chaparral summer 2010

A College of DuPage Student MagazineSummer 2010 Volume 17, Issue 2

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22 Chaparral Student Magazine/College of DuPage

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33Summer 2010

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44 Chaparral Student Magazine/College of DuPage

June 19, 2010July 17, 2010

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Call today to learn more our economic relief programs!

55Summer 2010

88

C R E D I T SHattie Buell

Rebecca ElkinsBianca GarciaKristy PearsonPaige Pignaz

Vikaas Shanker

Melissa PointerMatt Wells

Steve Bert

Steve BertVikaas Shanker

Steve Bert

Joanne Leone

Cathy [email protected]

College of DuPage 425 Fawell Blvd.

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Chaparral is a student magazinepublished through the Courier

Student Newspaper and Journal-ism 1115 at College of DuPage.

A COLLEGE OF DUPAGESTUDENT MAGAZINE

88A deep breath of Alaska –A frigid setting leads to an interest-ing lifestyle

1100But I couldn’t shake the feeling –Gambling troubles unfold into a fi-ancee’s loss

1144INDIA: Steaming oriental spiceflavors volunteer’s venture intothe poverty and simplicity ofrural living –New parts of a known country givesa different perspective

2244Grandpa Glenn: Beach and be-yond, guardian serves as rock ofages –A trip with Grandpa reveals frustration and love

2266Foreign Attraction: An Americanin Shanghai –Visiting Grandma proves to be avaluable cultural mayhem

3366Parasailing through paradise inthe blink of an eye –The prospect of flight in Mexico ex-cites a teenager

3388Family instincts –Orion was the dog she didn’t like,but he was still family

4422Somewhere between the Militaryand a haunting bout of indecision–A struggle to join the armed forcesmakes way for a new path

By Rebecca Elkins

By Melissa Pointer

By Vikaas Shanker

By Kristy Pearson

By Hattie Buell

By Bianca Garcia

By Paige Pignaz

By Matt Wells

SUMMER 2010 VOLUME 17 ISSUE 2

1144

C O N T E N T S

2266

3388

4422

3366

2244

1100

A DEEP BREATH OF

Two college students atthe University of Alaska,

Fairbanks brave theminus 40 degreesFahrenheit cold in

nothing but boxers,socks, boots and winter

hats. UAF dubs itself“America’s Artic

University.” Out of the9,282 students that

attended UAF last year,only half were residents

of Alaska.

11II ccoouulldd ggoo ttoo sslleeeepp aatt ssiixx iinn tthhee eevveenniinnggtthhee nniigghhtt bbeeffoorree bbeeccaauussee iitt wwaass aallrreeaaddyy aass

ddaarrkk aass mmiiddnniigghhtt......22

A DEEP BREATH OF

y first impression of Alaska when I got off theplane in December and looked out the airport

windows was, �Look at all that snow!� Thick and white, the snow fell more like big dollops

of rain rather than fluffy flakes. It iced the earth likesmooth vanilla fondant on a cake.

Outside the Fairbanks airport, I experienced a cold fardifferent from sweet home Chicago. No wind or bone-chilling pain to make my insides shiver.

The temperature felt as if I had just stepped into agiant refrigerator and only would be able to handle theextreme temperature for a short time. As my mother,sister, my new mother�s husband and I drove throughFairbanks, all of the Christmas decorations, lights andwith every square inch of ground being completelywhite, I could not help but feel like I was now drivingthrough a giant Christmas card.

My mother�s husband was not kidding when he saidthat during certain months of the year it was dark allday. 1Give it a year or two,2 I remember him saying,1Then you�ll get used to it.2 I never did.

I moved to Alaska when I was fourteen, and by thetime I got to college I felt the effects of winter as Inever had while I was in high school.

In high school, there was always a Junior ROTC prac-tice, competition in Anchorage to attend and friends totalk to, but no responsibility to take care of the car.

Now in college, I had a car, a job, class, and responsi-bility to get out of bed on time. None of these things

were too hard to manage during the spring, summerand part of fall, but once November set in I could feelthe winter3s breath hitting me hard.

Getting up to go to class at the University of Alaska,Fairbanks, in the middle of December should not bethe chore that it is. I could go to sleep at six in theevening the night before because it was already asdark as midnight, and wake up at nine in the morning,still feeling as if I had not gotten enough sleep. When I looked out my bedroom window, it was still asdark as midnight and I would have to check my clocknumerous times before I believed it actually was morn-ing.

Alaskan late falls and winters made my getting-up rit-ual sluggish, although I normally am a morning person.As I slowly arose, I had trouble finding some motiva-tion to get moving, with times so bad that I had toforce myself just to sit up in bed.

For five years, it was strange to have no sun to signalmy morning wake up schedule. Cabin fever hit mehard, too, making the house feel smaller than it was,even for one person.

After I got dressed, I trudged outside to warm up mycar. Before I even opened the door all the way, thecold hit me like a bullet, causing me to stumble back-ward. As I assessed the temperature, I determinedwhether to let my car run for thirty minutes or less

see ‘icebox’ page 44

M by Rebecca Elkins

ALASKA

Sright.

him

somethinglost track of time.

shakefeeling

thecouldn’tI

SSomething didn’t feel rriigghhtt.. It

wasn’t that I couldn’t reach

hhiimm; he could have been tied up

with ssoommeetthhiinnggand lloosstt track of time.

By Melissa Pointer

aarrrryy==ss bbooddyy wwaass ffoouunnddiinn hhiiss ccaarr jjuusstt aafftteerr mmiiddnniigghhttoonn AApprriill 3300,, 22000011,, bbyy aa ffoorreessttpprreesseerrvvee ooffffiicceerr rreettuurrnniinngg ttootthhee ssttaattiioonn aafftteerr aann eeiigghhtt--hhoouurr sshhiifftt.. WWhheenn hhee hhaadd sseeeenn tthhee ccaarr

ppaarrkkeedd nneeaarr tthhee rriivveerr eeaarrlliieerrtthhaatt aafftteerrnnoooonn,, tthhee ooffffiicceerrtthhoouugghhtt iitt bbeelloonnggeedd ttoo ssoommee--oonnee wwaallkkiinngg aa ddoogg.. SSeeeeiinnggtthhee ccaarr ssttiillll tthheerree aatt mmiidd--nniigghhtt,, tthhee ooffffiicceerr iinnvveessttiiggaatt--eedd..AAss tthhee ooffffiicceerr kknnoocckkeedd oonn

tthhee wwiinnddooww,, hhee ggoott nnoo

rreessppoonnssee ffrroomm LLaarrrryy==ss rreecclliinn--iinngg bbooddyy iinn tthhee ppaasssseennggeerrsseeaatt.. HHee ooppeenneedd tthheeuunnlloocckkeedd ccaarr ddoooorr ttoo aawwaakkeennLLaarrrryy,, bbuutt iinnsstteeaadd ssaaww aannaasshheenn ffaaccee aanndd ffeelltt tthhee ccoollddddrryy sskkiinn wwiitthh hhiiss ffiinnggeerrttiippss..TThhee rraaddiioo wwaass ssttiillll oonn,, ffiillll--

iinngg tthhee ccaarr wwiitthh tthhee ssmmooootthhccoouunnttrryy ssoouunndd ooff TTiimmMMccGGrraaww.. AAss ppaarraammeeddiiccssrreemmoovveedd LLaarrrryy==ss bbooddyy ffrroommtthhee ccaarr,, aa ddeeppuuttyy ssaaww tthheehhaannddwwrriitttteenn ssuuiicciiddee nnoottee

see ‘suicide’ page 12

L

shakefeeling

thecouldn’t

wrapped around his driver=s license in his shirt pock-et. Larry=s parents, Edie and John, knocked on my door

at 8 a.m. My heart began to race as I searched Edie=sface for a clue as to what she wanted to talk about.It looked as if she had been crying, but she was calm. I asked if they had heard from Larry. ;Is he at the

hospital or in jail?< I asked as tears welled up in myeyes. She took my hands and said, ;Melissa, he=sdead. He killed himself last night.< Her words echoedin my head like a gunshot. I stood up and backedaway, dropping to my knees as if someone had

punched me in the stomach. I couldn=t breathe. Our wedding was less than three

months away. Edie hugged me as she knelt down. Imoved away and told her she was lying. Larry wouldnever take his own life. He wouldn=t be that cruel. I demanded to know where he really was. Edie just

put her arms around me again and told me every-thing would be okay as my thoughts drifted back to acouple days before.Larry had the day off and pleaded with me to call in

sick so we could spend the day together. It had beenmonths since we had a mutual day off. I convinced myself that my job would survive a day

without me and made the call. My kids were at their

Chaparral Student Magazine/College of DuPage1122

‘suicide’ from page 11

Larry goofs around tothe fullest sporting awoman’s cheerleadingskirt. During his collegedays, Larry got topnotch exercise as partof Marquette’s cheerleading team.

