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About The Battalion. (College Station, Tex.) 1893-current | View Entire Issue (April 15, 1987)
Page 2/The Battalion/Wednesday, April 15, 1987 Opinion Step right up r r and fit right in u A professor re cently asked a class I was in what, if any, issue might move students enough to protest. There was no re sponse. Nothing in this clay of short hair a n d polo shirts ranks high enough on the priority lists of American — or at least Texas of the foolish final-examscheduiti fee live Spring 1988. So their methods weren't the|1 l heir intentions were. Butit’sapittBFliers, college students must rely on Bilets an mothers to take action against rate naln hi! that should be of most concerni: » lUei 1 students themselves. Thanks,Mon| r , U!l ■varene Mike Sullivan The f act is, students at thistlmg IStudci: are here for one thing, a degree-s ■SC wer Bn rany A&M — college students to organize and demon strate. I told the professor that 1 didn’t think there was anything happening in the world, this nation or on A&M’s campus that could motivate students to protest. license to change tire world,butJbB tl . a | )0 , unlock another door to the system H in am /•n • i i . I telting. I College is no longer a placetomm Ame, ideas, c hallenge the theoriesofotirlMieii wci ers or open our minds. There'smiferud uri and no place for protesting in i9lB' linst highl) organized college system..!™' * 1( ;' for rote learning, an extension ollip"" 1 s( hool is what college has become, Vietnam — a native’s account The following column is the first of a two part series. The second column will be printed in Thursday’s edition. In the spr ing each year, when bluebonnets spring forward in a silent iright, a sudden sadness, ;; Gong Thanh Guest Columnist ark memory, over shadows trry life, l ire life of a yellow man, a man without a home. I used ter have a home. It was a small home filled with the love of my family. I used to cry in the arms of my beloved mother each time my sister snatched away my cookies. I used to sleep in my father’s arms in those frightening nights when rolling thunder of gunfire broke the silence of the night. My home was in Vietnam. In Vietnam, especially in my home town, there was a wild flower colored blue like the Texas bluebonnet. I called it a blueviet. Like a Vietnamese, a blueviet sprang forward suddenly and withered suddenly. Like a blueviet, a Vietnamese’s yellow skin has turned blue with hatred — the hatred of fire, of rolling thunder. A person’s life in my home was like the color blue. Blue is the color of death. I went to school the next day, though my parents wanted me to stay home. It was the very first time that I was anxious to go to school. I prayed and prayed that my friend would be there waiting for me to share my cookies, waiting for me to tell her about Bato, my dog. The class was there, so was her table, her empty chair. The tacher taught us a les son of iove. Love your home, love your parents, love your friends. The teacher taught us how to color. Color the pic ture of a peaceful home with daddy, with mommy, with sisters, with brothers and friends all sitting under the bluest sky by golden fields of rice at harvest. At one corner under a tree, I colored blue, for blueviet. This very pencil — which I fought about with my friend yesterday — had seemed to be the most, beautiful blue. Today, however, the color seemed to fade away as I painted my peaceful home .... From the intersection we walked on the red road heading home. T he same old >ad that I had walked to school with my friends each day, somehow looked exotic. The trees that used to line the road had burned down. The wind blew violently. The smell of pine trees was overwhelmed by the foul odor of blood, of death. The long road was disturbed by an occasional swirl of dust and dead leaves. The Van Co river was murky and still. A few bodies were si lently drifting in the water. No one protested my comment. Of course, I’m not talking about real issues like students walking on the Me morial Student Center lawn or the I’ni- versity of Texas stealing Reveille. We’d all jump to our feet for issues like that. T here are other issues, though — is sues that should interest us as college students, but somehow rank right below “Leave it to Beaver” and “Andy Grif fith.” And you can see it allaroundii every c lass you attend. Studenis out pens trying to copy down the t popular about Er ■age usi df ussioi ■nts anc |e voice? pouring from their professor'sm.wKgei an ■Si The order of evacuation was made. All people must leave their homes be cause there would be a major battle of the war. I was too young to understand what war was. All I remember is that I was happy not to go back to school again. To me, school wasn’t school with out my friend. My home was gone. T he stump of the mango tree was still there. All that was left of the green zucchini arbor were a few black sticks pointing up toward the sky. A small mound of ashes lying be neath the zuchini sticks once was Bato. My father put his luggage down, walked over to Bato’s ashes, held them in Iris hand and let them fall through his fin gers as the wind blew them away, and I began to cry. For instance, I don’t like the governor of this state and his mindless methods, the president and his clandestine