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February 26, 2008
Owen O'Brien
I wish I could I say that I have nothing to write about this month. I wish I were staring in frustration at a blank computer screen searching every inch of my brain for a story idea. Unfortunately, the past few columns, I have not had to struggle with writer's block for even a second before choosing a topic to explore. Lately, I know what I am going to write about - what I have to write about - before I even sit down to type. The topics of my blogs are more than just topics; they are the worries that constantly torture my peace-of-mind. They are the prayers that I am sending to anyone or anything that may be listening. These stories announce their presence loudly and flow effortlessly out of the tips of my fingers, the black type tainting the pure white canvas of my word processor with an unsettling finality.
On Sunday, I received the type of voicemail I dread the most: a gravely toned message from my mom.
"Owen…Call me back immediately."
This recording sent chills running down my spine. She uses this grim voice for only two reasons: One, I'm in big trouble. Two, she has very, very bad news. My stomach twisting with apprehension, I called her back.
My mom spoke before I could even squeeze in a "hello."
"Owen…Stephen was in a terrible car accident. The bone in his leg tore straight through his skin, he shattered his arm, smashed his head on the window….His mother told me that he is still seeing double and 30 hours have passed since the crash. Honey, he's in bad shape."
Her voice sounded unstable, and she spoke without taking a single breath. Stephen and I had been close friends for years, and she had come to love Stephen like a second son.
"What?! When did this happen? Where did he crash?" I asked, finding that my voice was also shaking.
"Earlier Saturday morning…around 4 am. He slammed head-on into the concrete embankment of the interstate."
"But how…why did he…"
I don't know why I asked: I knew what she was going to say before she even spoke.
"He was intoxicated, Owen."
I have begged Stephen not to drink and drive more times than I can remember. I have given him long, sentimental lectures over hot fudge sundaes in my kitchen. I have even resorted to stealing his keys when he has tried to drive home intoxicated from parties that we've both attended. But no amount of pleading or hiding keys in freezers can completely prevent someone from driving under the influence. I can't be there every time.
Unfortunately, he is not the only friend that I have told not to drive drunk. Almost every close friend I have has chosen to drive under the influence at least once - and many of them do it every weekend. I try and try to convince them that it just isn't worth it, but I feel like I am fighting a losing battle.
When you drink and drive, you are not only putting yourself in harm's way, you are putting your passengers and every other driver on the road at risk. And even if you manage to avoid injuring another person when you crash, you inevitably hurt others anyway. You hurt the people that love and care for you - the people that will be waiting at the hospital to see if you make it through the night. The justification "When I drink, I won't hurt anybody but myself" no longer holds when you get behind the wheel. Drinking and driving is completely selfish.
For some irrational reason, the people that choose to drink and drive seem to think they have only three options: ride with someone else, pay for a cab, or drive drunk. If they can't find a ride and can't afford a cab, then they'll automatically get behind the wheel. Why isn't staying sober an option? What harm can come from not drinking one night?
To my relief, Stephen called me from the hospital today. Moaning in pain as we talked, he told me that the doctors said he would make a full recovery - physically at least. I'm not sure I can say the same for his emotional or legal well-being. Stephen's close friend was in the passenger seat when he crashed. Although she survived, she fractured her skull and broke a few bones. Stephen is one of the most compassionate and loving people I have ever met; I know that he will never forgive himself for what happened to her.
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February 19, 2008
Lindsay Cole
"Okay, so the issue here lies in the individual versus societal opposition. The novel reflects the notion of individuality. In Ripley's Game, Ripley impersonates, and really, personates himself best…."
I float in and out of today's lecture. I'm certainly interested, and I loved this week's reading, but I cannot stop staring at the doodles appearing on the notes of the girl sitting next to me. I glance sidelong at her notebook. She's traced a giant block letter C. An h, e and l later, I realize she's writing her name, carefully sketching with swift, broken movements at the top of the page. As her name began to take shape, I began to wonder what it means to her to be block letter Chelsea. She sketched with careful intent, turning her notebook to different angles, shaping the letters, and giving shape to her ideas about herself, as if her rendering somehow molded her as an individual. I began to imagine every stroke as a decision that she made, consciously and subconsciously, about herself. What was she planning for dinner that night? What sports might she play? Whom does she call her best friend? How does she spend her Friday nights?
Maybe I looked too deeply into her doodling, but it struck me that the very act of sketching one's name reflects a sense of personal pride. Surely Chelsea could've thought of a million things to draw on that page, but she focused on herself, her name, maybe her identity. And I wondered whether she pays that sort of careful attention to the various other aspects of herself, her life. Does she impersonate herself at parties, binge drinking and pretending to be some fraudulent Chelsea to meet others' expectations? Or, on the flip side, is she so focused and so sure of herself that she doesn't think twice when it comes to compromising who she knows herself to be?
Perhaps most of us feel that we lie somewhere in the middle of the spectrum, somewhere between the poseur and the self-assured. I think it's important for young people to understand that where we now fall on that spectrum is not necessarily where we will land. As college students, we're forced to come to terms with the reality that we might appear as less than cool to our classmates if we don't subscribe to the cliché that boys will be boys, and on the grander scheme, that college students will drink to oblivion.
One of the most valuable lessons I've learned since beginning college is to recognize how much control I, as an individual, have over the degree to which I feel imposed upon by outside opposition. Just because I feel bound by expectations doesn't mean I must subscribe to them. In the same vein, just because college is commonly associated with wild parties and excessive drinking doesn't mean I am entitled to the luxury of that lifestyle. I chose to get a college education, and in so doing, I'm taking time to learn about myself.
