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About The Battalion. (College Station, Tex.) 1893-current | View Entire Issue (March 20, 1985)
•<? Tuition increases in Texas inevitable When students return to college this fall, we will face signifi cant tuition increases which will affect us all. Exactly how signifi cant those increases will be is not yet known. The Texas House of Representatives approved a bill Tues day that would raise college tuitions in Texas, beginning Fall 1985. But the bill still faces tough opposition in the Senate. Tuition costs and the state budget have been a major focus of the legislature this year. We’ve known a tuition hike was com ing; it is inevitable. The question is how much of an increase will there be, and exactly what will it mean to resident and nonresi dent students. Under the bill, tuition for Texas residents would double next year and increase slightly every year until 1990. But even with the increase, Texas residents still would be paying one of the ten least expensive in-state tuitions in the nation. However, tuition for nonresident students would increase drastically — making it the most expensive in the nation. On the brighter side, the bill would set aside 25 percent of Texas tuition dollars for student financial aid. The Battalion Editorial Board hopes the Senate will pass this bill. The money raised from the tuition hikes would enable the Legislature to continue funding state colleges and universities at, or close to, the present level of funding. Without a doubt, these tuition hikes would make a heavy im pact on many students — all nonresident students, for example — but budget cutbacks could have a much more devastating ef fect on higher education in Texas. So instead of moaning about the inevitable, maybe you should prepare for the future and rework your academic bud get. The Battalion Editorial Board Dreaming, experiencing other worlds part of writing I remember the time when, as a little boy, 1 con sciously discov ered imagination. I was swinging in the back yard and was mad at my sis ter. I pumped my legs hard, wanting to fly away — it didn’t matter Shawn Behlen where. I went faster and faster until the squeak of the chains holding my swing was a constant. Suddenly, I screamed out the pent-up fury that only a very young child can experience and I was free. I was flying. The blue of the sky was my ride to a world that was happy and where I was king. That was the greatest realization of my life: that I could escape everyone else’s reality and create my own. As I grew older, I turned to writing. It allowed me to share my various worlds of thought and make people think as I did and feel as I did. It was a game of infinite possibilities that had no ending. It made me feel powerful and I loved it. I passed through school hear ing friends refer to me as “the writer.” Some said it seriously and with care. Others used it as a goad, smiling in wardly with a tease in their voice and a mock in their stance. Either way, it was a difference that I cherished. I came to college and ended up in journalism, de termined to find out whether I could turn my love of writing into a career. But with seeming cruelty, journalism taught me a lesson. No other occupation deals with reality as does journalism. I had to forsake my private worlds and step forward with facts. I was heartbro ken, deciding that journalism was noth ing more than a bastardization of true writing. But I was wrong. As usual, the hardest lessons are the best. His name is David Leavitt and I am convinced that he is a god. Three days ago, I had never heard that name. Then I went to Hasting’s, purchased this month’s Interview and read about this individual’s accomplishments. Envy’s never been so green. I read the interview, becoming ii creasingly upset. I realized thathereii mind — one that can think and era: and show us ourselves. By that tii felt in myself a sense of anger. I lau( haughtily and told myself thatli! couldn’t be that good. I learned discipline — that crudest of skills. Words such as terseness and spar- ity took on new meanings and slowly I came around. And, better for losing the battle and winning the war, I thought myself ready for the world. But life is strange and inconsequential events can too easily become all-important. I bought “Family Dancing” and w blown away. The stories are increditlt They all center on three topics, separately or together: cancer, divore and homosexuality. But they encompai all life — speaking directly and siit cerely. I realized that in these storie! the printed word had become art, acit ation. I sat there for quite a while in dark and I cried. His work is what I’ve alwaysdreamet of creating myself. Leavitt is 23, one year older than my self. When he was 21 and still at Yale, he published his first short story in The New Yorker. In 1983, he published sto ries in Harper’s and Christopher Street and was included in a volume of O. Henry award-winning short fiction. In 1984, his first book was published. “Family Dancing” is a collection of nine short stories and has been nominated for a National Book Critics Circle Award. Leavitt is now writing his first novel and has just been selected to write the decennial “My Generation” essay for Esquire. The last two men'to write this essay were F. Scott Fitzgerald and Wil liam Styron. I did nothing the next day. i w empty. But slowly, a sense of urgeno emerged and I was filled with my cl hood. Forced into isolation for the fits time in years, I rediscovered my worli my visions, my solaces. And I wrote I wrote about anything I could ihiiil of and I could not stop. It wasapurgitj of the holiest sort — three years of a inner self on hold were at an end.Rei ity was no longer my prison and factsu longer my wardens. 