or bringing up the loss of the Alamo in front of Perry just to make him angry. (Yes, I will admit that the Sam Houston thing was kind of clever, but definitely not humorous in this context). Furthermore, I happen to know (and they knew as well) that it's Perry's birthday today, and that he's far from home and his friends and family. What kind of people trash talk someone on his birthday? In fact, what kind of people in a study abroad program trash talk other people in the same study abroad program? Aren't we supposed to be in the same boat here? Didn't we come to Salzburg to immerse ourselves in something new, instead of settling back into our middle school bad habits? Aren't we adults now? Aren't we strong and independent and beyond such pettiness?

Anyway, I don't think I exaggerated with the above stories, and I don't think I'll be exaggerating when I say that I'm literally on a precipice: I can either compromise all that I believe about people, and how they do and don't deserve to be treated, or I can spend the next few months being largely shunned by my entire study abroad group. I can either drink myself into a stupor every night at Shamrock's, or I can sit alone in my room with my laptop and Jane Austen.

I'm not a perfect person, and I'm sure I'm not handling this perfectly, but I'm choosing the latters.

I may be lonely sometimes, and I may be homesick sometimes, and I may at times wish that I had chosen a different program with different people, but this is where I am, and this is how I need to be.

Somewhere deep down in the stubbornest part of my being, I know that I can't be anyone else, and that I can't do things any differently.

And I'm not suffering, really I'm not; I have two really great friends here that I can do things with, and there are a few other members of my group whom I would like to get to know better. Salzburg is beautiful, Austria is divine, my German is improving, and classes start tomorrow.

Life is mostly good, as always, and I'm sorry that you have to see the bad parts, dear readers.

Stay gold. I'll be trying.

Jens and Jutta

I just received quite a gem of a voicemail.
Since this is a public blog, and since my name is on said public blog (great idea, Hol), I can't go into much detail.
In short, the voicemail questions the quality of my education, accuses me of stealing, and has a tone of overall doubt that I am a person worth leaving a voicemail for.
I'm keeping this one forever.
I have it saved.
Because you know what?
I've never had a problem with being young. I've never hated my age because "adults don't take me seriously." Adults do take me seriously. At least, all the adults I've been lucky enough to know so far do. I rarely feel like I'm being talked down to, I rarely feel like what I have to say holds no weight. Maybe this is just a side effect of being a college student; college is like the real world, except you're treated better, I guess.
In the real world, however, as this voicemail so kindly informs me, if you're under 25, you don't really count. You're ill-equipped.
Sure I'm ill-equipped. But what if you equip me before you jump down my throat for my lack of competence? What if you tell me how before blaming me for not knowing how? What if you answer my questions without sneering at me for having them in the first place?
It's like in my German class when we would look at a series of pictures with captions and put them into order. It doesn't make sense for Jens to get a D on his test before he even takes the test. It doesn't make sense for Jutta to be grounded before she even breaks the vase.
Evidently, Jens and Jutta only exist in Beginning German.

In Which I Sleep Through a Royal Wedding

Yes, I watched.

Actually, if I'm going to be completely honest (and you know I'm going to be, or I wouldn't have said anything), I meant to watch William and Kate's wedding. I had my alarm set for 5; I was going to roll out of bed, grab my pillow and comforter, and head down a few floors to the TV Lounge (which contains an adequate-for-royal-wedding-viewing sized TV), where I would wait breathlessly for the ceremony to begin.

Here's what actually happened: I was up until 2:30 a.m. this morning studying for a German test I had this afternoon. Ergo, when my alarm went off at 5 (after only 2 and a half hours of sleep), I told myself "five more minutes, and then I'll go downstairs," rolled over, and fell back asleep. The next time I regained consciousness, it was 6:50. Luckily, I was able to make it out of bed that time and managed to catch the entire balcony scene. Kiss one AND kiss two. (This strikes me as a good sign; Diana and Charles only kissed once, and look where they ended up).

This brings me to my current position: I'm waiting for the taped wedding ceremony video to load on Mac. I'm a little disappointed that I missed seeing it live, but I'm sure my German grade will be better for it.

In other royal-related news, I had a long discussion at work today with a professor who seemed to think that Queen Elizabeth arranged for Diana's murder. The way she put it, Diana was dating someone who was not British, not Christian, and not aristocratic. She was an embarrassment to the royal family, and clearly, she had to go. My reaction? Polite, contained disbelief. Maybe it's true that the Queen did not like Diana. But I absolutely refuse to consider her a possible murderer! Maybe I'm too stubbornly stuck in my romantic ideals concerning monarchy, and maybe I put too much faith in the accuracy of the movie "The Queen," but I can't help it. Queen Elizabeth is above such nonsense. She is a sweet, compassionate woman who would never orchestrate something that could harm her grandsons in such a large way. The driver of Diana's car was drunk, and they were being pursued by the paparazzi. It was a tragic accident that will be remembered forever, but I am quickly becoming sick of all the conspiracy theories surrounding it. Why can't people ever just let the deceased be deceased? Why do they have to keep dragging them back for round 2 and 3 and 4 and etc.?