Larry often visited BlackwellForest Preserve in Warrenvillefor a bit of fishing.

father=s house for the weekend, leaving the two of usto do as we wanted.We curled up on the couch with our coffee and a

newspaper for most of the morning. The sun beganto warm the outside air as we packed a lunch and ourfishing gear and headed to Blackwell Forest Preservein Warrenville. Fishing was Larry=s favorite relax-ation.Our fishing lines dangled in the murky water, as we

sat on the warm rocks by the lake and talked aboutthe future. I had three kids already, but he wanted a full house.

I agreed to maybe one or two more. Somehow ourconversation drifted to the distant future and each ofour funerals. ;You can just put me in a pine box andsend me down the river,< Larry said with a smile. Ismiled back at him as I told him I wanted a big funer-al, unlike the small wedding I preferred. Larry laughed as he pointed out that I wanted more

of a celebration for my death than my marriage. Itold him that I would be dead at my funeral andwouldn=t have to makesmall talk with boringpeople. Larry agreed I had a

good point but stillinsisted on a big wed-ding. We returnedhome after dinner towatch a couple ofmovies before bed, butspent a sleepless nightin each other=s compa-ny….Edie=s voice brought

me back to the presentwith talk of funeral andburial arrangements. We selected red and white car-nations, in contrast to the red and white roses Larryand I had planned for our wedding. Edie suggested cremation, pointing out a beautiful

urn. I told her that Larry didn=t want to be cremated.He wanted to be buried in a Catholic cemetery. Sheput her arm around me and asked what casket I likedbest. We finally decided on an elegant pine box, one that

matched Larry=s childhood bedroom set and still fitinto his joking wish of being put in a pine box.…Only the day before, Larry dropped me off at

work and promised to pick me up when my shift wasover at 6 p.m. He was going home to rest and knew Iwould be tired after working all day and not sleepingthe night before. After my shift I walked outside and didn=t see him.

By 6:30, I figured he didn=t wake up on time, so Icalled his cell phone. By 7:30, with no answer fromhis phone, I took the train home. After a short walkfrom the train, I arrived home and saw my car in thedriveway, but not his. I went inside to see if there was a note, but found

no clue as to where he was. I called his cell again butthere was still no answer.Something didn=t feel right. It wasn=t that I couldn=t

reach him, he could have been tied up with some-thing and lost track of time. I couldn=t shake the feel-ing, so I decided to check our favorite fishing spotswithout finding him. I then realized that the cash for our rent was miss-

ing, which meant that he had gone to the casino togamble. I went back to the car, hoping to find himbefore all the money was gone.As I walked into Hollywood Casino, I saw a woman

we had seen gambling many times. She said Larryhad been there but had left around 5 p.m. She said hedidn=t look too happy and figured he had lost that

day. Larry was a habit-ual gambler so we hadto limit his funds tocurb this problem. Ishouldn=t have left themoney in the house.

By 10 p.m., I fig-ured he was sittingsomewhere feelingguilty for gamblingaway our rent money,unable to face me. Idrove around untilmidnight looking forhim, finally goinghome to rest.

Something needed to be done about his problem. Hewas a gambling junkie looking for his next fix. Whydid I not see this before?

After the funeral, I was given a few minutes alonewith Larry before the burial. I wanted to touch him,to kiss him and wake him from his sleep. I wantedthis to be a bad dream, a nightmare from which Iwould awake. I wanted to go back to Christmas morning, before

his gambling became an obsession. I reached into hiscasket and touched his face, remembering the morn-ing he asked me to marry him…

…The warmth of the light radiates through thewindow of the quiet house as the aroma of baconand eggs tempts me to begin the day instead of snug-gling deeper under the covers. His footsteps come

Summer 2010 1133

I wanted to to touch him, to kiss

him and wake him from his sleep. I

wanted this to be a bad dream, a

nightmare from which I would

awake.

“

”

see ‘suicide’ page 45

a Sventure into the poverty

and simplicity of rural living

teamingoriental

flavors spice

volunteer’s

See story on next page


The Bhagirathi (Ganges) River is considered a holy river that harbors spiritual cleansing powers. Nestled in theHimalayas, Vikaas chose this location in the town of Uttarkashi to take a serene dip.

ark red dust hit my face as I stuck my head outthe withered bus window and sniffed the distinctaroma of dew, diesel and nature in northern

India.I had spent two days crisscrossing Delhi with the six

women IOd be traveling with to the Himalayas. Endlessplots of rice fields beyond the current mountain unfoldedamid little brick huts meant to be wells and temples tothe Vedic gods, Devi Matha and Hanuman Ji.Despite the loud, tense roar of the bus engine, I was

calm and resolute as I felt this was how the world shouldbe. All I could think was Lshanti, -pronounced Nshan-thiO.shanti, shanti �peace, peace, peace�.M More than 70 percent of India lives in rural areas and I

never had a chance to see the heart and people of theland when I had visited my relatives in the urban areas.This is one of the things I pined for most. I wanted to seepeople farming rice. I wanted to hear herders screech LYAAHPPPM to moun-

tain goats. I wanted tosmell the spicy potatoeswafting with monsoonrains. Being a devotedpractitioner of SanathanDharma �Hinduism�, Iwanted to know how vil-lagers with very littlemonetary wealth livedand how they practicedHinduism. Did religionhave any effect on theirlives? I needed to experience

the answers myself, andalthough I never told myparents about my desire,I secretly wanted to tra-verse outside the citiesand towns of Delhi, Allahabad and Hyderabad and livewith the Indians I admired most: those with close tonothing. Whether I went with my mom and brother, or my

whole family, Bharath Matha �Mother India� has alwaysbeen about meeting relatives and visiting the middleclass places of my parentsO upbringing. I always visit my uncleOs two-story home in Allahabadwith as much square-footage as a small elementaryschool in the United States. A small garden with tropical plants in front of his house

adds brilliant color to the black and white exterior. Of allthe massive rooms, my favorite has a long ramp leadingto the second floor, acting as an indoor balcony. Like most middle-class homes in India, it has a small frontgate that has to be manually opened. Servants maintainthe place.I wanted to see the Lother IndiaM in the summer of

2008 after my sophomore year in college so I acceptedthe invitation by my friend Pooja to join four other stu-dents from across America in a one-month volunteereffort in Sidhbari, India, a village of villages. It would be Pooja, her older sister Poonam, her friend

Supriya, me from the Chicago area, PoojaOs cousin sisterEkta from Florida, Toral from Texas, and Veena fromCalifornia. We volunteered for specific departments in an organi-

zation called Chinmaya Organization for RuralDevelopment �CORD� located in the state of HimachalPradesh. We would accompany paid workers on assign-ments in the villages to provide solutions to village-prob-lems and improve logistics and infrastructure within theorganization. The goal was to help the villagers in Himachal Pradesh

become more literate, healthy and self-sufficient. We lived near the Chinmaya Mission Ashram, a reli-

gious community in the beautiful backyard canvas of thelower Himalyas.