In this time, many of us question what we want out of life, what we believe, and how we can live those beliefs. Each time we make a decision, whether it be who we befriend, how we spend our leisure time, or what we think about ourselves, we are sketching on the canvas of our futures. Realizing that the choices we make today will only affect our tomorrows makes it a little easier to be less than the coolest kid last Friday night.
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February 13, 2008
Allison Brummet
Last night, a sudden thought hit me. It hit me so hard my heart ached with a burst of pain. I came to the realization that this April, my grandpa will have been gone for ten years. Ten years. That's half of my life.
My grandpa was my favorite person in the whole world. Of course, having the mentality of a kid means not seeing imperfections as easily as an adult, but he was perfect to me. He was the kindest person I ever knew, in his own way. He never ignored me, like most adults tend to do with kids. He always made me feel special. He wasn't the most educated person. After all, he'd grown up during the depression; and had become a coalminer to provide for his family and my grandma. He didn't have the time or the money to become educated. But provide for his family he did. He and my grandma paid for all five of their daughters' college tuitions.
My grandpa was a quirky old man. He'd swear like a sailor and spit tobacco in his tobacco tin. He'd let me dress him up in my grandma's costume jewelry, acting as though it was normal for a fully grown man to be adorned with clip on earrings and large gaudy necklaces. I guess he was used to it after raising five girls. He loved Coca Cola, and would only buy it when it was in a glass bottle. He could eat his weight in ice cream. I remember, he never knew how to spell anything. When I'd ask him to spell a word he'd just brush it off and say, "Go ask your grandmother."
He always said, "I love you sweetie," when he'd say goodbye to me.
My grandfather had been a coalminer for forty years. He had also been a cigarette smoker for the same amount of time. My mom and aunts finally convinced him to stop smoking. He started chewing tobacco instead. I never really understood how chewing tobacco could be better than cigarettes, but I was just a kid. What did I know?
All those years of stress on my grandpa's lungs finally caught up with him. He was diagnosed with lung cancer when I was eight. My parents didn't tell me he was sick until two years later, when he was very ill and close to dying. I was very angry with them for not telling me.
I was ten when I attended my first funeral. What an awful experience. I wanted to do anything, be anywhere else except near my grandpa's casket. He looked so alone, even if he did have his pajamas on instead of a suit like he had requested. I remember holding in my tears as long as I could, until someone asked me how much I missed him.
About eight years had gone by before my mom revealed something to me about my grandpa that I'd never known, or guessed. My grandpa had been an alcoholic. I suppose looking back on it, it makes sense. He did seem to have problems with addiction. But I was just a kid. And he was my favorite person in the whole wide world. For a little while after my mom had told me, my high esteem for my grandpa had withered. I had slowly come to realize over those eight years that my grandpa wasn't perfect. After a couple more years though, I have come to peace with his imperfections. He was an alcoholic and a smoker, but that didn't change the fact that he was the kindest person I've ever known.
There is one thing that I wish could've been different with his life. I wish someone had told him how much the alcohol and tobacco would affect his health in the future. How his time would be cut short with his family because of his addictions. I wish he could still be here with our family, with me.
He was my favorite person in the whole world.
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February 5, 2008
James M. Dean
I am sitting here writing this while I feel the slight bump of a subwoofer from the weekly Thursday night party that radiates from the basement of my fraternity. I know most of my brothers are downstairs at the beer pong table, or maybe just hanging out and talking around the keg. I hear voices outside my door - voices filled with excitement and an almost childish joy in anticipation for the weekend. Sure, I'll pay a few visits to the basement to see who has shown up or just to mingle among the party in general. Sometimes I may even have a drink or two, but I feel anything more is useless. What better time than now to unveil "the List"? Why am I not downstairs getting boozed up until my vision is blurry? I offer you two explanations, and hope you can find agreement with at least PART of one of them:
- I am health-conscious, VERY health-conscious. Every can of beer I drink - be it light or regular - I find myself adding up the calories. Each light can may have an average of 100 calories, while each regular can contains up to 200 or even more. If you throw physical makeup into the mix - a smaller individual not having to drink as many beers to get drunk - and consider that I am well over six feet tall, anyone can see that one night of drinking (to get drunk) will add anywhere from 1000 to 2000 calories onto my daily diet. The thought of this many empty calories - along with the thought of exercising to burn them off - numbs my mind. The way I look at it, one night of drinking sets me back at least a week of exercising. And if you run like I do, I'm sure you can agree that the treadmill is much more comfortable without a leftover mass of carbonation in your stomach.
- I want to be productive the next day, and FEEL productive. The idea of doing homework in general never really excited me, but the idea of doing homework with a hangover has just given me a headache. I like to wake up feeling good - well, as good as one can feel in the morning - and without any regrets about the night before. Maybe it's just me, but the day just feels more productive if you don't waste half of it sleeping off the alcohol from the night before.
Perhaps my list has helped you realize why some of your friends may choose not to drink - or to drink responsibly - rather then getting hammered all three nights of the weekend (in college, Thursday has become the new Friday). Or perhaps it has just added new reasons to your own list of the "better choices" when it comes to alcohol. Whatever I have accomplished in this discussion is only a starting point. Follow my lead.
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