Well, anyway, I don't want to spoil this beautiful day with my morbid rantings. Here's hoping that Kate and William will have all the blessings wished upon them by both the living and the dead.

P.S. (Dress rave) It was absolutely gorgeous, wasn't it? I loved the lacy long-sleeved look. Very cathedral-appropriate, but not matronly or anything. (Funny story) I was just watching a video clip of Kate arriving at the Abbey, and as soon as she got out of the car, the video host started squealing nonstop about her dress. She literally shrieked quite a few times. I had to switch videos because my ear drums were starting to ache.

Laundry Blues

I hate doing laundry.
I hate walking down 8 flights of stairs to do it, I hate bumping into people on the way, and I hate walking back up again only to walk back down again 38 minutes later to throw my clothes into the dryer.
I hate that people will dump your clothes if you are even 5 minutes late to get them.
I hate that I always spill a bit of detergent, and that when I try to clean it up (because there's a sign saying you have to and because it's Lent and my religion teacher at St. John's taught us that Lent is the season for random acts of kindness. Or was it Advent?) it's slimy and gets on my hands and then I smell like mountain spring for the rest of the week.
I hate that when I want to hang up some clothes in our room, the only place for the drying rack is in the middle of everything, and that I can hardly move without tripping over said drying rack.
I hate that the only thing I have to say on a Saturday night is how much I hate doing laundry.

When I'm out in the real world, and looking for an apartment, please (I'm begging you) don't let me get one without an in-suite washer/dryer. I don't care if they're in a closet, I don't care if they're in my bedroom. Just no stairs.

P.S. Night 3 (final) of Jazz Fest is tonight. I decided not to volunteer after all, but while I was sitting on my bed just now making art history flashcards, I thought it would be nice to listen to UMM's campus radio station's live broadcast of Jazz Fest. I turned to the channel, and was horrified to discover that apparently "live broadcast" means that the DJ talks incessantly in the foreground while muted jazz plays in the background. I began yelling at said DJ. Loudly. I was cruel. I insulted him (and maybe his mother once or twice). So I'm sorry, DJ. This is my public (enough) apology. But next time, just play the jazz, please.

Holly and the Clue to the Half Mast Flag

It's a busy day for me: 2 meetings, 2 different shifts for 2 different jobs, plus class and Pickleball club (later).
But in the midst of all the above activities, I've been wandering around campus asking random people if they know why our flag's at half mast.



I asked the ladies in the Social Science Office. They didn't know, but they did help me Google it (to no avail).
I asked Yehia at the Info. Desk. He didn't know, but he checked the log for me (nothing).
I asked Elizabeth, who was tabling. She didn't know, but she told me to hurry up (I was almost late for my meeting).
I asked my roommate, but she told me she had been planning to ask me the same question.

All of this is very mysterious, and frankly disconcerting. After all, the point of a half mast flag is that Americans look up at it and remember something, and pay their respects. If we don't know what we're supposed to be remembering, then it defeats the purpose of the entire situation.


I hope I'll be able to get back to you soon with an answer to this Thursday mystery of mine. As I type, I'm getting ready to drive off in my (new, of course) blue convertible with my attractive boyfriend Ned, and my good friends Bess (plump and pretty) and George (athletic and dark-haired). We'll surely have everything solved by page 200.

Carrying the Cross

I attended a Catholic school all the way from preschool to 8th grade. Did you know that?
Well I did. I won't go into detail about the experience, although I will say that while I felt all through my public high school years like things would have been easier for me in the friend department if I had just started public like everyone else, I still value my time at private school. I made tons of friends there that I still have, I got to go to school where my mom worked (that's right, I was a teacher's kid all the way up. Even had Mom for homeroom in 6th grade), but best of all, I got to be a server at various Masses (services) in the adjoining church.

What is a server, you might ask? A server is someone (usually a child age 12-15, although for important services and at important churches (i.e. the cathedral), they use adults) who assists the priest throughout the Mass. Servers (usually 2 or 3 at a time) bring the book for readings, help set up the altar for the blessing, and most impactfully, carry the candles and cross down the aisle at the beginning of Mass, and carry them back after the Mass is done.

Now, being me, I had a number of clumsy experiences while serving. There was the Candlemas Mass when I spilled hot wax all over the hand of a small boy who's candle I was trying to light with mine (his parents glared at me as he screamed). There was the time when I went to kneel when there was no kneeling going on.

The incident I remember the most, however, seems to top all the rest in my mind. It's also incredibly ironic (which only just occurred to me as I began writing this post).

You see, as I mentioned before, the servers are in charge of carrying the candles and the cross in at the beginning of Mass with the rest of the procession, and carrying them out again at the end. The candles are light; each one is about as thick as a can of tomato paste, and mounted on small posts only three feet high. The cross, however, is another story. The crucifix itself is as wide as a checkerboard, with Jesus in the middle of course, and it's mounted on a solid wooden post that is (or so I was told) a piece of railing leftover from when the new school was built. The whole cross together, then, is about 7 feet tall (much taller than a 6th grader), and extremely heavy.