1 was excited ani scared. 1 realized that my worlds wen still the best. Kf By REK Armed w sheet music pipe, the ■ quered a toi— with flawless A simple — ditorium wa= the six-man H lowing nothi attention the— The cro^ grade-schooEl to dignified — of the arts, lighted. No group’s uni beautiful bl^- precision. The Sing^ taining au< since the ori in 1968. Tw— and all curre penence in choirs. The Sing^ from King’s bridge whecz were once stu_ Beginning they were ir~ the music an™ everyone rels gram. Gen By ANN- Sc. I have a need to make up myself ani my surroundings. I have a need« dream. Shawn Behlen is a senior joumalw major and co-editor for At Ease. Lt. Gen. Or~ retired three-s Marine Corp s president of Texas A&M, w Muster ceremt I 21 ' TheStudeni Committee inv [Reagan to spe ISes tweune. -rievKES- Geraldine Ferraro will do h IT/ CommettM fbr Diet ftpsi... <3Rmitfj Carter fbr Crest.. Ronald fteudatt for No-Doz... Fritz Mondale fbr file Date Carnepie Course.. Selling houses is a fine art By ART BUCHWALD Columnist for The Los Angeles Times Syndicate There was a great deal of excitement in our neighborhood last week. The first house advertised to sell at over a million dollars w 7 as put up for sale. Most of the homes in our area were built in the ’40s and ’50s and originally sold for $30,000 to $50,000. Over the years they have increased in value, but no one ever dreamed that one of them would ever be advertised for a million. Trembling, who reported the news to me, said, “I knew someone would break the six-figure barrier sooner or later, but I never thought it would be Ed Hur- w'itz.” “I can’t believe Hurwitz is asking a million for his lean-to.' I don’t think he paid more than $63,000 for it 10 years ago.” “I saw the ad in the paper this morn ing. It said, ‘Historical mini-estate, lo cated in one of the most prestigious neighborhoods in Washington. A once- in-a-lifetime opportunity for the special affluent family who wants more from a home than just a place to live. Offered at $1,450,000. Within walking distance of the Swedish Embassy.” I said, “It’s a joke. It has to be a joke.” “Oh yeah? You should see the lineup of cars in front of the house. You would think T. Boone Pickens was coming to dinner.” Out of curiosity we decided to wan der over to Hurwitz’s house. Sure enough, there were Mercedes-Benzes, BMWs, Jaguars, Lincolns and chauf- feured Cadillacs parked all along the street. Women in fur coats stood in line waiting to get in, and Hurwitz passed out a mimeographed sheet describing the features of the house. This included “antique lighting Fixtures, a wet bar in the basement, contemporary library with original moldings, and a state-of- the-art laundry room.” “What a turnout,” I said to Hurwitz. “It even surprised me,” he said, “but not the real estate agent. She said the only way to keep out the bargain-hunt ers and attract the upper-bracket crowd is to ask for more than a million dollars for your house.” “Aren’t they disappointed when they arrive?” “They don’t seem to be,” Hurwitz said. “They Figure if you’re asking over a million there’s got to be more to it than they can see. Besides, people who can pay prices like that want to gut the struc ture anyway, and spend another million to make it ‘liveable.’ One of the big at tractions of this place is they can throw out everything in the house and not feel guilty about it.” Hurwitz took Trembling and me in side. “You didn’t even paint it,” I said. “Why paint it? Whoever is going to buy it will only repaint it. Women’s eyes light up when they see this joint and they can hardly wait to call their decora tor. The one thing I learned in selling a house for a million bucks is the less you offer somebody the more chance you have of getting them to buy it.” We went into the kitchen. There was a 1960 gas stove, a 1970 refrigerator, a scarred wooden table, two chairs, and a spice shelf that Hurwitz had gotten with green stamps. One of the women said to the other, “It’s utterly charming. You don’t see kitchens like this anymore.” The second woman said, “It’s a dream. You can start from scratch and do anything you want with it.” “That’s true of the bathroom too,” Hurwitz told them. When we got back into the living room I said, “I wouldn’t believe it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes. The people are actually salivating to buy this hunk of junk.” Hurwitz seemed offended. “It may be a hunk of junk to you, but for the peo ple who came here today it’s the dream they worked for all of their lives.” “Hey, wait a