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About The Battalion. (College Station, Tex.) 1893-current | View Entire Issue (June 6, 1989)
he The Battalion OPINION Tue Tuesday, June 6,1989 sifibfiMsvues <S>ft8Q HCVZWH FW There is no turning back It’s good to be back. Now don’t get me wrong. I don’t mean I’m glad to be back to the old rou tine of dragging myself out of bed at 8 a.m. for a class I put off until the last minute. I mean I’m just glad to be back in College Station for the summer. Two weeks of the parental units was enough to cause a family overdose. Juliette Rizzo Opinion Page Editor It’s not that I don’t enjoy being with my family, it’s just that I’m not used to being around them for extended peri ods of time. how do you explain standing by the mailbox in the scorching heat of sum mer? Easy. Wear a bathing suit and tell your mother the patch of lawn by the mailbox is the best place to get a tan. It all started when I walked in the door. Mom, after not seeing her little baby in three months, welcomed me the way a puppy greets his master after be ing left alone all day. After the formal greetings — the hugs that squeeze the air right out of you and the kisses that ring through your ears for hours — Dad casually dropped THE QUESTION. This summer, though, I felt I wasted all my time endlessly waiting. The of parents must have-slipped the mailman an extra five to hold my grades until Fri day when Dad came back into town. So honey, about that report card? To his utter amazement, I mumbled that I outgrew crayons and blocks years ago and with those went my report cards. To avoid further questioning, I retreated to the other side of the house taking my suitcase and 20 pounds of dirty laundry with me. Once I was inside the house, Mom followed me around with a bottle of Af ter Sun and told me not to sit on any of the furniture. She kept reminding me that the house isn’t like my dirty dorm room. On my last trip to lock the car and pick up the dirty socks lining the walk way, I passed the mailbox and affection ately placed my hand on it as if welcom ing back an old friend. The daily ritual of standing and waiting to intercept my grades during the first two weeks of all vacations has made us rather close. Actually, I think I’ve outgrown the house. It just isn’t home anymore. I should have realized this when I first walked into my newly remodeled bath room and found the beautiful bar of soap with the words “Be Our Guest” scrawled on it. Anything you’re not tell ing me. Mom? I always look forward to the day when my grades come so I can stop conjuring up excuses to satisfy my mother’s curios ity about why, day in and day out, I stand and talk to myself by the mailbox. Looking around the house, I realized the playroom was no longer a playroom, either. All the remnants of my past were, without my permission, sold at what Mom called “a very profitable ga rage sale.” Of course, even though I was the sole contributor to the sale, I re ceived none of the profits. Over the Christmas holiday when she asked what in the world I was doing out in the cold, I came up with a good ex cuse. I told her that since I was away at school and hadn’t seen the mailman for a while I wanted to be the one to person ally wish him a happy holiday and pre sent him with a McDonald’s gift certifi cate. And the poor refrigerator in the kitchen certainly didn’t welcome me back. Absolutely no real food was to be found. No junk food. (By the way, veg gies are not considered real food.) There were, however, several beers which could satisfy my thirst, but even I know my parents could do better than Schaefer Light. Juliette Rizzo is a junior journalism major and opinion page editor for The Battalion. Jingling pockets will never change It started a few years ago. The minute I would walk into a room, someone would invariably look up and say, “I could tell it was you com ing.” The first few times it happened I didn’t pay much attention. But, as it continued to happen I started getting curious. Could they tell it was me approaching because I am a person of virtue (i.e. Truth, Justice, The American Way) and I radiate a field of goodness wherever I Don Atkinson Jr Guest Columnist mgh 1()W( go: No. Is it because I have poor hygiene hab its and rarely take a bath? No. IS IT BECAUSE I AM A TRUE MAN, A TOWERING PILLAR OF MASCULINITY, WHO WILL DRIVE WOMEN MAD WITH PASSION AND CAUSE THEM TO QUIVER WITH DESIRE AS I APPROACH? No. what Mom was saying about the con tents of the food and how it was just yes terday on Ceraldo that he interviewed five young people with high cholesterol. (It’s at times like this you wish remote controls worked on the family.) Sleeping at home is also not tolerated by the parents. It shouldn’t be too hard to sleep considering the fact that I don’t have any inkling of time or date because I left my alarm clock at school. But, Mom’s maternal instincts tell her it is not healthy for me to sleep late, because I’ll mess up my sleeping habits and never be able to get up on time for school when it starts again. And, how about the constant ringing of the telephone, which triggers the image of Mom waking you up to talk to some long lost relative you really don’t know. (You do get up and talk them, however, just in case they’d like to drop a few dollars in the mail for your up coming birthday.) The cue that a family overdose has set in and that it’s time to leave is when you wake up early one morning on your own without Mom’s nagging. This means that, after searching unsuccess fully for that ultimate summer job, it’s