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About The Battalion. (College Station, Tex.) 1893-current | View Entire Issue (April 13, 1988)
Page 2/The Battalion/Wednesday, April 13, 1988 Opinion Professors are the ones really in contro John MacDougall It’s funny how much control our professors and in structors have over our futures — especially as we approach gradua tion. I am re minded of this as I listen to the woes of my friends who are sweating out graduation. I know firsthand just how strong a teach er’s hold on you can be. My story begins a few years ago dur ing the last semester of my senior year as a T-sip. I had been putting off taking a required course of tbe dubious title Microeconomic Theory for two and a half years. I knew I was in trouble my first day of class when I found out that our instructor, a young guy (I shall call him Dr. X), had gotten his Ph.D four years ago from Texas A&M. He was a self-admitted asshole, and as his stu dents and I will attest, a damn good tea cher — the kind of guy who promotes love/hate relationships with his students. Dr. X subscribed to the John House man school of thought when it came to teaching economics. He felt that his job was to teach you, rather than to make you like him. Either you came to class prepared or you faced a terrorizing fu sillade of questions. Dr. X was a quirky guy too. He absolutely detested yawning in his classroom. He made it clear to us at the beginning of the semester that any student caught yawning without covering his mouth wars dead meat. “I don’t want to look at the insides of yo’ tonsils,” he’d say with a long Southern drawl (I think he was from W. Virginia). I managed to maintain a solid “B” av erage for most of the term and was hap pily looking forward to taking a job working for a newspaper in Boston al ter graduation. Four years of worrying about making the grade was drawing to a close. It was time for this bird to fly from his nest to financial freedom. Then my worst nightmare came true. We were scheduled for a grueling two-hour nighttime test. I had studied diligiently at home until about a half- hour before test time. I packed my cal culator and pencils and headed off to class. When I got there the classroom was empty. My heart sunk. 1 then re membered that he had changed the classroom but I didn’t recall the room number. For about 15 minutes I ran up and down the empty halls of the busi ness building in search of my class. Not finding anything, I suddenly had the revelation that I was in deep doo-doo. The University of Texas has about 500 classrooms scattered over 40 acres, so the likelihood of happening upon the right room was nil. So I decided to cut my losses. My mind began to work like a per sonal injury lawyer on a sinking ship. To prove I made a sincere effort to take the test, I ran down to the police station to get an affidavit that 1 was there during test time. Then I rilshed to a payphone, got my teacher’s number from informa tion and quickly dialed. No answer. I went home in total despair. The next day I called his office early in the morning and told him my story. He didn’t seem to believe it. He said he and his wife were home all night yesterday and they never got a phone call. He told me to talk to him after class in the af ternoon. As I heard the terminating click on the other end of the line, I thought to myself “Maybe this is God’s way of telling me I’m not living a clean life. Or maybe a mortal enemy is stick ing pins in a voodoo doll with my lik eness.” Whatever the case, I was in serious trouble. I regretted sending out gradua tion announcements to my relatives a week before, accepting a job or getting a new VISA card. I went to class the next day feeling as if I would blow chunks on my high-tops any minute. About 60 students showed up (maybe word had gotten out that Dr. X was going to feed a student to the li ons). The instructor opened up class by telling the students in a half-sarcastic tone what I had told him last night. Fur thermore, he told them that he was home all night and never received a phone call, which didn’t lend much cre- dance to my story. To make matters worse, he reminded everyone that the class was held in the first floor of the business building. He suggested that whomever it was that missed the test (he didn’t know me by face) should keep quiet while the class voted on what he should do with me. The facts of the case were,grossly slanted in favor of the prosecution. The prevalent sentiment of students was thumbs down. Some students com mented that the whole problem was my own stupid fault, and I shouldn’t be al lowed to slide. A few kind souls spoke up. One guy said, “Look, the guy is about to graduate and he said he looked for the classroom and he said he tried to call you. Why don’t you let him slide?" Yea! The teacher ended the debate by de claring that he wasn’t going to decide now but was inclined to give me a goose egg (the course syllabus,.whichisaluI the law of last resort, stated iliai makeups would be given untetlj was a death in the family ofai ing illness and plenty of warning),|| ironic twist, he told class memberst he f elt sorry in a way for the poor)! because he couldn’t imagine pening to a more unsympathelicte»]| (he was a free-market type whobI handouts). Af ter class I went to his officefoti tencing. 1 le asked me how I maid get as f ar as I did in school beings«jI bo/o. 1 honestly didn’t knoww 1 could have told him that I was an ors student but that would set him off. After a momenfsln lion, he told me that, againsthis judgment, he was going to letmt 1 hen he yelled “Get the helloutofi office.” 