cru sades or this university’s dictator-like at titude. (Who’s paying tuition, anyway?) But you won’t find me organizing a demonstration. And I won’t find you lining up to participate. One student in the class said that if an issue touched close enough to home, she would protest. If she was being honest, sire’s unique. In fact, there’s an issue touching this campus even as I write that should moti vate at least a small group of students to speak out through organized protest, hut 1 personally guarantee that Aggies will not organize and make themselves heard. ncvei lifting their heads froniiB^ UK * ( ‘ n notebooks to question thereasoiitH'f 11 , hind those theories. ■limu; , Rather, the questions student 1 iB! 11 '’ 11 ' are aimed at getting moreinton: h( , |1C( | ( | a hoi it I hr l he n it n. x. i ilm undolfl > | l on the exam, pass the class and,onJderweic process is repeated enough,theiB^ ,,sl (l uate — soon to forget. Irev med . And as free as we like to belie'-iK a vai country is, we must pay for then;| he accepted by the system. Constj cost of a college education and vo prospects if you don’t haveone. you are educated by the system, chances f or success are limited. It’s really no wonder students protest things within the system,It! become an integral part of a mwi that needs no oil. There's a place ciely waiting for us after we vein! the line and completed our col cation, l ire challenge of finding plac e is minimal. All wehaveto to the campus placement center. Nguyen Gong Thanh is a junior petro leum engineering major. It took three members of the Aggie Mothers Club to finally get some front page attention for the issue. I’m talking, of course, about the three mothers who wrapped President Vandiver’s house with toilet paper Friday night in protest II you feel a general sense ofapf for anything other than North™ summei vacation, A&M —collegel where you belong. Mike Sullivan is a senior joumib major and the Opinion Pageeditotl The Battalion. My best friend’s death happened about this time 12 years ago. I remem ber the day she and I went to pick wild flowers on the other side of the Van Cq River. A blueviet spread its beauty, its fragrance at one corner of the path. She rushed quickly over to the flower; I was a few steps behind. A gigantic explosion blew up the beautiful blueviet as she touched the clusters. I fell to the ground. My best friend’s arms, my best friend’s face, and the innocent blueviet all disappeared in the dust of a worn path. I had a minor wound on my right calf, but my friend was gone. It was just yesterday that we played hide-and-seek. It was just this morning that we shared cookies. It was just an hour ago that we were angry, mad at one another and fighting over a colored pencil. The tea cher punished us by making us kneel down, facing the wall. It was just min utes ago that we made up, forgave each other and walked together hand in hand to find berries, to find the blueviet. There were more blueviets, and there were more wild berries. The blueiets were as blue as ever, the berries sweet as they could be. They were all waiting for me and my best friend to pick. But where did she go? Where did she go? I saw no wild flower in front of my homeyard as I sat on my father’s lap by the bus window — the bus that would take us away from our home. As it pulled away, I could see the mango tree which was in full bloom this year. A green zuchini’s arbor where Bato, my dog, and I used to hide when playing hide-and-seek. A small table was still in place on the front porch of my house, where my father used to play Chinese chess when the sun began to set, where my mother used to sit in her rocking chair patching my sister’s shirt. As the bus pulled away, I saw my mother’s eyes. I saw the empty school. I saw hill after hill of blueviets, sadly beautiful flowers, and wondered which blueviet would blow up like the one that killed my friend or perhaps hundreds of other friends. The bus slowly took us away. When the bus pulled back into my hometown a month later, the hills of blueviets were gone. The deep ocean- blue hills had been replaced by black, burning ashes. Only ashes were left. The school where my teacher taught us the lesson of love had collapsed on the destroyed ground. The bus didn’t enter our town. Too many passengers, too many places to go before dawn. They let us out at an intersection. The Battalion (USPS 045 360) Member of Texas Press Association Southwest Journalism Conference The Battalion Editorial Board Loren Steffy, Editor Marybeth Rohsner, Managing Editor Mike Sullivan, Opinion Page Editor Jens Koepke, City Editor Jeanne Isenberg, Sue Krenek, News Editors Homer Jacobs, Sports Editor Tom Ownbey, Photo Editor Editorial Policy 7Vie Battalion is a non-profit, self-supporting newspaper oper ated as a community service to Texas A&M and Bryan-College Sta tion. Opinions expressed in The Battalion are those of the editorial board or the author, and do not necessarily represent the opinions of Texas A&M administrators, faculty or the Board of Regents. The Battalion also serves as a laboratory newspaper for students in reporting, editing and photography classes within the Depart ment of Journalism. 