It had always been a tradition among the servers, at least as long as I could remember, to fight over who got to carry the candles and who had to carry the cross. Usually the first two servers to arrive would call dibs on the candles, or in the case of 2 girls and 1 boy serving, the boy would be on cross duty. On this particular occasion, however, no one was late, and we were all female.

I think all three of us were thinking about the cross beginning the second we donned the scratchy cream-colored servers' robes, but being friends, we put off discussing it.

Suddenly, though, it was almost ten o'clock, we were at the back of the church, the candles were being lit, and the priest was looking at us expectantly. "So?" He said impatiently, "who's carrying the cross this time?" His eyes wandered over the three of us, and settled on me. Oh no, I said silently to myself, but it was too late. I was the tallest by far, solidly built, and (I suppose), fairly strong-looking. I was to bear the cross.

As soon as I lifted it, I knew there was going to be trouble. It wasn't unbearably heavy, but it was heavy enough to make my hands shake as I clutched it. Not only that, but the crucifix made it top-heavy and unbalanced; a slight tilt to the side and the weight would shift, making the whole thing just about crash to the floor. The cross was also (as I said) much taller than me. I had to constantly look up at the top of the thing, and even then it was hard to judge how close I was to bonking it on something.

The procession down the aisle was excruciating. Despite reassuring looks from the kindly old ushers, I was sweating bullets and praying that I wouldn't drop the holy cross onto anyone's newly-christened infant. I didn't, though, and breathed a sigh of relief when we reached the steps up to the altar. There was a pause while the priest bowed, and then the lucky candle-bearing servers started up the steps after him. I started to follow, but neglected to lift the cross high enough to clear the first stair. The resounding clash made my ears turn red. Even worse, I wasn't even supposed to take the cross up to the altar. The priest's wild hand-signaling reminded me that I was supposed to go around to the back, and prop the cross against the wall there.

Forgive me a slight rant, but first of all, who in their right mind expects a 12-year-old to successfully manage a huge, heavy cross without some incident? Second of all, who in their right mind expects said cross to lean peacefully against a wall (with nothing holding it in place) for the better part of an hour? Just saying.

Anyway, once I had managed to successfully balance the cross against the wall at the back of the altar, I went through to my seat beside the priest. My ears were still bright red, but I figured, most optimistically, that the clank against the stair could have gone unnoticed by a lot of people. They had been, after all, in the middle of singing the opening hymn. Yes, that was it. No one had even heard it.

The next noise, however, cut through the now quiet congregation like a gunshot. The cross, leaning against the wall, was starting to slide. Everyone could hear the slow, screeching scrape it made as it slid lower and lower. Then, as I held my breath, there was a pause, and in the same instant, with the loudest crash I have ever heard, the cross hit the floor. Wood on marble, it continued to bang as it settled.

After what seemed like an age, there was only silence again. That was when I noticed that the priest was looking at me. Kate and Claire (the other servers) were looking at me. My mom and dad and sister were looking at me from a few pews back. Yep, the whole congregation was looking at me.

My ears,still red from the first clank, now felt like they were on fire. I briefly considered crawling under the altar to hide, but as everyone was staring at me, I decided hiding wouldn't be the most effective plan. Instead, I just sat there. And fiddled nonchalantly (or so I hoped) with the ends of the rope tied around my waist.

Eventually, the priest regained his senses and continued on with his prayers. The Mass went on as usual with no more incident. Heck, I even managed to get the cross safely back down the aisle at the end (after picking it up off the floor).

Mom and Dad were surprisingly silent on the car ride home. I guess they knew how embarrassed I was and didn't want to make things worse. I certainly appreciated it.

I was back at that church a few years ago for the first time since I attended school there (nowadays my family goes to a Catholic church closer to our house). Mass began with the same old procession down the main aisle, and when I turned in my pew to watch, I saw that the cross I had carried, the tall, solid, unbalanced one, had been replaced with a new cross. The new one was small and light; the server held it easily out in front of her. She did not clank it on the stairs (she knew to go around), and this new cross did not tip over in the middle of the service.

While I'm happy that no more generations of preteens have to bear that old heavy cross, I sometimes wonder if it would be any easier for me to carry now. I wonder if I have something that I didn't have back then. And not just strength or coordination, but something deeper. I wonder if I now have the peace of mind and sense of self needed to carry that cross. I wonder if I have the faith. Some days I think I do. But other days, my ears still turn bright red as I hear that ungodly (forgive me) crash behind me.

Regis, What is This?!

My ears are burning a little bit.
A group of girls on my floor have gathered to sing Disney songs at the top of their lungs in the hallway.
I am trying to memorize about 40 German flashcards.
Excuse the bitterness.
But really, girls?
I hate to be the party pooper, but this has got to stop.
It's a Thursday night!
People (besides me) are studying!
Be quiet!