Sidhbari village sitsby mountains thatformed a protective wallagainst harsh weather,nomadic invaders andculture clash for thenorthern garden ofAshram. It is a perfectsetting for great sagesto meditate.

I spent the first weekon a mini-internshipwith my uncleOs engi-neering company,Global EconomicAdvantage in Delhi. Itopened my eyes to thetechnical perfection

needed to plan power plant pipes, but also built my long-ing for something that took me out of my comfort zoneof air conditioning, e-mail, and smooth ground. During the second week, I met with my extended fami-

ly and got to see my three lovable cousins, Shubham,Raghav and Manas. Raghav constantly asked me, LViky D chalo, cricket

khel-the! �LetOs go, letOs play cricket!�M He brought hiswell-even bat and weOd play with practice rubber-corecricket balls and a stack of bricks for stumps. Playing cricket was always one of my favorite things to

do whenever I visited India. ItOs the sport of the country,and to partake in the rush of taking a wicket �strikingsomeone out�, hitting a sixer �like a home run�, or avoidgetting hit by a bowl �pitch� made me feel like a breed ofthe nation my parents and cousins called home.

Summer 2010 1177

I wanted to feel the presence of the

Himalayan sages who formed the

spiritual doctrines thousands of

years ago by which I live my life

today.

“

”

D

see ‘India’ page 20

It all felt familiar to me.I longed for the moment when we would get on the

bus to smell the three states of India weOd be crossingbefore reaching Dharamsala. I wanted to feel the pres-ence of the Himalayan sages who formed the spiritualdoctrines thousands of years ago by which I live my lifetoday.After I met up with Pooja and the others in Delhi, we

spent two days roaming the city sights, and then traveledby night bus to Dharamsala, a major city in HimachalPradesh. We took a winding cab ride around grassy, farmed hills

and mountains to Sidhbari to begin our volunteer work.I slowly woke from my peaceful nap on the bus as

Toral, a small med-student from Texas with a bright, con-stant smile and a joyous personality, accidentally nudgedme. We were almost at Dharamsala, and I rubbed my eyes

to see the changed landscape since passing the state ofPunjab. My hands were covered in a layer of dirt rubbedoff my face, the effect of an open window during anight-long ride. After we reached Dharamsala and took the hour-long

cab ride to Sidhbari, I witnessed the small entrance to thereclusive, reverent area that was the Chinmaya MissionAshram. The ground was either brown with a dirt path,or green with long grass and weed-strewn plants.Outside the gate, a small shack with tin roofing sold friedfoods in the calm village center that barely contained fivesmall shops. We were assigned to a small, half-finished, four-room

bungalow next to the Chinmaya Mission Ashram in thecompany of wasps, army ants, parasite-infested snails,spiders the size of a computer mouse, and geckos thatroutinely roamed the walls to feast on the smaller crit-ters. The bungalow was sparse K bare rooms, bare walls, and

a bare kitchen, and no appliances. But we had three bath-

rooms, only one of them with a sit-down toilet. The other two weresquatting LlatrinesM that posed quite a

problem for the women. LI donOt have a problem,M I said, drawing their ire. LYou can aim!M said Supriya, a med-student in Chicago.

SupriyaOs bubbly yet sarcastic humor kept us entertainedthrough the clash of cultures.As the only male, I got a room to myself while the

women split two rooms among the six of them. We slepton foldable metal cots in our barren, white-paintedrooms with just a couple of bed sheets and a small pillow.Outside the house, we discovered stairs to the flat top

of the bungalow that joined a small path to the big roadconnecting CORD, the Ashram and the house. Despite the nightmarish rain I heard about on the way,

the weather was hot, dry and full of life. The hum ofunknown insects muffled a distant cowOs mooing. Outside the bungalow, a long field reminded me of

Springbrook Prairie near the Department of MotorVehicles in Naperville, but with a serene quality that theIllinois park could not emulate. It was a feeling of wildness that only nature was in con-

trol over here, untainted by the human hands in myLgoodM U.S. life. I got my first taste of living in the bungalow on the sec-ond day in Sidhbari when I washing my own

clothes…without a machine. My aunt in Delhi had


‘India’ from page 20

Conversing and enjoying mango ina bungalow near the ChinmayaMission Ashram, four young vol-unteers relax after a day’s work.Nearly empty, the bungalow hasbare rooms, bare walls and noappliances.

During a “Mahila Mandal,” or a ladiesmeeting, Poonam gets feedback on how to make meetings more effective for villagers.

showed me how to wash clothes using water, a bucket,powdered detergent and a scrubber, but I still felt com-pletely useless. I was nervous about hanging my clothesnext to those of the women for fear of them finding outI was washing-disabled. After morning prayers at the Ashram, I took out half

my clothes from the lone hiking backpack, filled anempty bucket with hot water from the geysers in anoth-er bathroom, soaked my clothes, and took out a blueshirt and dropped some detergent on it. I didnOt particularly like the shirt, so it was okay if I

completely screwed up. I scrubbed the shirt hard with a rock I found and

cleaned outside. �If I had only known that the womenhad scrubbers already.� Occasionally, I squeezed the shirt and smacked it on the

concrete floor. My knees hurt from bending over thetask. My face flinched from the soapy water, splashing allover me in the 10 square-foot bathroom. Very similar to weeding the lawn, it was physically tax-

ing as my knees ached from bending down, although itbrought certain calm to my mind. After the blue shirtwas done, I proceeded to my boxers, jeans and under-shirts. The next day after hanging them out to sun-dry, they

reeked with a stench worse than when they were dirty.At this point, I found it appropriate to call my friend,Ruchi, who was living in India from the nearest village

center as soon as possible to solve the mystery. It took her two minutes to stop laughing after I told

her about the rock. LFungus, silly!M she laughed. Eating Indian-style took some adjustment. A day later

in the dining hall, I saw Kapila Mausi take some hot,creamy lentil soup, or dal, and pour it onto my plate. Iwas used to eating roti �bread� and kadu sabzi �cookedpumpkin� with my hands, but never dal, the deliciouschunky soup. As Toral sat next to me, I observed how she cupped her

hands and folded her thumb firmly into her palm. Shescooped the dal mechanically as a hungry constructioncrane would dig into industrial dirt. Quickly, to preserve every drop of dal on her hand, she

raised her fingers to gently lie on her lower lip, slightlyangled her hand upwards and let the watery-part flow onher tongue. She sucked slowly to help the liquid reachher throat. Her thumb gently swept the chunky lentil outof her scooped palm and fingers into her mouth. After the beautiful demonstration, Toral tore a piece of

roti and went about the rest of her meal. I looked at my bowl and wished I could just ask for one

of the three spoons the kitchen actually had. But I didnOtwant to go back. I was here and wanted to live like vil-lagers to savor the experience of my forefathers.

Summer 2010 1199see ‘India’ page 22

Workers from Chinmaya Organization for Rural Development (CORD) discuss ways to educate select vil-lagers on certain topics so they can disperse knowledge and techniques to the rest of the village.

Imagining a psychological beatdown if I showed every-one in the dining hall that I couldnOt eat simple dal, Icupped my right hand to make sure the crevices betweenmy fingers were airtight and dove in. The dal was relatively hot, but I was immune to the

temperature from countless hours spent washing dishesback at home. My hand jumped out and as I brought myfingers to my mouth, I closed my eyes and nearly stuckmy whole hand inside. Despite that, what seemed like tablespoons of dal splat-

tered my nose and chin. Some of the warm liquid hit the

inside of my cheeks, allowing me to slush it around withmy tongue while brushing the remaining chunky lentilsinto my mouth. Everyone was too busy eating to note my disastrous

initiation into a new-old culture for me. LIOll try again,M Itold myself humbly. Each volunteer was assigned to a different department.

