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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
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choirs.
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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
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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
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and examination periods. Mail subscriptions are 116.75
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Our address: The Battalion, 216 Reed McDonald
Building, Texas A&M University, College Station, TX
77843. Editorial staff phone number: (409) 845-2630. Ad
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