Here's a funny picture to make up for my non-funny complainings:

A Disparaging Day

I'm feeling a little beaten down by college right now.
Got my Honors essay back today with an A-, but also with comments labeling it as "smart, well observed, and unusually well-written," but also as "superficial, unconnected, and undeveloped."
Truthfully, I've been getting comments such as these on a lot of essays lately. My writing is great, my style is wonderful, but apparently there's not much behind it.
This is obviously extremely troubling for me-to have professors think that I can write pretty, but that I'm ultimately uninsightful and unable to make strong arguments.
I had a bit of a breakdown after Honors, needless to say.
Crying unabashedly, I walked through campus, down behind Spooner and Gay and the Science Building, until I finally realized that I had nowhere to go. In the end I would just have to turn around and head back to the library to make things right.

College can be a surprisingly lonely place sometimes; your friends can sympathize, but in the end they have their own studying to do. Your parents aren't there to tell you that everything is going to be okay, and that when you wake up in the morning your problems will have worked themselves out. In college, you have to work your own problems out before bed. You have to be independent, and you have to bounce back from things whether you want to or not. You always have to try harder next time. You have to write two papers and study for a test in one weekend, because you have no other choice. Because you did have a choice; you chose to pursue higher education. You're paying for your classes. You wanted to be here.

And so I'm trying very hard not to let the A- and disparaging comments get to me too much. I have miles to go before I sleep, and I don't intend to waste time dwelling, unless said dwelling will help me to write a better paper.

Goodnight, blog readers. May your struggles lead to triumphs, and may you find a secluded park bench on which to sit and think whenever you are in need of one.

Perceptions of Morris, an Email Story

Email No. 1:


Hey everybody!!!
I just want to write to everyone and say.....


I love you. I love morris. Here are my reasons for loving morris:

(btw taco i had you in mind when i wrote this)

i love that winter lasts 9 months out of the year here
i love the smell of manure in the morning.
i love how people never hold open the door when im right behind you
i love how the members of mpirg say they want to "help the earth" and "save
humanity" yet only one member shows up for the highway cleanup and not one
member participated in the food drive last semester
i love how you all think you are going to change the world
i love how you pretend to look at your phone as i walk by when you very
well know im walking toward you
i love how everyone here is so friendly towards me at face value only
i love the passive aggressive use of facebook
i love how you all think this school is better than harvard
i love the professors sunny attitudes and friendly dispositions :) while
they are telling me i am an idiot
i love how people insist on their love for morris then leave every weekend
for somewhere else
i love how no one boos anyone off stage at open mic even though our ears
are crying blood
i love that the city doesn't snow plow unless they feel like it even though
there is a foot of snow on the streets and even walking is difficult
i love that everyone judges
i love that all the science majors think each class is like some kind of
"competition" and refuse to help eachother out

i love that you make me feel like May 14th is so many years away
i love that i will never ever come back



PEACE



Email No. 2:


In response to an e-mail sent out to the listserv a bit ago, I would like to
share my personal feelings about Morris and the people here. There's enough
hate in this world, we don't need to feel miserable about ourselves.

Oh, Morris, how I love thee. Let me count the ways...

I love how tuition is so low that people like me actually get paid to study
here.
I love the small class sizes.
I love the theatre discipline, that's small enough to give me plenty of
opportunities to develop my skills without being constantly shot down my
competition.
I love the sense of pride this school has, so, even when we know we aren't
the best, we at least feel like we are.
I love how, out of all the places I've lived in my 20 years on this earth,
Morris is the only place that has ever made me feel at home.
I love when we always complain that it's too hot or too cold, but, in our
hearts, we wouldn't want it any other way.
I love that, even if we don't actually *do* all the things we say we want to
do to help the world, we at least have the brains and the balls to admit
that something's wrong and we need to do something about it.
I love when people you barely know can tell something's troubling you, and
will make sure you get a hug or an anonymous letter in your PO box.
I love how the campus is so small that you know a majority of the people you
cross paths with.
I love that you can go a day with three of your professors saying an offhand
remark that significantly boosts your self-esteem.
I love that when a friend says they love you, they really do love you.
I love how, even if it isn't expected that you'll make something of
yourself, you are still given the fuel to keep on dreaming.
I love how students are given the opportunity to be an active member of a
discipline that is not their own.
I love that you can be friends with your neighbor.
I love how Morris is big enough that you can always find something to do,
but small enough that you can live on one side of town and walk to campus on
the other.
I love how classmates and professors will constantly push you to step out of
your comfort zone and try something new.
I love that these new things you're pressured to try usually end up being
tons of fun.
I love how everyone I know here is now part of my extended "Morris family."
I love how, when something like a laptop gets stolen, the entire community
comes together to defend and protect the victim.
I love that you don't have to lock your bike up for fear of it being stolen.
I love how we're sophisticated, but not pretentious.
I love American Indian tuition waivers.
I love our one grocery store, even if its name is a double-entendre.
I love how I can come up with more good things about this town than bad.
I love that the LGBT community on this campus actually has strength.
I love that, as a gay person, I don't have to feel ashamed or embarrassed
while I'm here.
I love how I can still be great friends with my biggest competition.
I love you.