With the most experience in the Hindi language, I wasassigned to the Panchayat Raj local governor sector ofCORD where villagers are LsensitizedM about how not toget fooled by their elected leaders. As a LfieldM job worker, I went with CORD worker Ajit

Bhaiyya, to the villages in the Kangra District of


‘India’ from page 21

Waste from the brick enclosed latrinefunnels into one of two drums. Wasteis diverted from drum to drum everyfive years to allow for the waste in thefilled drum to decompose.

Himachal Pradesh to inform villagers of the newNational Rural Employment Guarantee Act. NREGA guarantees employment from the government

on public works projects for 100 days to eligible villagersin India. On the first couple of trips, I dressed in khaki dress

pants and a collared shirt. But the hot and humid climatequickly transitioned me to shorts and a t-shirt. In the beautiful village of Jheol, we stopped at the vil-

lage center where a public building sheltered Ajit Bhaiyyaand me from the blistering sun. Ajit chatted with someother workers from CORD on the patio about recruitingvillage volunteers. The plush green earth protected by the canvas of huge

lemon trees distracted me. Off in the distance, two vil-lage children not above theage of 10 threw rocks atthe tree branches to jar thelemons loose. Two horses grazed the

lawn while to the side ofthe house on a hill, a vil-lager led his goats along anarrow path. No matterhow small his task seemed,the goat-herderOs move-ments showed a stern loveas he set a hand on thecracked wooden stakewhere he tied the goats. After the meeting, Ajit

and I set off to find thehouse of the Pradhan�political-leader� of the village. We traveled the goatpath with a small shop housing vegetables and a smallgarden to the side. A man sat inside drinking a bottle ofThums Up, the sweet cola equivalent in India. Down a winding rock path, we sifted through alleysbetween small houses and a small stream where twowomen were washing clothes. LWhere is the house, Ajit?M I asked him in Hindi. He

told me to speak to him in English so he could practiceconversation. LI donOt know,M he answered. LItOs okay, IOll just ask

someone here,M he said, spotting an elderly woman indark green carrying a copper jug full of water on hershoulder. She pointed us to a bigger house with a largeyard full of yellow daisies. A beautiful girl in her upper teens with deep hazel eyes,

a slim figure and a bright yellow and orange sari cameout and smiled brightly as she saw us. She quickly dartedinside to get her aunt who with a similar clean smile,pushed us inside the mud-brick house. The house was wallpapered with pictures of Vedic gods.

A huge bed spanned at least 80 percent of the room. Asmall fan was hinged to the ceiling loosely with exposed

wires as it rotated unevenly like a half-spun top. She offered the customary tea. Sometimes, we visited

five to six houses in a day so I would drink seven to eightcups of the world-famous Kangra Tea. We ate our packed lunches in the home while Ajit and I

asked about how the village is doing and if there wereany problems. The Pradhan said that the village was doing much bet-

ter after a torrential rain, but that it polluted a source forclean drinking water that was becoming scarce. Villagers relied upon her to fix any problems in the com-munity. She brushed off other questions quickly and seemed

more interested in me. LYou probably have a biggerhouse?M she asked in Pahadi, a local mix of Hindi, Punjabi

and Sanskrit. I knew Hindi and a

little Sanskrit so Icould understandmost of what the vil-lagers said. Most vil-lagers could under-stand Hindi, so I wasable to communicateto them with little dif-ficulty. I told her about my

house: about the fourbedrooms, three bath-rooms, tiled and car-peted floors and agarage with three cars.Her eyes opened wide

and I saw a look of wonder and amazement sparkle overher face. I was HER role model. I had what she nevereven dreamed of. Despite being the Pradhan, what I thought was com-

monplace was more than she probably could attain in herlifetime. All I could do was think, LThanks, Dad, for givingme…stuff.M Her niece sat on the bed next to a wooden stand hold-

ing our empty cups of tea. I met eyes with her and sheresponded with an intense smile. Her cute, small noseflared, moving her gold-colored nose ring that reflectedthe intense sunlight seeping through a small, barred win-dow. LMy god!M I thought, LHimachalis are beautiful!M We were fortunate to meet other people of our age �in

their 20s� who volunteered at CORD through separatemeans. Saurabh was a funny and active guy from NewJersey who heard about Ashram through ChinmayaMission in the United States. Only a couple years older than I was, he often wore

basketball shorts and t-shirts and brought his laptop fullof Seinfeld episodes and movies. Because he was the only

Summer 2010 2211

No matter how small his task

seemed, the goat-herder’s

movements showed a stern love as

he set a hand on the cracked wooden

stake where he tied the goats.

“

”

see ‘India’ page 24

guy from the states besides me, I found him as a relieffrom the women. He had a cool swagger about him that made him seem

as if he were perfectly in sync with India and volunteer-ing. After a particularly long day for both of us, we took

some chairs up to the flat room of the bungalow on astarry night. We talked about religion, CORD and sports,especially the NBA Finals that were going on at the time. We had no way to hear the results so we talked about

the winning potential of games between the Lakers andCeltics. Even in the lower Himalayas, it was still refresh-ing to think about something back home, especiallysports. The first day we met Saurabh, he raved about the deli-

cious LmomosM that were served in one of the eateries atYol. Momos are Tibetan dumplings filled with a spicy mix of

cabbage, tofu, carrots, garlic, ginger, mushrooms andvegetables steamcooked or sometimes fried.

He took all of us to the eatery in Yol where we all sataround the small table in the 200 square-foot brick shacklined with brown tiled walls, fans and an A/C unit, and asmall window with blinds. Yol was a cantonment �military station� established by

the British and larger town than Sidhbari. To get there,we walked around two kilometers on a rugged pathbarely laid out with stones through the water marshes ofrice fields and a small patch of forest.Yol featured a number of medicine, shoe and toiletry

shops, small Indo-Chinese eateries, two Internet cafIs,and a Buddhist monastery in the center housing a mod-ern Walgreens-type shop and a small restaurant. The cook came out in white loose cloth pants and an

undershirt blotched with mustard yellow stains of cook-ing oil. He had a barely noticeable mustache thattwitched as he smiled at the customers Saurabh broughtfor him. The momos cost ten rupees each which roughly came

out to 25 cents. First we ordered 10 steamed and 10 friedmomos. It took the cook approximately 15 minutes to

Gathering for a collective group meeting in the CORD headquarters once a month, heads of sanitation, govern-ment, female foeticide, HIV/AIDS and other sectors give progress reports about work they’re doing in villages.

‘India’ from page


prepare the steamed ones. As he brought them out, we were all skeptical of the

quality. Saurabh took a momo, dipped it in a spicy greenchutney and devoured the appetizer-meal within 10 sec-onds. Savory smells of ginger, soy and mushrooms filled the

air as Saurabh bit into the momo. It peaked my senses soI chomped on it. The burning hot filling scorched mytongue briefly before it released the irresistible combina-tion of flavors. IOve had flavorful spicy samosas and tasty Indian

sweets, but this simple dumpling drew my love at firstbite. By the end of the day, the eight of us had disposed of

40 steamed and 20 fried momos. The little snacks became addictive. After volunteering

in the field, I stopped at Yol instead of getting off theclosest bus stop to Sidhbari. I found a cheaper vendor ofmomos selling them at five rupees a piece. He also wasopen almost all day whereas the cook at the eatery wason vacation for most of our stay. The only drawback was that he was a street vendor

who used ingredients that were sketchy health-wise. Atthat point, I took the chance with little to no regret. Ineeded my momos. I usually bought an order of ten and ate them as I made

the same trek stone to stone in the rice fields with freshdew hanging in the damp air from Yol to the bungalow.The month went by quickly under the influence ofsteaming oriental flavors assembled in a momo.I left India, knowing that I had experienced her to the

fullest. It couldnOt get much better.