7Tie Battalion is published Monday through Friday during Texas A&M regular semesters, except for holiday and examination periods. Mail subscriptions are $17.44 per semester, $34.62 per school year and $36.44 per full year. Advertising rates furnished on re quest. Our address: The Battalion, Department of Journalism, Texas A&M University, College Station, TX 77843-4 111. Second class postage paid at College Station, TX 77843. POSTMASTER; Send address changes to 'The Battalion, De partment of Journalism, Texas A&M University, College Station TX 77843-4 111. Mail Call Think about it — a lot EDITOR: I saw your dog today. You know, the one you fell in love with when it was such a cute little puppy. You just had to have it to play with, to cuddle, to care for, to keep you company, and to warn you of intruders. As it grew, it accepted you as its master and benefactor. It depended on you for all its needs and loved you completely in return. To that pup you were “its person!” It’s fully grown now and I guess it is not as cute anymore. Maybe keeping it was a chore because you did not teach it to behave as you wanted; it didn’t understand what you expected. Did tire neighbors complain it was too noisy or that it ran loose and dumped garbage? Maybe you had to move to an apartment that wouldn’t allow pets or are leaving college and couldn’t take it with you. Certainly you could not hear to have it euthanized. You figured a nice country home would be just what it needed. You dropped it off on a pretty country road and drove off patting yourself on the back for getting it a good home. your dog (or cat). You alone are responsible forthat animal and any life you take into your care. Yousenteirij your faithful pet to that fate. Wouldn’t the animal sheila (yes, even euthanasia) have been much more humane' Our county is lucky enough to have a very good animal shelter run by deeply concerned people. They are there#: help your pet. Be truly kind to your pet. Try hardtofdt| I a good home, but if you can’t, then seek help horn the animal shelter or your veterinarian. Euthanasia is hard, but it’s humane! Kenneth and Dorothy Bottom Exchanging glances I saw your dog today, on a back country road. It was running up the middle of the road stopping every so often to sit and rest a minute, then running again, obviously trying to catch up with your car. It limped a little because its feet were cut and bruised from running on sharp rocks in the road but it kept going. I stopped and called to it, but it was frightened and confused and ran off into the brush and pasture. I had hoped it would be coaxed in by someone, but I really knew how very slim that chance was. Most country people already have four or more dogs (mostly strays) and just can’t take in any more. Country dogs often gang up on and chase away newcomers. Many ranchers and farmers will chase or shoot stray dogs to protect their livestock. Some even put out poison and traps for coyotes but hungry, unsuspecting dogs often get caught. Lone dogs are also killed by coyote packs. Strays that live enough become infested with fleas, ticks, mange, diseases and eventually starve to death. Even our death- row murderers don’t have to go through that. EDITOR: Last week, 1 was studying in the upstairs lounge areat Rudder'Lower and couldn’t help but notice a man read® a newspaper on another couch. Well, this man must haw taken my glances in a rather affectionate way becausekf soon was lying on tire couch directly across fromme.l thought it rather odd because the other eight couches wit empty. He proceeded to smile and wink at me. fin re® voiced a few unsociable comments and he left. Don’t gel me wrong, I have no inborn hostilities toward homosexuals, but I do prefer that they keep their seductions to themselves. Belief in who we are and what are is important to all of us, hut let’s all he careful when displaying ourselves to others and have some consider ation. Ted Johnson ’89 Don't be insulted I saw your dog again this morning. Its torn and battered body lay along side the highway. How long do you suppose it laid there before it died, looking for you, hoping you would come back and take it home to soothe its hurt? Yes, your dog is gone now, but I still think of him. His memory is still at that intersection in the highway. I only wish you could have followed his journey as I have followed him and so many others like him. Just because we live in the country doesn’t mean we can take in all unwanted pets. No one can. We are not responsible for EDITOR: It’s too bad Shawn Blue feels he has been “insulted ! Bob Wiatt’s statement that “every man is a potential rapist.” What Blue fails to realize is that is preciselywhat the victim feels. Even men who are friends of a woman® become rapists— look at the problem of “date rape," It’s a tragic shame that in the world today there are evildoers who prey upon others. But anger over an insult is petty when placed next to tire terror and agonyavictiu feels, fire sting of an insult goes away in a little while, but the pain of a rape victim endurt or years. 1 know. I’ve been there. Margaret Shannon Letters to the editor should not exceed 300 words in length. The seines the right to edit letters for style and length, but will mnkr even maintain the author's intent. Each letter must be signed and mustindufallitfc’ sification, address and telephone number of the writer. SF Yl fv £. 0 No bic piz Or ma pre yot top Go din (de tax Off! ont Mr