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
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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.
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