Student Voices on Alcohol: November 2007

It's amazing what one can observe on early morning dog walks, especially on Saturday and Sunday mornings-the mornings after. I walk my dog multiple times a day, which gives me the advantage of observing the set-up and aftermath of some of the wildest parties on the block, and they get pretty wild, seeing as frat row is just around the corner. Yet the most disturbing thing I've seen happened just doors away in my own building.

It all started late on a Friday night. I was sulking and typing, mumbling to myself that Friday nights should not be reserved for dates with Shakespeare, when I heard the deep rumbles of drum and bass thumping from a few doors down. Somewhat enviously, I peeked out the door to ferret out the source of my jealous pang. I have to admit that I was almost hoping it would be someone I knew, someone that could deliver me from my date with a dead guy and aid me in my desire to procrastinate. Turned out I didn't know them, but knew of them; they were a group of athletes whose social lives seemed to outdo my own. I figured I needed a break, and could psych myself up to plow through my essay once I got some fresh air. I leashed my dog and set out. I could hear whooping laughter echoing as the elevator ascended to the fourth floor. Ding-ding! The doors parted dramatically to reveal a group of partygoers. From their slurred speech and over-zealous guffawing I surmised they were party comers too, just making the rounds. They filed out as if on rubber legs, and gravitated almost magnetically towards the trance beat. They'd stood Shakespeare up for a better offer.

After an excursion around the block, I felt confident that I'd ruminated on all the angles of my paper thesis, gotten my restless energy out, and was ready to drive that sucker home. Ding-ding! Ahh, home again, time to--Boom, boom, boom, click, boom, boom, thud. I felt like I was in a scene from Poe's "The Tell-Tale Heart." The floor below me was rumbling, thumping; yet I knew I had an obligation and a deadline, and I felt those proverbial beads of sweat trickling down my forehead.

I don't know how I got that essay done that night; I must have been more determined than distracted because I maintained my focus despite the crazy party down the hall. The trance music eventually lulled me to sleep.

I awoke feeling restored and grateful for good judgment the following morning, essay completed, and the weight of its looming deadline lifted off my shoulders. That Saturday morning began like every morning, with my spunky dog Janie reminding me that nature too has its obligations and deadlines. Per our routine, I leashed my dog and set out, only now I observed the aftermath of the party. A young woman stood defensively yet pleadingly, one foot still in the threshold of the door of the unit down the hall; she didn't look like she was having nearly as much fun as the night before. There was no bass and drum music-bed to underscore her plea as she plaintively uttered, "Will you call me?"

"Yeah, I'll call. But if I don't, you know, you'll know why."

"Why?"

"Look, it was a party, don't you get that? You know."

I realized that I was staring. My dog was pulling, urging me towards the elevator, but I was frozen in time. I was in that moment that everything felt so harsh, so real that I could have sworn I'd seen it in a movie. She and I stood there as he closed the door in her face. We both knew at that moment that she'd made a grave mistake. As she bowed her head, looking down at the ball of clothes, purse and heels in her hands, we reached a separate but common understanding. She felt helpless and I felt helpless for her. We met silently in the elevator. Ding-ding! In my mind, I heard the ding-ding of the elevator's descent. In my heart, I felt the sting of her descent from cloud nine. She may have had more fun partying than I did doing homework the night before, but in the morning, I had an essay and she had, well--to walk home.

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November 20, 2007
Allison Brummet

Most college kids get a normal summer break. By normal, I mean that they get about three months off to do whatever they want. They can lounge around, get a summer job, find a summer love; and anything else rightfully due to a vacationing college student. But for me, it's a little different. I attend a prominent culinary school, one known for its intense accelerated program. Because of this, I only had a little over a month of vacation. After my month off, I began an internship at a restaurant as part of my schooling. I didn't get to be home as much as I had wanted, and there was one weekend that I'll forever wish I could've.

One Monday evening after work, my mom called my cell. I had expected this; my parents usually call me every few days just to check up on me. To my surprise, my mom starts ranting so fast I can barely understand what she's trying to tell me. I sifted through the jumbled words until I grasped one clear message: my fifteen year old sister had thrown a party while my parents were away.

For the next week or so, I had trouble sleeping. And as far as trying to relax, forget it. Some people smoke cigarettes or have a glass of wine to relax. In my case, the more stressed I am, the more hot tea I drink. That week, I drank a hell of a lot of tea.

I was so worried all the time, thinking about every little thing. Because of my sister's mistake, my security blanket, my home, had been open to everyone, to intruders. My parents had to search our entire house to see if anything was missing or broken. They had to check the small cabinet in our kitchen where alcohol is kept. They had to find every key we own. Most disgusting of all, they had to make sure no one had slept or had sex in our beds. Thankfully, only a couple things were broken. No one had slept or had sex in our bedrooms. Most important of all, my sister was unharmed.