So turn those frowns upside-down, my fellow UMM-ers! I've only been here for
three semesters, but it has, and I'm being completely sincere when I say
this, the best year-and--half of my life. I'm sorry that some people have
had an awful experience during their stay here, but I just wanted to
reassure anyone questioning the quality of life in this gorgeous town that
there are people who love it here.

Thanks for reading.
Ian Bloomquist

How Not to Be an Adult

It's been a while, I know. In my defense, my 17 credits, 3 jobs, multiple extracurricular activities, and tendency to volunteer for additional fun-sounding things have suddenly caught up with me. I don't have a single day for about three weeks straight where I have nothing going on. It's ridiculous, but it's fun too; I'm meeting lots of new people, and really learning a lot about campus. It's quite nice to know the nuts and bolts of things going on around here.

You should know that I had a great plan for this post. While I was doing the reading for my honors class, I actually wrote some notes to be eventually pieced together into a cohesive entry. Now, though, of course, I have an entirely different frame of mind and don't feel like I can write about Plato's musings tonight.

Instead, I'll tell you about a disturbing incident that occurred at a faculty Division Meeting today. I was taking minutes, a job that I don't think I'm particularly good at, as I tend to get so interested in the conversation that I forget to type, and generally basking (as always) in the presence of so many scholars. I know, I know; professors are just people. But they are kind of fascinating, aren't they? They look so normal, and yet they have devoted their lives to research, and the pursuit of knowledge. It's sort of intimidating, actually.

Anyway, we had gone through all the things on the agenda, and were wrapping things up (following Robert's rules, of course), when a certain professor launched an attack on the division head (i.e. my boss, who is absolutely wonderful). He was going on about how she had formed a committee and not consulted certain people about who would be on the committee. This prof. was completely implying that my boss had deliberately chosen certain people to be on the committee so that her views would be represented, rather than choosing people who would do the best job. More professors chimed in, agreeing with the first prof.

My boss (I'm avoiding names here, as you have probably noticed) explained patiently that she had consulted the department heads, and they had given her a list of people, and that she was merely asking those listed people to join. She said that the committee was by no means finalized, and that she was trying to get representation from all the departments in order to have multiple perspectives.

A lot more was said that I truthfully did not understand (not knowing the back story as the rest of the profs. no doubt did), but I just felt so bad for my boss. I could tell she was genuinely shocked and appalled that people would be angry about her actions, and had ranted over them behind her back (as they had clearly done).

I may not know the full history, and I may not have spent a whole lot of time with my boss, but I have a good feel for people, and right now I feel like she did not intend nor attempt half the things she was being accused of.

I walked out of that meeting feeling rather sad; it's a shame that learned people such as that group of profs. would act like that, and treat a fellow colleague like that. It even makes me angry that they chose to launch their accusations in a public forum, instead of first raising their concerns to my boss privately.

It's funny how when you're a kid you think that adults are perfect, and that they never behave immaturely or irrationally. It's funny how as you get older you realize that they have as many faults as you do, and that it is true that some 15-year-olds are more mature than some 50-year-olds.

It Concerns Me

Now that I've finished all the tasks I outlined in my last post, I have time to sit and actually think about tomorrow. And this thinking has led to some unsettling thoughts.
I'm not nervous about being an OGL, exactly; my stomach isn't fluttery or anything. I'm just suddenly a little anxious. I did Link Crew for two years in high school, but I think that being an OGL is completely different. For one thing, my Orientation group is a group of adults. Literally. They're 18. They're older, they're (hopefully) more mature, and they're out on their own for probably the first time in their lives.
The biggest difference between college freshman and high school freshman is the level of independence. I cannot make my Orientation group stay. They can leave whenever they want, and Mrs. Johnson will not be waiting in the hallway to escort them back in.
In other words, unless I somehow make a huge impact on them tomorrow, unless I find a way to show them that it's worth it to stay with the group, they're gone.
Hopefully I find a way to do the above things, because I really believe that Orientation is an essential part of the freshman experience. Not only does it give you a ton of important information, but it gives you a chance to bond with people who are not on your floor. It gives you a whole additional group of people to say hi to on the sidewalks, and to sit by in Food Service (excuse me: The Dining Hall). It provides a support group that is entirely unique in that it is probably the first support group you encounter upon moving in. Orientation is the first impression most freshman will get at Morris, and so it's crucial that it's a good one.
Admittedly, I didn't love waking up early for three days to meet up with my Orientation group, and it was a little awkward because I felt like all the kids were friends and I was kind of on the outside. Luckily, though, I had a great OGL who really tried hard to make everyone feel comfortable, and who I continued to see around campus all of freshman year.
I'm going to do my best starting tomorrow to make everyone feel at home, and I even feel like I have a bit of an edge because I was a freshman last year, and I remember exactly what it felt like to be thrust headfirst into something like Orientation.