After a month spent helping villagers understand the impact of new government policies, Vikaas readies hisdeparture from CORD.

Summer 2010 2233


GrandpaGlenn

By Kristy Pearson

guardian serves asBeach and beyond,

of agesrock

Grandpa Glenn was the rock of my family andthe best vacation organizer that I knew. His sense ofadventure was legendary in my family circle, butwhat I most admired was his free spirit.

The summer before I entered eighth grade, GrandpaGlenn rented a house on Lake Michigan for a largefamily vacation. My friend Kirsten and I left with mygrandfather and Grandma Betsey on a Mondaymorning.

The rest of my family, including my aunt andcousins, were going to meet us there the next day.The ride took four hours but it felt like ten becausewe were so anxious to get to our destination.

It would be the last vacation that Grandpa Glennwould organize.

When we pulled into the driveway, the massivefront yard overwhelmed us. Tall trees took over andprovided shade to almost every inch of green grass.

The hammock between two trees looked very wel-coming.

As we walked into the house, the huge bay windowkitchen gave us a beautiful view of the ocean. I feltcalm lapping at my feet as we saw where the sky metthe ocean.

After exploring the rooms, Kirsten and I chose theone with bunk beds on the first floor. We threw oursuitcases onto the floor and rummaged for ourbathing suits.

We ran down to the lake but found the oceanfreezing cold, although that didn1t stop us from run-ning into the water after we warmed up in the sand.

We figured that it would be less cold if we wentunder right away. The cold eventually wore off and Iwas as happy as ever, nothing could have ruined thatday.

While we swam, my grandma and grandpa strolledalong the beach, hand in hand, looking for any inter-esting colored shells.

As the sun went down Kirsten and I made our wayback to the house for the spaghetti dinner that mygrandma was preparing.

That night my grandpa made a fire on the beachwhere we roasted marshmallows and talked aboutwhat the plans were for the next day.

We all woke up the following morning and walkedalong the beach to a secluded pool of water that wasswimming with tadpoles.

Grandpa suggested that we go back to the housefor a bucket to catch the tadpoles as our pets for thenext few days.

I think we tried to feed them fish food the first fewdays, but we decided that it would be a good idea toput them back so they didn1t die.

The second day we were there, I got mad at mygrandpa for something I can1t remember anymore,but I know it was something silly.

After sulking in my room with Kirsten followingright behind me, I decided to go for a run to releasesome frustration and anger.

In a flash, I was off running down the secludedroad, without telling Grandpa or Grandma that I wasgoing.

I ran out of the thick forestry on part of the roadinto farmland where corn grew on my left and a barnwith grazing cows was on my right.

I thought it would be a good idea to run until I gotthat far, and then turn around so my Grandpa andGram would not be worried. Unfortunately, theyalready were.

I think I made it about a mile before my grandpar-ents and Kirsten pulled up in the car alongside me.Grandpa was furious. He told me to get into the car,but I was still furious and very stubborn as well.

I kept walking, so he had to tell me three or moretimes to get into the car before I finally obeyed. Hesaid that he was very upset that I had left withoutsaying anything to him and angry that I didn1t bringKirsten with me.

I started to feel guilty that I had made him worry. Ireally had thought it was not that big of a deal, but Iwas mistaken.

It was the only time I had ever seen him so upset. Iknew at that moment I would never again do any-thing so stupid.

Not a day goes by that I don1t think about him, andtalk to him all the time. Right after his death, Ithought he still could hear me.

I think I just do it for comfort and the off chancethat maybe he can actually hear me.

About six months after he died I was sleeping overat my Aunt Clare1s house in her spare bedroom. Tokeep my feet cool, I had extended them outside thecovers.

I was talking to my Grandpa about how much Imissed him when all of a sudden I felt someone tick-ling my feet. It was not just a tingly pins and needlesfeeling.

It was as if someone were standing at the end ofmy bed running fingers up and down my feet. I wasnot afraid because there was a sense of calm in theroom. I knew right away that it was Grandpa answering

me. I yelled out to my aunt that someone was justtickling my feet and we both paused in wonder for amoment.

She said she believed me about ten minutes after-ward when she felt someone tickling her feet.

Spring 2010 2255

I attempted to down Shanghai in one day. And the day after that, and the

Foreign Attraction

An American

day after that, and that... and I still donKt believe IKve got enough of China.

Above: Hattie and her grandma posebetween two Shanghai acquaintances.

Left to right:A child grabs the rails of a train

car in the “di tie,” China’s subway system.

A man flies his kite at a “gong yuan”or a public park.

Basketball is extremely popular in China.Here one man stuffs another’s shot

while playing basketball ona public court in Shanghai.

s an American visiting Shanghai,China, last year, I expected only

two things: bad airplane food and shortpeople.I was unbelievably correct on both

accounts twenty-five hours later, andwas lacking sleep and nutrition.Without knowing the language, and

having a fear of dying in a freakishlyforeign manner, I had boarded an inter-national flight to visit my grandmotherwho had worked as a nurse in a Chineseclinic for the past eleven years.ChinaKs summer was muggy, very

muggy, in a David Copperfield pennilesspoverty and British dankness with pol-lution, smog and dirt gone tropic sort ofway. I was told later that under Mao�sreign, the birds were killed and theimpractical shrubbery removed.The amount of cheerful greenery was

unexpected, although China is now onthe bandwagon for going green.�While I was there, Shanghai was

preparing for the 2010WorldExposition that just opened inMay. Allover there were roads being torn up,construction being completed, renova-tions being added. It was awfully noisy.But China is intent onmaking a goodimpression on the world.�Polluted air blocked the missing sun-

light with dust and exhaust, although Istill managed to alternately burn andtan amid Chinese attempts to shield mypale skin with umbrellas.Pale is still very much Hin,I in China,

along with being tall and American. I

wasn�t as cool as much as I was a novel-ty with reddish-blonde hair, Grandmasaid.One man almost crashed twice while

passing us as he rode his bike. Grandmasaid the Chinese used to say hello to herwhen she first arrived, but not any-more. I replied to their HhelloI with HnihaoI �Chinese for HhelloI�, which madethem stare all the more.The only place I could get away from

curious eyes was in my GrandmaKsapartment. The building had six apart-ments to a floor, and we lived on thesixth floor. There were two elevators,but wemostly took the stairs onaccount of the elevators sometimessmelling like dog urine, and Grandmaalways wanting more exercise, any-ways.Whenmy Grandma was looking for

an apartment, she didn�t have muchchoice: it was the only one available. Itwas a small, two-bedroom place withgolden wood flooring and paintedwhite walls.The leather couch used to be white,

but was joining the floor, color-wise.The kitchen was as large as our smallliving room area with short, awkwardshelving, which gave us back crampsevery time we washed up.We had a short fridge and freezer, a

common Chinese convenience thesedays, and two gas burners. The kitchenwas square, leaving a lot of room in the

