Sunday, November 7, 2010

Road Trip for (in)sanity and/or fear.

Apparently, I’m the worst person to take on your road trip. In our odyssey to Washington D.C. for the Rally to Restore Sanity and/or Fear, I didn’t touch the wheel once. Even my mix CD almost got me tossed from the vehicle (not everyone enjoys Yo Gabba Gabba soundtracks as much as me).
But I tagged along anyway, drinking machine coffee from Styrofoam cups and making fun of each state we passed through.
Here’s a secret: I’m not really that politically-minded. Until I took an Intro to Politics class this semester, the only Hobbes I knew was the stuffed tiger who hung out with Calvin. The only real piece of political ammo I retained from the campus gubernatorial debate is that Bill Brady allegedly likes to strangle puppies with his bare hands (granted, I may have embellished this memory—I tend to overreact when puppy deaths are involved.)
But, like every modern college student, I hold Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert near and dear to my liberal arts heart.
And there’s no harm in being more political. If nothing, gaining more knowledge gives me more right to complain. After all, I didn’t even know what “gubernatorial” meant until about a month ago, and it’s never a bad thing to add another five-syllable word to my vocab.
As far as political signs go, I could get behind most of the messages at the rally, but only because the references had vague political connotations.
You referenced Harry Potter on your homemade banner? You must know what you’re talking about.
Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, Flight of the Conchords, Arrested Development… It’s like a sign company got a hold of my Facebook “likes” and pumped out every weird reference they could think of.
Does that mean I like politics now? No, it means I like obscure pop culture references. But if I need obscure pop culture references to connect on a political sphere, is that such a terrible thing?
In the 2008 elections, MTV told us to Rock the Vote. And let me tell you, I rocked it. Not just because Fall Out Boy told me to, but to be honest, it did help.
Is there something wrong with politics being “hip?” If it’s cool to be political, that just means we’ll have a lot more trendy, informed citizens. You can wear your tightest skinny jeans to the ballots if you want. You don’t need full circulation in your legs to cast a vote. You just need to show up.
So in a way, I took a stand. In fact, I stood for five—feet aching, eyes squinted, watching the broadcast on a screen a few hundred feet ahead of me.
I know there are naysayers out there who bash Stewart’s rally as pointless, or even as a dangerous mockery of American politics. In some peoples’ eyes, humor can never be paired with a serious point.
But when used correctly, humor can be a powerful tool.
We hear a joke, we laugh, and sometimes we stop to consider the truth it illuminates. Sure, this was a rally for sanity. And if we never laughed, we really would go crazy.
Every once in awhile, we all need to do something utterly ridiculous in order to remain sane in this world. Sometimes “sanity” means you have to dress up like a lumberjack and play a round of Twister. Sometimes it means that you have to hold an impassioned argument with your pet cat.
Sometimes, it means you have to drive for twenty-six hours in order to spend just five at a rally you’re not entirely sure how to define. Because sometimes you need to add yourself to a tally, to take a stand, to point to pictures or newsfeeds the next morning and say I was there, I saw it, I heard it, let me tell you about it.
If I really gained one thing from our expedition to the rally, it’s this: we need to communicate, and listen, and stop typing in all caps on internet message boards, sure. But most of all, we need to laugh.