If all else fails?
I bought a bunch of candy at Willie's. A little bribe never hurts.

The Bank

I had a day off from work today. What did I do? Well, I mainly lazed around reading books and watching TV and reading the newspaper and checking facebook and reading outside while watching the dogs out my peripheral. I did get some business-like stuff done, however; I did laundry and went to the bank.

I loathe the bank, despite the fact that it contains most of my life savings (or what's left of them after a year of college). The only thing I loathe more than the bank itself is going to the bank. For one thing, it's an extremely conspicuous place to go. I always feel like I have to dress up. The bank is no place for a messy ponytail and athletic shorts. Everyone watches you as you come in, you and your flip flops and your 'grown up' purse. They sit in cubicles with mugs of coffee, waiting for you to sit down in front of them in one of the conveniently-placed chairs.

If you don't sit down, however, if you're a disappointing teenager who only wants to put your latest paycheck into your savings account, they let their eyes slide past you onto the granite tile at your feet. You walk up to the counter and smile before sliding the check across. The teller is usually a pretty young woman. She's polite and asks you how you are as she zips your check through the computer. You don't answer. You're not supposed to, of course. If you've requested to receive some cash out of that paycheck, you have to wait while she counts it aloud for you. Then you have to fiddle with your wallet for a few tense seconds, trying to shove the bills in with the stray change and gum wrappers. The people behind you sigh and mentally tap their heels in your ear, and you finally finish and hurry away from the counter and through the door, feeling the air-conditioned chill slam you in the back as you leave. A final insult that reminds you that you're parked crookedly in the lot, and that you'll have another check to deposit in two weeks. Thank you, and come again.

This American Life

I first discovered the This American Life podcast through some strategic eavesdropping. I was tabling for the MCSA elections when Kathy, who was sitting next to me, began discussing it with a voter. They didn't say much about it, just that it was an addicting podcast that had some interesting (and humorous stories). As soon as I got back to my dorm room, I subscribed to it on itunes.

I didn't actually listen to the program seriously until a few days ago, however. Why? Oh, I suppose because I'm accustomed to using my ipod for music alone, and had a tough time even considering just listening to people talk instead. Also because I typically listen to my ipod when I'm doing something and just need some background noise. I thought I'd probably have trouble concentrating on a story someone was telling in my ears while I was also reading, writing, etc.

The perfect opportunity for T.A.L. came up at work on Tuesday. It was about 5 a.m. and my job was to scurry about the store dusting product and cleaning shelves. It was mundane work that certainly needed an accompanying story.

I had a few different episodes of T.A.L. to choose from. I chose well for the first one. It was called Behind Enemy Lines. The first interview they conducted was with with a former clergyman of the Catholic Church who had spent years at various parishes replacing clergy who had been accused of sexually abusing parishioners, or with sexual misconduct in general (although ironically enough, for clergyman who have taken a vow of celibacy, any sort of sexual conduct is misconduct), and had been thus withdrawn. This particular clergyman's instructions were to basically go into each parish and to completely ignore the crimes committed by his predecessor, all while performing the typical Mass-saying, baby-baptizing, funeral-presiding, marriage-making duties of a priest.

Eventually, the clergyman grew tired of pretending that these gross incidents weren't happening, and he quit the clergy and began to work with a lawyer who was helping sexually abused victims to sue the Church.

It was quite an interesting story, and it made me (once again) question the Catholic Church. I have my faith, yes. I won't go into it here, but I believe in God, and I have a continually developing relationship with Him. I have always liked going to Church; there is a reverence and tradition about a Catholic Mass that is very powerful, I think. But in recent years, all of the things I like about the Catholic Church have been eclipsed somewhat by all of the things that are wrong about the Catholic Church.

It's an institution. It truly is. Has been for centuries and centuries. There are rules one must follow, there are expectations that go beyond the Bible, and there is a deep and festering (and mostly ignored) implication that your loyalty and adherence to the Catholic Church is more important than your relationship with God, and that where the Church stands in politics is where every churchgoing person should stand as well. That is truly wrong.

I remember an incident back in 2008 when I was at Mass with my family and the priest started preaching against Barack Obama, and in support of John McCain. My entire family was very very close to getting up and walking out of that church. Some people did, actually. I realize that there are biases with every parish, and that priests are human just like the rest of us, with just as many opinions. But what I don't understand is how politics fit in with God. What place do they have under a holy roof? What right does any church have to imply, or even to assume that voting for a certain candidate will earn you favor in heaven? I hardly think that Saint Peter checks your political affiliations at the pearly gates.

A line uttered by the (former) clergyman in that T.A.L. podcast that especially struck me was this: "After awhile, I realized that the Catholic Church is not capable of change."