A

see ‘Shanghai’ page 28

by Hattie Buell

Shanghaiin

How to lose you cultural baggage in two months overseas

middle for people to watch while you cooked, I guess.We had a washing machine on the little porch outside ofthe kitchen, and there are no dryers in China.So we hung out all our laundry, despite my initial

embarrassment about the idea.We had to remember tobring the clothes in before night, otherwise the citywould fill themwith its industrial stench in the darkness.Our bedrooms were off of the living room. Each wasfilled with an enormous bed for reasons that remain amystery to all.I cannot say enough about the stress of trying to take

in everything on the first day. My grandmother wiselytold me to relax, but young, foolish people never listen.I attempted to down Shanghai in one day. And the day

after that, and the day after that, and that… and I stilldonKt believe IKve got enough of China.Every morning, I slept in until whenever, sometimes

waking up to the sunshine, and other times to the noisyjackhammering just outside.If both my Grandma and I awoke early enough, we

walked outside of the complex �there are no subdivisionsor individual housing, only walled compounds completewith guards and a gate�.Street vendors sold my favorite Hjian bing,I a savory

crepe sort of breakfast filled with what looked like thin,deep-fried crisps, pickled vegetables, egg, and a semi-sweet sauce similar to molasses.Although I thought at first that it was odd walking in

our silk pajamas to the vendors, it was a very Chinesecustom in the early morning and evening. I became used

to the idea ofrolling out of bed and onto the street.By ten oKclock, Chinese people changed into street

clothes. Being a foreigner, I could wear whatever I wishbecause it was widely accepted that foreigners neverknowwhat they�re doing.The Chinese, especially the young ones, take great care

to look good. I felt bested by their perfect skin, jet-blackhair, and fun outfits. The Chinese fashion philosophy is,Hthe more, the better.IFor girls, this means adorable heels, rich layering of pat-

terns and fabrics, fantastic color palettes, and lots ofaccenting with accessories.For guys, itKs a clean-cut, button-up shirt �all unbut-

toned except for the middle one!� with faux-designerjeans, and a large, patent leather purse.After breakfast, whether from the vendor or made by


‘Shanghai’ from page 27

Typical fashion for youngwomen is often “themore the better.” Thismeans adorable heels,fantastic color palettes,and lots of accenting withaccessories.

Typical fashionfor young men

is often aclean-cut, but-

ton-up shirtwith faux

designer jeans.This young

man is waitingfor a bus andis planning to

surprise hisgirlfriend with

flowers.

me or my Grandma, we would just sit with a cup of hotwater and decide what to do that day. The water isunsafe to drink in China, so it all must be boiled or deliv-ered by the water man. My first experience with the water man was fairly

stressful. Grandma and I were sleepily chatting on mybed one morning. And then! Someone knocked on thedoor. Grandma said it was probably her friend Maggie,and she rolled out of bed to get the door. Then she stopped. HItKs the water man!I she said. We

both panicked. Neither of us was dressed to get the door,much less for a strange Chinese man. The man kept knocking and knocking. Grandma

jumped back into bed. HYou get the door!I she told me. Iran into my room and grabbed a sweater and tried to putit on while running to the door and making my hair pre-sentable. When I got to the door, I found it locked. I didn�t know how to do the most basic things in China,

primarily because Grandma did it all, and one thing Inever learned was how to unlock the doors. I knew that it involved lots and lots of turning, and in

GrandmaKs case, muttering and then re-turning in theother direction. So I kept twisting and twisting doggedly.I tried the door every couple of turns, but to no avail. Hekept knocking and knocking, I kept hollering at Grandma,HHow do I open the door?!I, and she kept saying, HSayJLile, lile!K and turn it to the left!I So I stood there, shouting Hlile lileI ��wait, wait�� for all

I was worth and I turned that lock to the left. Turns out,Grandma actually meant my other left, so that rather puta damper on things. But I finally got the door unlocked,and opened it to see a small, old Chinese man, brownedby the sun. We smiled at each other, both very relievedthat I had finally opened the door. There�s no cold water in China. In fact, you�re hard-

pressed to find a cold beverage at all because the Chinesesay itKs very bad for your health. Lynn, whom I adoptedas my Chinese aunt, told me that the Chinese believe coldwill make the food in my belly congeal, resisting diges-tion and making my body weaker, and my skin worse. �They were always so worried for my skin. I suppose I

should have felt flattered. Instead I felt like an uncouth,ugly foreigner.�After we had relaxed and chatted for a bit, depending

on the day, we either prepared the house for guests thatevening, went shopping at Carrefour, visited Grandma�sfriends, or went to meetings at the international churchthat my Grandma attended.No Chinese people were allowed to go to the interna-

tional meetings, although internationals are allowed atChinese services. The Chinese government has designedits own Christian service that is non-threatening to thegovernment. Inspectors will drop in unannounced to check up on the

Chinesechurch. I vis-ited the Chinese churchtwice, not understanding a single word eithertime.Some days I had tutoring from a lovely Chinese girl

called Tiffany. She worked in the apartment complex as asecretary, and was very excited to meet me. I becamegood friends with her, joining her on some shoppingexcursions. My favorite memory was when she and her friend took

us to the Walking Street, a place without traffic rules,and thousands of people. Car and human pushed equallyfor dominance along the shop-lined streets. We won,probably because there were more of us walking, and wecreate a bigger fuss when hit. I picked up helpful phrases from the Chinese I met, who

were all very thrilled to have me try speaking those for-eign words. Most of the younger people knew roughEnglish because it is required in Chinese schools, althoughfluency is rare.Once a week I would go to PuXi �which for the

Shanghainese just means �the-other-side-of-the-river��for violin lessons. One thing had stood in the way of mygoing to China that I would miss two months of practic-ing my violin �I couldn�t take my violin along, but bor-rowed one while I was there�. Thankfully, my Grandma�sfriend has a son my age who also plays the violin. Duringmy two-month stay, I took his time slot for violin lessonsfor which he was grateful I found out later.My teacher, Chu Laoshi, was tall for a Chinese man

�meaning taller than I was�, who didn�t know one wordof English except for HOK!I It was always a relief whenone of us said HOK,I which meant we were finally on the

Summer 2010 2299see ‘Shanghai’ page 31

Hattie’s teacherChu Laoshi

provides anunforgettable

music experienceas Hattie learns

to play violinthrough a

tremendous language

barrier duringher two-

month stayin Shanghai.

On Walking Street in Shanghai no traffic rulesapply. Cars and pedestrians vie for dominancealong the shop-lined streets in search for food,beverage and fashion addendums.

same page. When he wasn�t saying �OK,� he was jabbering in

Chinese to Lily, the woman whose son also took lessonsfrom Chu Laoshi, or he was pinching my arm very hardto illustrate the need to play more vigorously.Although I had assumed the Chinese as cold and

reserved, I was surprised at their warmth and personali-ty. They were happy to be able to help me. After all, Iwas from America, land of dreams.My grandmotherKs influence in their lives helped my

transition into their hearts. Because they loved andrespected her, they loved me just as much. I wouldnKthave received as many gifts and as much special atten-tion from my Chinese acquaintances without theirwarm feelings toward her. Not only did her white hair earn respect, but the fact

that she was a foreigner also made her more intriguing. Old habits, old traditions, old beliefs, old ways all

remained. Walking through Shanghai streets, I saw tinyold women bent with age and hobbling on even tinierfeet. These women are from the old days, where a small

foot was a sign of status, and foot-binding was how yougot there. Although foot-binding has been illegal forthree generations, long-living reminders are evident. While small, wrinkled women are fading, bright,

attractive young women of modern Shanghai are prolif-erating in Westernized customs from America. They aremore public than previous generations in their displaysof affection as couples. They sit on each other�s laps inthe subway, they kiss, they do everything the genera-tions before them would keep private. While old tradi-tions still are respected, they are declining.I found my Americanism exhausting because I wasnKt

used to walking everywhere. Try walking around yourblock for most of the day. It gets boring after a while,and your soles will turn against you. ThatKs how I felt.Betrayed.It took an hour to get almost anywhere, with compli-

cated transfers mostly because no one spoke fluentEnglish. The Chinese would point in a direction for us tofollow, without a guarantee the second person wouldpoint the same way.The Chinese never admitted to being wrong, or that

they were at fault. Ever. If the builders put the PearlTower in the wrong place based on where they pointed,it wasnKt their fault. Throughout the trip, my grandmother and I kept sub-

consciously building up to the day where I would ven-ture out on my own. Grandma suggested that I go to