[headline censored] -- A brief break from my standard voice

If you read the editorial, you’ll get more information on the Leader’s recent brush with censorship. The editorial gives you a glimpse of the soul of the paper. If you were to take the newspaper out to a nice seafood dinner and flatter it with compliments, these are the opinions it would ramble about.
My column reflects solely my views.
Story by-lines reduce the writer to a line of black text, but a real person took those photographs, wrote those headlines, and reported on those lectures that were so boring that everyone else skipped out to watch Teen Mom in their dorm rooms.
When you see a member of the ed board bleary-eyed on Monday morning, it’s not because they were out partying all weekend, but because they stayed up until obscene hours laying out the latest paper. These are the most committed students I’ve ever met, and my time at Elmhurst has been defined by their friendship and encouragement.
Yes, we make mistakes. That’s what happened in a student-run paper. We try to report accurately and fairly, but sometimes we slip up. But in all my time on The Leader, we’ve always cleaned up after our mistakes. We’ll correct, rewrite, apologize, and learn from whatever messes we’ve created.
And it’s paid off. At Illinois College Press Association last year, we won second in state for our division, plus tons of other awards for individual writers and artists. Campus response to each issue shows how important The Leader is to Elmhurst—when the paper is just a few hours late, faculty and staff both wait impatiently for the new paper.
But even without the awards or the praise, The Leader has heart. And that heart comes from the writers and photographers and artists who commit to The Leader even though they have classes, social lives, and the occasional desire to sleep.
In the end, whether you study physics or history or literature or exercise science, your time at Elmhurst should be defined by one thing: passion. The Leader is our passion. We’re students, but we’re also reporters and artists and storytellers. When we’re threatened, that passion is what holds us together.
We’re always talking about “The Elmhurst Experience” and “what college ought to be,” but how many people have seriously considered either of those statements? Lately, I have. My Elmhurst Experience is about finding my voice and the confidence to use it. My college ought to be a place where I am never scared of self-expression. Until two weeks ago, Elmhurst never faltered on encouraging these precise things. And if I were to stay silent now, when every molecule in my body is telling me to speak up, I’d be self-censoring.
And I promise, next week I’ll go back to writing about burritos or puppies or how to survive college without showering. Because those things are important, too.

Food Flings and Food Fights

I’m entering the third year of my latest relationship. And like any long-term relationship, it’s been full of laughter and tears, passion and strife, cheeseburgers and mac-and-cheese.
Since freshman year, I’ve been dating Chartwell’s. And I think that now, as I enter my junior year, I might be ready to call the whole thing off.
Three years is a long time to dedicate to one entity. At first, we were tangled in the bliss of new love like a Caesar chicken wrap is swathed in a tortilla. I was a naïve college freshman, eager to fall for the first person who offered me tater tots and milkshakes. But the more I see of the world, the more I realize that there are more options than just plastic cutlery that bends or shatters when you try to spear a baby carrot.
To be honest, our relationship has taken on the feel of a bowl of day-old oatmeal. We both have our downfalls. He gets cold and distant on the weekends. I nag and complain, especially when he’s out of ketchup.
Lately, he’s been trying to win me back. He woos me with fresh ranch chips and assorted baked goods as varied and delicious as a heart-shaped box of chocolates. He’s even started giving me free two-ounce cups of soft-serve ice cream, which seemed like a cute token until I realized his game. Two ounces is just enough to keep me craving for my next fix—he’s trying to keep me trapped and dependent.
On top of all this, he’s moved to Facebook stalking. Whenever I log on, I have seventeen new event invitations from Chartwell’s. His date ideas are charming, I’ll admit. Sushi in the Roost. October tea tasting. Still, it feels like a last desperate move. He’s become increasingly needy, and I’ve been considering my other options.
He must know my eyes have been wandering. He’s seen me with more exotic suitors, like Elmhurst Chop Suey and Chipotle. I’m only twenty, I can’t be tied down. But Chartwell’s-induced guilt makes my culinary exploits seem like the adventures of a cheap slut. Soon, I’ll be whoring myself out for the Taco Bell value menu. And as I sprawl on the curb with congealing nacho cheese spilling down my shirt, Chartwell’s will tell everyone I had it coming all along.
The thing is, we both knew our relationship would be temporary from the start. I can’t live in the dorms forever. I’ll move off campus, and he’ll find some impressionable freshman to regale with Alfredo sauce and chicken strips.
I’ve considered our long-distance options, but I’m not sure if tater tot casserole holds a strong enough siren call to pull me back day after day.
Besides, it might be fun to explore single life. Buy a few sauce pans and a bottle of vegetable oil and embark on my newly independent culinary life.
The problem is that after I end it, we’re bound to run into each other. It’s a small campus, and he’s involved in a lot. I’ll swing by to grab a bagel or a Diet Coke, and things will just be awkward. I’ll tell him I miss his apple cheesecake. I’ll admit I was rash and cruel in ending our fling, and that I’ve been surviving on Saltines and canned peas since I left the safe realm of the cafeteria.
He’ll smile understandably, nod in his most knowing way, and hand me a coupon for a free two-ounce ice cream cup.