And it isn't. It has resisted any sort of change for centuries, while clenching any type of power deep in its Vatican-rooted fist. The thing is, I'm not proud of the history of the Catholic Church. Selling indulgences? Exchanging them for favors? Persecution? I'm even hard pressed to pinpoint any good the Church has ever done for the world.

I know this all may sound sort of harsh, but I don't feel that it's unwarranted. It's not written on a whim, either; I truly have been pondering all of this for years now. The death of Pope John Paul and the rise of Benedict has especially influenced my thoughts on the matter. John Paul was a truly truly good person who did good things in the world. I don't pretend to know a lot about his policies, but I admired his character greatly. I don't know about Benedict. I just don't know if his values, if his priorities are sound. And with a pope, you should know. It's rather an important position.

Well, I think I'll be done for the night. Thanks for listening, and I hope I haven't offending anyone in any way, especially because I believe there is truth in what I've written here.

I don't know that I'll ever leave the Catholic Church. I think I would if I ever felt like there was absolutely no hope left, and if I stopped getting God out of the Masses, but I also think that switching churches is a big decision, and not one that should be made lightly, nor without complete certainty.

For now, I'll just sit in my pew and listen and look for God in the rafters above the altar.

An Argument Kindled

I was stocking shelves at Target the other day, and a few of my coworkers were discussing the Amazon Kindle, which our Target will carry beginning in a few days. They were raving about the Kindle and how many books it can hold and how convenient it is.
I kept my mouth shut as they conversed. You see, I'm anti-Kindle.

It's not that I don't see the joys of a portable library. It's convenient, it's easy, it's a lifesaver for people with bad eyes who need bigger fonts, people who travel a lot and don't want to carry heavy books around, and even for people who fancy themselves up on the newest technology.

It's just that I like my books. I like the weight of them in my hands. I like being able to flip back to a certain page with ease. I like the notes on the inside front cover of some of them ("From Grandma and Grandpa , November 2005"). I like that I even own a signed copy (how does an author sign a Kindle book??). I like that I can look over at my bookshelf and see all of my books lined up, their spines colorful and varied and enticing. But most of all, I think, I like the tradition of books. Books began as something so valuable and so rare that only the wealthy could afford to own them (and read them, for that matter). They have done so much for us throughout the centuries. Books have been deemed dangerous enough to ban, and even to burn. They've told stories and started wars and won awards.

I think it hurts me a little bit to think of something so wonderful being traded in for words on a screen. The story's still there, I know, but the magic is lost for me. I look into the future and I find that I might someday have to face a bitter reality; my career as a writer may very well be limited to something entirely electronic.

The thing is, though, my brain is not a computer.

I can embrace technology when it saves lives. I can embrace technology when it helps to stem the oil spurting from the Gulf of Mexico. But I cannot embrace technology when it turns the form of art dearest to me into a mere white box with a keyboard attached.

Imagine

I feel like the occasion of my homecoming calls for a particularly epic post. I'm officially done with classes for about 3 months. I'm no longer a freshman in college. I don't think I'm quite a sophomore yet; I'm a firm believer in summer as a transitional phase. I'm in between. And that, my friends, is a good place to be right now.

My sister was telling about this mean girl she goes to high school with. Apparently this girl was talking about Amy with another girl when Amy was just a few feet away.

(brief tangent) You know, I hate sibling stereotypes. I've met younger children who aren't spoiled brats, and I've met older children who prefer to be followers. But one stereotype that I will fight for to the death is the oldest child's right to go after anyone who hurts their little sister (or brother).

I am literally this close to marching down to that school tomorrow morning and giving that girl a good talking to. You know what I'd say? I'd say that high school is a fantasy. It's a little world that teenagers get to live in for four years. Maybe you think that who you are in high school is the person you'll be for the rest of your life. Maybe you think that if you're popular and feared and perfect you'll stay that way forever. Well, you're wrong. Because while things like that may fly while you're 18 and under, in college they don't. In the workforce they don't. If you're mean to people, if you're fake and lazy and rude, you will not get a job. You will not make friends. You will go nowhere in life. I suppose that sometimes the villains do win, but only temporarily. It's good people who really make it in the world, and if you can be as smart as my sister and figure that out early in life, then you'll do a lot better for yourself.

I suppose I just made one of those corny speeches that the earnest, yet naive protagonist makes at the end of the movie. Everyone's jaws drop, and the meanie slinks away to cry in the bathroom.

Well, my life is not a movie (as I've pointed out on numerous occasions), and I'm generally not a particularly gutsy person. But if this girl hurts my sister one more time, she's going to get an earful.

Okay, rant over. I'm terribly sorry. I know that you were expecting some sort of exhaulted poem about how good it is to be home, and how I'm sitting in my own bed right now, and how tomorrow I'm going to unpack and arrange my room and start my summer reading. Unfortunately, I'm too tired to write poetry. I'll let my friend John Lennon do it for me.

Imagine there's no heaven,
it's easy if you try.
No hell below us,
above us only sky.
Imagine all the people
living for today.