minute,” Trembling said. “If you get one million for this wreck that means all our homes in the neighborhood will be reassessed for tax purposes and we’ll be paying for your scam.” “Don’t blame me,” Hurwitz said. “I originally asked $100,000 for the house and had no bites. Now that I’m asking for a million I can’t keep people from kicking down the door.” Big guys play for keeps ••••' We called it “playing army.” Our team usually won because we had the better fort and the bigger dirt clods. It was a fun, but intense game. The object of the game was to bombard the Kevin Inda other team mem- ■- hers and their fort until they cried or gave us something we wanted — usually fireworks or candy. The interesting part of the game came not during, but after the battle, in the negotiations. This is where the win ning side would try to get something of value from the opposing side. If the terms weren’t satisfactory, dirt clods would resume flying. The reason we usually won is because we saved the big gest dirt clods for the negotiations. That gave us increased bargaining power. Occasionally someone would get hit in the face with a dirt clod, but for all purposes it was still a relatively safe game. And besides being safe, everyone would still be friends in the morning. Being the argumentative children we were, coming to agreeable terms rarely happened. We would continue arguing and throwing dirt clods until our moth ers called us in for dinner. “Playing army” is still a popular game — even for adults. The United States and Soviets happen to be engaged in a modified version right now. I say its modified because they aren’t quite play ing the way we used to. Instead of battling it out before the negotiations, they’re doing the opposite — and for obvious reasons. Primarily because if battle took place before the negotiations, there wouldn’t be anyone around to negotiate with. They’re also playing with a somewhat more danger ous weapon than dirt clods — nuclear arms. And the stakes are a little higher in the adult version of “playing army.” In stead of negotiating for fireworks or candy, they’re negotiating for some thing more important — life. Nobody knows for sure what will evolve from the Geneva talks. The play ers might or might not eliminate some of their nuclear weaponry. Chances are the “might nots” will prevail over the “mights” but let’s still hope the talks go well. We wouldn’t want either side to start throwing the big dirt clods they’ve been saving. There’s not an easy solution to nu clear disarmament. Neither side wants to give up any of its nuclear arms. Thev just want the other side to. Its anall-orl nothing situation for both sides. »* [ Its just too bad we can’t have (heir mothers call them home for dinner and all wake up friends in the morning. Kevin S. Inda is a senior journalism major and a weekly columnist for Thi Battalion. The Battalion C1SPS 045 360 Member of Texas Press Association Southwest Journalism Conference The Battalion Editorial Board Brigid Brockman, Editor ng 11 Shelley Hoekstra, Managing Editor Ed Cassavoy, City Editor Kellie Dworaczyk, Ne ” Michelle Powe, Editorial Page Editor ige Travis 1 ingle, Sports Editor The Battalion Staff Assistant City Editors Kari Fluegel, Rhonda Snider Assistant News Editors Cami Brown, John Hallett, Kay Malleti Assistant Sports Editor | Charean Williams Entertainment Editors Shawn Behlen, Leigh-Ellen Clark Staff Writers Catliie Anderson, Marcy Basile, Brandon Berry, Dainah Bullard, Ann Cervenka, Michael Crawford, Mary Cox, Kirsten Dietz, Candy Gay, Paul Herndon, Trent Leopold, Sarah Oates, Jerry Oslin, Tricia Parker, Cathy Riely, Marybeth Rohsner, Walter Smith Copy Editors .Jan Perry, Kelley Smith Make-up Editors Karen Bloch, Karla Martin Columnists Ed Cassavoy, Kevin Inda, Loren Steffy Editorial Cartoonist Mike Lane Sports Cartoonist Dale Smith Copy Writer Cathy Bennett Photo Editor Katherine Hurt Photographers Anthony Casper, Wayne Grabein, Bill Hughes, Frank Irwin, John Makely, Peter Rocha, DeanSaito Editorial Policy The Battalion is a non-profit, self-supfxming newspaper operated as a community service to Texas A&M and Bryan-College Station. Opinions expressed in The Battalion are those of the Editorial Board or the author, and do not necessarily rep resent the opinions of Texas A&M administrators, faculty or the Board oTRegents. The Battalion also serves as a laboratory newspaper for students in reporting, editing and photography classes within the Department of Communications. Letters Policy Letters to the Editor should not exceed MX) words in length. The editorial staIT reserves the right to edit letters Tor style and length hut will make every effort to niainuin the author's intent. Each letter must he signed and must include the address and telephone number of the writer. Second class postage paid at College Station, TX 77848. The Battalion is published Monday through Friday during Texas A&M regular semesters, except lor holiday and examination periods. Mail subscriptions are 116.75 per semester, S33.25 per school year and $35 per lull year. Advertising rates furnished on request. 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