Summer 2010 3311

violin lessons by myself, but the closest I got to that wasgoing with Lily, and not Grandma.Finally, the day came after much planning. A meeting

place was decided through texting, and Grandma contin-ued to remind me of the route. I would walk to the 69bus stop, take it to the Hdi tie,I or subway, go on line 9,transfer to the green line, and then wait at a stop tomeet up with my friend TianKen. I gave myself two hours to get there, but it only took

an hour because I left before rush hour. So I sat and wait-ed, watching the fascinating people around me.During rush hour, people are everywhere, pressing

against you and looking at you. I ended up flushing andblushing from heat and embarrassment. Special peopleare hired by the subway authority just to push peopleinto the cars so the doors will close. The subway was incredibly stressful for me almost to

the point of panic. We were packed tightly so no oneneeded to hold onto anything. With the entire train full,there was no room for anyone to fall.In Chinese society, each person must

make room for himself or herself. Younger people do notneed to give up seats to older riders out of courtesy,although I did. Two working classes ride the subway. Men who

worked in offices wore short-sleeved dress shirts, oftencarried briefcases, had a pale complexion, and tended tobe tall. Men who worked outside in manual labor jobs allwore blue linen uniforms, sometimes rolled up at thesleeves and pant-legs. They were very dark brown fromthe sun and muscular. Often they didnKt bother with shirts, and I found them

to be more attractive than the boyish engineers. The restof the people were giggling schoolgirls going home, cutecouples, and older people with parcels.After waiting an hour, my friend called to tell me sheKd

be late because of the people jam. So I took a nap. TianKen was going to take me sight-seeing, in hopes of

buying some Converse shoes cheaply. I could only shopwith someone else. With my linguistic skills, the conver-sations with a vendor would go something like this: HHi,how are you? This one is different. How much? Hi! Howmuch? This is different. What? Hi! How are you? Ten!I I didn�t know many helpful words for bartering.When I finally saw TianKen, I wanted to jump up and

Chaparral Student Magazine/College of DuPage


A child clutches an interior rail during a ride on China’s suway or “di tie” during an atypically spacious commute.

3322

hug her. But the Chinese don�t hug too much so I justsmiled.She took me to a popular eating place where you line

up to order a number of soup- and meat-filled dumplings,and then stoop over and peek through a hole in the wallto get your food from the cooks. Once you get your food in a bowl, you get chopsticks

and continue to the back of the small, rectangular restau-rant to sit wherever thereKs room. I sat at a table with anolder, rushed man and a woman with a large bag. TianKen sat at the table next to me with some young

people, but we leaned close to talk. After some of thepeople had left, we scooted together to finish ourdumplings.I had some smaller street dumplings before with

Grandma that we ate while standing up on the bus. Afterwe had finished eating, we walked to another street-sideshop for more dumplings. I love dumplings! Imagine really good potstickers, but

with delicious meat soup filling, surrounded by a thick,rice dumpling. I ate like a queen in China.Afterward, we went shoe shopping where I was tempt-

ed by all the bright colors and clever styles. But I stuckwith the knock-off, powder-blue Chinese Converse froma shop that sold hightops that TianKen bargained down tothe equivalent of ten dollarsTian�en recommended wearing them as soon as possi-

ble, for Haren�t Converse supposed to be dirty and usedlooking?I She had definite opinions on all subjects. We went to a posh restaurant on top of an

old building, and sat there forso long thatTianKen

didn�t have time to take me home. �The buses stop run-ning at 11�. So she took me to my bus stop and saw meon. HDon�t get off until the end of the line,I she repeated

several times. Apparently, it is Chinese custom to walkyour guest to their transportation, or their house, afterentertaining them. Grandma and I would have walkedour guests to the bus stop, but they always felt so badabout it that we would just stop at the elevators.I met Grandma just inside the complex. She was wor-

ried about me and came to make sure I was okay. Wesaid, HNi hao,I to the guards and tiredly walked backhome.I always said HNi haoI to the guards, especially the

young, cute one. Grandma spoke to some of them, andthey were always jolly to be around in their hats andwhite gloves. One always was at attention, while one ortwo relaxed in the gatehouse. Sometimes they went on rounds about the complex,

but the only time I saw them in a building was an unfor-tunate time for me. I was moving frozen food fromsomeoneKs apartment on the second floor to ours on thesixth floor. I didn�t want to make lots of trips so I pushed the eleva-

tor button with my elbow, and teetered in. Elevatorsusually are empty during the day, but on this day therewere two men and a guard in the elevator.

Standing in the corner with my frozen food, Irealized that they were asking me something. HShenme?I I asked for HwhatI in Chinese. They gestured

up with quizzical faces. I nodded furiously and kept say-ing HTwo! Er! Two! Er!I alternating between Chinese

Summer 2010 3333


Above is a bowl of tofu soup..

An arrayof exoticChinesefoodsline the table. Hattie’spersonal favoritedish is freshdumplings.To her they’relike “really goodpotstickers, but withdelicious meat soup filling, surrounded bya thick rice.”

and English. After a short time filled with awkward, cross-cultural

miscommunication, I realized that they were asking me ifit was okay that they were going up, and if so, whichfloor would I like? I shut my mouth, leaned over andsmacked the H6I button, refusing to make eye contact. Itwas a quiet ride up to my floor.China was a continuous adventure of bumbling awk-

wardness for my grandma and me. We added a level ofhilarity to everything we did. Even walking would give usthe giggles, for neither of us are straight walkers; wesway from side to side, knocking each other out of ourtrajectory paths, and bumping into hapless Chinese.Add to this my grandma�s semi-deafness, and you get a

lot of very interesting situations. One day, taking the bus�HgonggongchicheI in Chinese� to the subway �HditieI�, Iwas chatting to my Grandma about getting ready thatday. She suddenly looked

at me, shocked, andbegan to laugh. I sighed,knowing she had mis-heard me, and askedher what she thought Ihad said. Turns out, shethought I had climbedonto the counters toput on my clothes.Because it was utterlyridiculous, we laughedquite a lot. Bemusedstares from the Asianpassengers made it hardto stop laughing. I thinkwe even got our cornerof the bus to start laughing awkwardly along with us.Sometimes we had very unfortunate luck on the sub-

way. Doors on either side of the subway alternately openat each stop, so you have to listen for the automatedvoice to say HzuoI �left� or HyouI �right� to queue up forthe proper door.Unless you�re facing the back of the subway. Then,

magically, your right becomes the left, and your left, theright. We never could get this right, and so we wouldend up standing patiently in front of a door only to turnaround to see everyone staring at us and the doorsbehind us about to close again. We then rushed frantically across the aisle to leap out

the door and hide behind pillars, laughing out of intenseembarrassment. Language made everything more interesting, and

exhausting. We don�t usually think about how draining it

is to be constantly guessing what the people around youare trying to say.It leads to a phenomenon I shall call, HForeign Idiot

Syndrome,I a problem that I think leads civilizations toassume that all other people groups are subhuman, andripe for conquering. When I spoke Chinese, I sounded like a two-year-old

and people naturally assumed I had a brain to match.We are heavily restricted in interacting, which can be

very frustrating. I had grown accustomed to assumingthat I really didn�t know what other people were trulysaying, and that they really didn�t understand what I wastrying to communicate either. Even to the point that when I got back home, I found

myself continuing to speak in very basic, short words,slowly and clearly with many hand gestures. I have onlyrecently regained my extensive, working English vocabu-lary. At times, I felt Shanghai allowed parts of my brain to

die because I wasn�t communicating complicated ideas orusing words with specificand detailed definitions. Iam now combattingHForeign Idiot SyndromeIwith my Chinese classes.

The two monthsthat I toured Shanghaiwas just enough time toflip-flop on my desire tostay there or come home.In the end, I was very sadto leave. I had fallen inlove with my life in China,and I miss it still.