I know that everyone has heard Imagine a million times, but I don't think everyone realizes what an extraordinary song it really is. Paul McCartney is my favorite Beatle forever, but I'll always have a soft spot in my heart for John Lennon. And Yoko too.

Failblog

I feel like I am failing with this blog, and I really, really hate failing.
I'm not sure what exactly is giving me this feeling, but I suspect it has something to do with the fact that I never know what to write anymore. It's not that I don't want to write, it's that I'm sick and tired of repeating myself.
These are the things I typically cover:
1. My daily life (things that happen, people who bug me, college is awesome, etc.)
2. Poems/quotes I like (thought the poetry era has for the most part ended (at least in my blog world))
3. Eloquent bits (aka stories, original poems I write, prose-y descriptions)
4. Lists (often paired with #1)

You see? I should not be able to make a list like this! I don't want this blog to be categorized in any way! I suppose there's nothing I can do about it now, but it's still regrettable.

Here's what's going to happen.
From now on, this blog will have more prose/creative stuff, and less journal-y stuff. I already have a journal. I already have friends to tell things to. I don't need to be repeating all of my complaints in one more medium.

I hope you're okay with this switch. Actually, I don't especially care how you feel about it because:
a) You're not even there
b) This is my blog, and
c) I'm going ahead with the changes with or without your blessing

I'm sorry if that sounded terribly rude, but I'm tired, the people in the room next to me are being incredibly loud, I have a lot of homework, and frankly my dear, I don't give a damn.

See you on the other side.

Back to Prose

Okay, enough poetry already. I love it, and you know that you (deep down) love it, but this is my blog, and therefore most of the posts should probably be written by me (although the Martian/Man poem was a Holly original).

Actually, that's really all I have to say as of now. No more poetry (at least for awhile). Now that said announcement has been made, I do not feel obliged to continue rambling.

Over and out.

Is There Anyone Alive Out There?

Sometimes I wonder if anyone ever reads this blog. I don't mean familiar anyones, but strangers. Late night anyones who landed on this blog and decided to take a second look for some strange reason. Anyones who are interested in the musings of a nineteen-year-old college student who sometimes thinks that she's F. Scott Fitzgerald, and sometimes thinks that she's an Oompa Loompa (destined to sing and work for a man in purple all her life).

You see, I'm not sure exactly why I write this blog, but I suspect that it has something to do with you anyones. You give me hope, I guess. You make me feel like what I'm writing does matter, and maybe not just to me. Because the stuff I write in this blog, this stuff is who I am. This is my voice. This is what I sound like when I'm talking in a large room by myself. This is what the inside of my brain looks like.

I know exactly what I want to do with my life. I want to write and write and write and then I want people to tell me that my writing is good enough that I can just continue to do it forever. I've told you that I love to write before, I know. Writing is the hardest thing in the world, but it's the most beautiful and powerful thing in the world also. Maybe you don't feel the same about writing, dear anyones, but everyone feels this way about something.

This rant must end. Truthfully, it probably should have ended at Oompa Loompas, but I've never been one to know where to end things.

(The End)

Because I'm Sick of It

This is how I feel when people tease me about the relationship I'm in right now:
1. Really, really angry

This is why I feel angry:
1. I have every right to be in a relationship
2. Why is it anyone's business, anyway?
3. Because it's the worst feeling in the world to walk through the halls and feel like everyone's staring at you

I'm dating Charlie because I want to. I like him, he likes me, so we're going out. I realize that the age difference is a little unorthodox, but what does age matter in the end? Demi and Ashton make it work.

I know that a lot of people who tease me don't realize that it's not funny to me, or that it's embarassing, but still. I'm just sick of it. This is kind of the first real relationship I've been in, and things are awkward enough without other people adding to the heap.

This has been a rant, I know. But everyone warrants a rant now and then. Five a month is the suggested amount, I believe.

Things going on

Here's what's happening in my life right now (in a convenient list-like form):

1. Chemistry test on Monday. I got an A+ on the last one (I studied really, really hard), so I hope to do as well this time. We'll see. This chapter is very long and complicated.

2. I just watched about a half hour of Fiddler on the Roof. I need to see the rest of that movie sometime. It's the perfect combination of beards, vodka, and arranged marriage.

3. I hate Mrs. Lideen right now. Absolutely loathe. In corrective advisement last week, she intentionally humiliated a student for no apparent reason. I just cannot believe that a teacher would ever do that to a student.

4. I still haven't decided on a college.

5. I'm reading twilight fanfic (sorry, Amelia).

6. I had an amazing time at the pep fest. People always complain about them, but I think they're so much fun. It's great to see all the grades in one room, and to be in the middle of all the cheering. Plus, the drumline played all the way down the hall. My ears are still ringing, but it was great.

7. Becca only laughed at my 'lumberjack shirt' once today. New record.

8. Speech tomorrow. I'm in the process of rewriting, so a bit nervous for this one.