At the end of this stressful week, my mom called to update me about the search for missing items. They hadn't noticed anything gone when they had first gotten home. A few days later, though, my parents had found that two sets of keys were missing. I drank a lot more tea that night.

The next morning, my mom called me again. I was a little surprised, seeing as she only calls me every few days. She just called to tell me that the keys had been found outside of our house. We're still not sure if copies have been made by whoever took the two sets. She'd also found out more details of what had happened that night. Apparently kids had smoked pot and cigarettes in our house on top of getting drunk. There had been over a hundred kids in our house at one time during the night.

After all we've been through, I still don't know if my parents will ever trust my little sister again. We still worry if there are sets of our keys floating around. There's more tension than ever between my parents and my sister Home just doesn't feel the same anymore. The reality of partying has finally sunken into me. Of course, during a party many horrible things can take place. But also, it's about what happens after a party. It's about whose home you've wrecked, whose life you've put out of whack. It's about whose security you've stolen.

I wish, more than anything in my life right now, that I'd come home that weekend.

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November 13, 2007
Owen O'Brien
Childhood vs. Maturity and Alcohol

Freshman year, everything in my life seemed to be in motion. In the foreign sea of unknown faces and newfound responsibility that came with college, I found myself gravitating towards familiarity-the few things that stood still. More often than not, this meant clinging to a Greek party scene reminiscent of my high school's superficial social dynamics. My Friday through Saturday, or sometimes even my Tuesday through Saturday, revolved around drunken outings to fraternity functions with my sorority sisters. My memories of these weekends have faded to nothing more than blurs of cheap beer, five-minute make-up, and small talk with sleazy boys. With at least three party options each night, tailgates for home game on Saturdays, and Sundays devoted to recovery, I had every weekend booked solid. Classes and studying consumed my weekdays, leaving me minimal time to indulge in "sober fun" or cultivate friendships outside the context of the party scene.

Things are different this year. I am no longer in a sorority, I no longer consider Tuesday a party night, I no longer exchange shallow words with creepy boys, and I no longer party. That's not to say I don't drink because I do; I'm not opposed to a mild, social drink every now and then. But I don't "go out" like I used to, swallowing beer and liquor as quickly as my throat will allow. I still know that escape is still only three drinks away, but I guess that's not the kind of escape I want anymore - or maybe I don't want to escape at all.

This is the transformation I've been dying to see in myself since the day my mom told me my little brother had started binge drinking. It's the goal I've struggled to accomplish since the first night I blacked out from drinking. It's the change I've been trying to make since the very first time I got drunk. These four years of failed attempts had drained me of hope. It seemed like I had tried to quit drinking thousands of times with little success. By the end of my freshman year, I had given up on my own self-control, my sense of right and wrong, and my dignity. At this low point, my friends just laughed in my face when I told them I had decided to stop drinking. Perhaps, I simply did not have the power to do what I really wanted to do anymore.

Suddenly, effortlessly, I have stopped giving in to alcohol. I simply no longer have the desire to give in. This change took place invisibly - so much so, that it almost escaped my notice. In my journey towards sobriety, I have found a new clarity. Although in these few months, I have not escaped the typical dilemmas of young adulthood -I still have no idea what I want to do when I grow up or why I am here - I'm making progress. I feel more like myself than I have in a long time.

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November 6, 2007
James M. Dean

The connection between alcohol and sports today is almost undeniable. The NFL games on television are covered with beer companies' advertisements - be it through a steady stream of commercials during breaks, or even inside the stadium on banners and video screens. However, the coupling of alcohol and sports does not occur only at the professional level.

The start of the school year in early September brought me back to a life that I had longed for during those summer days spent working in a factory. Over Welcome Week 2007, I got to see many of my friends from freshman year, as well as meet many more brothers with whom I would be sharing a fraternity house over the approaching semesters. Also over Welcome Week, there began our school's deepest and richest sporting tradition: football. And with football came its partner, alcohol.

Our team's first football game was preceded by the usual activities: the marching band's fanfare up to the gates of the stadium, the vendors selling shirts and food on side streets, the infamous ticket scalpers roaming through the masses. However, the most noticeable "activity" took place on the porches and front yards of fraternity houses, as well as just outside the stadium in the RV-loaded parking lot. The activity - drinking - still forms a unique bond between college students and alumni, perhaps because a majority of the students (in my case) are underage but are nonetheless allowed, even encouraged to "knock a few back" with the adults. (Personally, I do not totally condone this behavior - there IS a time and place for everyone to "loosen up" a little, and some may choose to do this through drinking. However, I believe drinking should be done within LIMITS and within REASON.)

College athletics have become increasingly paired with alcohol consumption. Tailgates are a prime example for both college and professional level sports, especially football. The "American way" of watching sports has become narrowly defined as such: excessive drinking and eating at a tailgate, then staggering to the game with one goal in mind: provoking a fight with opponent fans while obnoxiously screaming obscenities.

Congratulations, America. You've let drinking define the "fun" in watching sports.

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