time to impress your parents and tell them you want to further your educa tion by going back to school for the sum mer. (In other words, it’s time to get back to your friends and back home.) The truth, plain and simple, is that people know when I’m approaching be cause of one reason: they can hear the change jingling in my pockets. So what’s the big deal about having a few coins in your pockets? Everybody has some change, right? Wrong. On any given day, I can be expected to possess enough change to solve this nation’s debt crisis. The sad part is that I used to be ashamed to tell anyone about it. Even though most peo ple could hear me jingling as I made my final approach to any destination, my bulging pockets and loud walk were rar ely mentioned. Besides, I always had change for a dollar, so who cared any way? It wasn’t until a few semesters ago when I went to lunch with a friend of mine that I discovered I am not alone with this problem. The two of us jingled and clanked our way to a table and or dered a couple of beers. When the first round came, I threw out a $5 bill and then stuffed the change into my pocket. When the second round came, my friend did the same. Even tually we began to notice that, even though we were both sitting on a moun tain of change, we were still paying with dollar bills. Being the brave and adventuresome soul that I am, I waited until he men tioned it first. Yesterday, as I unpacked my last wrinkled shirt and hung it in the closet in my dorm room, I realized how good it felt to be home. It’s back to school for a vacation from the vacation. “Bad with math?” he asked. “Terrible!” I said. “What about you?” “I don’t have $20 worth of nickels in my pocket for nothing,” he responded. “How many times have you taken al gebra?” I asked. “Three,” he said. “And how many times have you dropped it?” “Three,” he said again. At that point, I noticed that we were both wearing calculator watches. As it turned out, both of us had struggled with math so much over the years that now the simple act of count ing out change has us petrified with fear — so petrified we avoid counting on: change by using only paper mow Consequently we end up with a lou change in our pockets. That afternoon turned out tobegooi therapy for me. I learned howtospn others like myself with poor math The obvious way is to listen forjinglin; as they walk, but that will not work ini situations. For example, what if you are inakij classroom and everyone is sitting donn If it is any type of math course, theyw! always be the ones with the terrifo looks on their faces. If it is a classthatir volves any type of creative skills, tto will be the ones with the big smiles pa; ing rapt attention to what the teachers saying. I also learned how to spot peoplewli f ake bad math skills to avoid embarrass ment. Before any math test, many® dents w ill moan and wail about howto: at math they are. Of those complaininf very few will actually be telling it truth. Most of them are faking bad mat abilities so that the rest of the class ssi not skin them alive. The only way to recognize who islet ing the truth is to watch them durin the test. The ones who were tellingik truth will stare at their papers in undis guised horror, their eyes bulging widi and their pencils mot ionless, f he fate will briskly write their answers whit! smiling contentedly. Please remember who the fakes ares that if you ever see them again, youcaf run them over with'your car. By the time lunch was over, my frieK and I had consoled each other. Vi agreed that people who were goodi math were missing out on life in way and that they are probably boring* parties, too. We also decided that Go: had not intended for the human ani® to be any good at mathematics. Whyelsj had he given us so many fingers i count on? After coming to these conclusion! my friend and I paid the bill with papt money and then jingled and clank our way out of the restaurant with eve* more change in our pockets than fore. That was almost two years agi don’t know about him, but I still ha« one algebra course looming ahead f the distance before I can graduate. With any luck, my future math it structor will read this and perhapss some compassion to me. If he or does, I solemnly promise that l willin' t hat instructor several beers. With paper money, of course. As with all columns, opinions & pressed by Guest Columnists are •- necessarily those of The Battalion. Pf sons interested in submittingguestci umns should contact the Opinion Editor at 845-3314. he i alan D< Vlosl be j< prov goin year A. retai tiom ure i resu 1 C HCT^TCTt FP9T Timely excuse for Christmas, but So, I went out and bought my own food, “waved” it and sat down to eat in front of the television. Of course I had to turn up the volume to drown out The Battalion per operated as a community service to Texas A&M and Bryan-College Station. (USPS 045 360) Member of Texas Press Association Southwest Journalisrn Conference The Battalion Editorial Board 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, fac ulty or the Board of Regents. Ellen Hobbs, Editor Juliette Rizzo, Opinion Page Editor Fiona Soltes, Citv Editor Drew Leder, Chuck Squatriglia. News Editors Steven Merritt, Sports Editor Kathy Haveman, Art Director The Battalion also serves as a laboratory newspaper for students in reporting, editing and photography classes within the Department of Journalism. The Battalion is published Monday through Friday during Texas A&M regular semesters, except for holidav and examination periods. 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