1 felt like a death row inmateij sentence is commuted ashe'ssirai into an ele< trie chair. Later thatiiigi 1 was sipping a longneck at theHA the Wall bar, 1 reflected on how ten my f reedom really is. John XincDougall is a graduateshi in the MBA program and a coins for The Battalion. Letting the ladies go first is a strange thing to do Mike Royko The elevator door opened and the tiresome ritual began. Those of the m ale p e r s u a s i o n stepped slightly to the side and just stood there. Those of the fe male persuasion leaned tentatively forward until they were sure we weren’t going to move. Finally, one of them bolted into tbe elevator, followed by the others. We went next. But after all the hesitating, the door began to close and one of us had to bang it back open to get aboard. The elevator went down and at the first floor the door opened. The ritual was repeated. The males stood as if fro zen until a female got off, followed by the others. Then tfie rest of us scrambled out before the door closed. Why do men do it? W r hy do I do it? Why do we believe that we must let fe males get on and off elevators before we do? It has been years since the historic first public bra-burning. Since then, women have risen to high public of fice, become major corporate executives and now work as equals in most professions and many trades. True, many inequities remain. But even the most hard-nosed of feminists must concede that during the past two decades, great strides have been made. I mean, I know dozens of women who swear better than me. Yet, we persist in the elevator ritual, the opening-the-door-for-them ritual, the first-in-the-cab ritual, the stand-up- when-they-get-to-the-restaurant-table ritual, the help-them-on-with-their-coat ritual, the shake-hands-only-if-they-of- fer-to-first ritual, and many others. Why shouldn’t I get on or off the el evator first if I’m closest to the door. It would be more orderly and result in less emotional stress brought on by those moments of indecision. Even worse, on the few occasions that I’ve done it — bolting on or off the el evator with a devil-may-care attitude — why do I immediately feel guilty and embarrassed, fearing that the females behind me are thinking: “What a boor.” Seeking answers to these questions, I asked a female executive why women expect to get on and off elevators first. “We don’t expect it,” she snapped- “In fact, it infuriates me.” Then why do you do it? “We don’t do it. You do it. It’s your fault. You stand there like bunch of wimps. So if we don’t break the logjam and get off first, we’ll be riding the damn thing all day.” You mean you don’t see this as being a courtesy required of men? “Of "course not. Who' the hell cares who gets ofTan elevator first, unless it’s on fire. And I don’t need a man to open a door for me or help me on with my coat. I’ve been opening doors and put ting on my own clothes as long as they have. And when they jump up at a res taurant table, one of them usually hits the table with his leg and slops water all over the place.” Then why do we do these things? “How do I know? You’re the ones who are doing it. We wish you’d stop.” You won’t think we’re boors? “Of course not. If anything, we’ll re spect you for treating us as equals and being enlightened.” I am always seeking enlightment in this foggy world. But the question still remained: Why do we do it? So I put that question to the eminent psychiatrist, Dr. I.M. Kooky. “If I may summarize your question about elevators and doors and cars,” he said, “what you seem to be asking me is why do we continue to abide by the out moded tradition of ‘ladies first,’ is that not correct?” Yes. Is it because we are sub consciously patronizing them, treating them as weaker or lesser creatures? “Possibly. But I believe that the pri mary psychological reason for our be havior is that by letting them go first, we get a real good look at their legs and their bottoms. I’m a leg and bottom guy, you know. And boy, oh, boy, when you open a car door to let one of them out, you can sometimes get a glimpse of thigh.” That’s why we do it, in order to gawk and leer? “I don’t know about you, but that’s why 1 do it. I always help them on with their coats because it gives me a chance to get a sniff of their perfume. A real turn-on. I’ll tell you.” Doctor, I am shocked and disgusted. “You are? Then I’ll tell you some thing. You ought to go see a pyschia- trist.” Copyright 1987, Tribune Media Services, Inc. pi,i _ tender as mans love mi^htbeforamaid, Or children's love be ibr their mums. There's no tenderer love Than the Presidents love For all his unscrupulous chums Mail Call Sick of us versus us EDITOR, I’d like to know just who the hell Mike Freeman thinks he is. How many games did you say you went to? I too have been to a good number of A&M’s home baseball games, and I’ve seen members of the corps all over this place. Maybe not as an entire unit and maybe not during the week, but they have been there. A simple explanation for this? They are busy both during the week and on the week end (as are many other Aggies who might have shown up for the rare occasion of playing the No. 1 ranked team with a good chance of beating it). In spite of the busy schedule members of the corps face every day, the entire corps shows up for a very important game for the baseball team to give its support. What happens? The Corps is criticized for it. This leads me to ask a simple question: why do students criticize the Corps of Cadets? Maybe non-corps members don’t re alize how hard it is to be a part of the corps and are jealous of the attention the corps gets. Maybe the existence of the corps hurts the “macho-ness” of non-corps, striking up more jealousy. Regardless of this, I would like an explana tion for the criticism of a group that brings attention to bur university and sets us apart from other universities. An or ganization consisting of the Fightin’ Texas Aggie Bij the Ross Volunteers, Parson’s Mounted Cavalry, and ml othe fine groups. However, the main reason 1 am writing is to say am tired non-Aggies attacking Aggies. No matterwtioij the Corps of Cadets, SAA, The Ihutnlion staff memkf I any one else. Opinions are great because the increast 1 awareness of the world around us. Competitive rivalrl great because it forces us to do our best. Attacking! corps for supporting the baseball team and vandalizing! SAA shack do not fit into these categories. Ags, its time for some school spirit. I’d like to first to apologize for attacking another Aggie. I’n that 1 had to use your letter as an example Mike.No*I fense. Beat the hell outta t.u.!!! (Not each cither!) Russell H. Johnston ’91 Letters to the editor should not exceed 300 words in length. The ditonA'' serves the right to edit letters for style and length, hut will makentrji maintain the author's intent. Each letter must be signed and mustiiicliA 11 ' sification, address and telephone number of the writer. The Battalion (USPS 045 360) Member of Texas Press Association Southwest Journalism Conference The Battalion Editorial Board Sue Krenek, Editor Daniel A. LaBry, Managing Editor Mark Nair, Opinion Page Editor Amy Couvillon, City Editor Robbyn L. Lister and Becky Weisenfels, News Editors Loyd Brumfield, Sports Editor Jay Janner, Photo Editor Editorial Policy 1 he Bntlulion is a non-profit, sell-supporting newspa per operated as a eonmiunity service to Texas A&M and Bryan-College Station. 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