Every day I wish thatI could go back. As mytime drew to a close, I

became melodramatic and wistful as I wandered aroundthe apartment, thinking everything I saw or did would befor the last time.After the initial wave of insecurity and fear in traveling

to a foreign country, there comes a period of rejoicingwhen your mind finally unfreezes to help you out withliving in a strange place. My mind kept supplying mewith Spanish and laughter, which wasn�t very helpful. I learned to understand the basics of the culture, the

most important rules, etc. and I had the marvelous free-dom of doing whatever I wanted with the excuse ofbeing a foreigner.I had a hay-day when I realized that I could pretty

much do anything I wanted with my excuse of being aforeigner. But then, after glutting myself on doingbizarre and pointless things �such as taking forbidden pic-tures, arguing about prices for bad rickshaw rides, bribing



It leads to a phenomenon I shall

call, “Foreign Idiot Syndrome,” a

problem that I think leads civiliza-

tions to assume that all other

people groups are subhuman...

“

”

the guards to get into a restricted access exhibit, laughinghysterically on the subway while the stoic Chinesewatched us try to go out the wrong doors, etc.�, I sud-denly discovered that people were watching me. I meanREALLY watching me.Everything I did, they noticed. Even if I didn�t do any-

thing, they still looked at me. ItKs very unnerving, andextremely embarrassing. I would sometimes just sit onthe bus or subway, quietly blushing, wishing that I couldcrawl out from my skin and hide in a corner. The Chinese don�t blink enough. I wished they would

blink more. I also wished that I hadnKt dyed my hairblonde. I wished I wasn�t so tall. I wished that I didn�thave huge hips. I wished that I could just fit in, and thatthey would please stop staring. At one point, I refused to go out for a couple days

because I couldnKt take the looks anymore. It was a farcry from when I was reveling in my glory as a foreigner.But, once again, my mind adjusted. I realized that boththe Chinese and I were like a zoo animals on display, eachstaring at the other.As the time neared for us to leave, people stopped by

more frequently, bringing me more gifts, exchangingemails, and taking lots of pictures. They wanted to knowif I was coming back next year, and I would always say,HOh, I want to! I want to SOOOO bad!I That made them feel better, although I still felt sad. I

had no idea whether I�d make it back to China. Packing was no fun because I bought lots of cool things

and people gave me many presents. I had shoes, dresses,skirts, shirts, jewelry, books �killer for luggage weight�food, and lots of random, cutesy Chinese things. We went to the airport using the shuttle bus, where

we loaded our own heavy bags. The driver watched usstruggle, face totally emotionless.

I appreciate AmericaKs impulse to help others whetheritKs giving up a bus seat or helping someone with a bro-ken car, or holding open a door. That doesnKt readily happen for strangers in China. If

you are a known friend, everything is different. Myfriend Ming from Shanghai says itKs because her peopleare only nice to others if they think that they can getsomething out of them. My memory of the last few days of my stay is very

blurry. I remember that we had a solar eclipse, where theland went pitch-dark for about three minutes. That wasincredible. We stood out on the porch, watching and lis-tening as the sky grew incrementally darker, and thebirds and dogs began to stop their noises. I was thankful to be there, though there was a cloud

cover. On the flight home with Grandma, I was depressed at

leaving China so it was a horrible ride. I didnKt like thefood and I couldn�t sleep. When we finally reached Chicago, I felt strange about

seeing my family for the first time in two months. Iplayed out potential scenarios in my head, gauging theproper amount of love and exhaustion to show. The adrenaline built as we got through security. I

couldn�t believe it that I was panicking about meeting myown family. I kept berating myself. And then I saw them.I saw two people running toward me G one huge, theother small. At first I didn�t recognize them, which sur-prises me now, my 6K6I uncle and my tiny sister. And then I did know them and started screaming with

joy. I hadn�t realized how much I missed my sister. I justhugged her and jumped and screamed. And she laughedand jumped. As the adults watched, bemusedly, I becamean American, again.

Summer 2010 3355

Being a foreignerin China definitely attractsa crowd. Peoplewould come up toHattie quite oftenfor a chance tograb a picture. AsHattie put it, “I gotused to stardomas a faux blonde.”


PARASAILING

THROUGH PARADISEBY BIANCA GARCIA

wo grandparents, four aunts, two uncles,and five cousins went for a morning walkdown the beach in Acapulco, Mexico. It was paradise as we enjoyed a most beau-

tiful shade of ocean blue water contrastedagainst tiny light tan pebbles of hot sandunder the bright Mexican sun.Acapulco;s beachfront also was home to

hotels, little shops, restaurants and, beachvendors.As we walked along the expanse, a

Spanish-speaking local Mexican offered totake us parasailing. His business attireincluded swimming trunks and a t-shirt withsome Spanish writing on it.Much shorter at 5;2: than my height, he

stood shoeless in the scalding sand. It is notan unusual sight for locals to approachtourists with some recreational opportuni-ties. I;d seen it about dozen times on familyvacations to Mexico and was quite familiar

T

with the sales pitches.My instant reaction this time at sixteen

years old was 8 absolutely yes!I had seen people parasailing on the beachand always wanted to try it, but my par-ents said I was too young.

On prior vacations, the adventurousones always were my cousin, sister andme. We never were scared of heights orthe ocean as were many of our familymembers. We had jet skied, gone onevery ride at amusement parks, andeven ventured onto a sky coaster thatwas similar to bungee jumping.

Without the need for my parents;permission this time, I seized theopportunity after talking it over withthe rest of the family.

The fee was 400 pesos, the equiva-lent of 40 U.S dollars. I went first because I

was the most excited and the least nervous.Five men fit and tied me into the parachute

harness and readied the boat while I stood onthe beach for about 10 to 15 minutes. Two men con-nected the parachute to the harness while two othersrevved and backed up a speed boat 30 feet awayfrom the shore.The one man who approached us walked back and

forth between them as my family stayed nearby at alittle restaurant. Coronas and tacos made the time goby very quickly for them. I waited in the hot sand with my sister who kept

me company while two men next to us stepped andadjusted me into the harness that went only aroundmy thighs and waist.Two pieces went from my waist past my face to

connect the parachute behind me. I became extreme-ly apprehensive as I waited in the hot sand, as if ithad been hours.As I looked around, many people surrounded me as

if they were about to witness something amazing.I started to second-guess my decision just as the

harness was fully adjusted. It fit tightly, but I wasn;tsure whether that was a good or bad thing. As Ibegan to perspire, I didn;t know whether it wasnerves about flying hundreds of feet in the air withmy feet dangling, or the hot sun beating down.I could fall instantly into the ocean if my harness

happened snap. Before I knew it, the man who had approached us

began telling my grandfather in Spanish the signs Ineeded to know in order to take off and land safely. My grandpa repeated everything back to me in

English and I nodded my head in response due to the

fact that I couldn;t speak without sounding ridicu-lously nervous. Looking off into the ocean, I saw the closeby boat

starting to pick up speed. I gripped tightly around theharness straps that went past my face. It felt very uncomfortable having a harness rub

against the life jacket I was wearing over my bathingsuit. Seeing that I had nothing else to hold on to, Ididn;t have much of a choice. Turning around, I saw my parachute looked like a

very large yellow sheet lying in the sand behind me.The rope attaching my parachute to the boat becameshorter and shorter, which meant I would be up inthe air soon. Two men stood beside me, holding onto each side

of my harness and yelled, 9Run!: In the blink of an eye I went from running about 15

feet on the beach into the ocean, to being lifted upinto the air by the parachute. I tried to look down aslittle as possible so I wasn;t reminded of how high Iwas. When I looked straight ahead I saw nothing but a

clear sky and the ocean which was so clear you couldalmost see the bottom. I heard speed boats and jetskis below along with people yelling in Spanish. Being that high up with so little to hold onto felt

like the closest I;d ever get to flying. After a fewmoments of being completely terrified, I quickly feltan unbelievable rush through my body. After only six or seven minutes, I glanced down at

the boat pulling me and saw the man give me thesignal to pull on the right side of my harness whichmeant it was time for them to get me down. Pulling on the right side turned the parachute into

the direction the wind was blowing so I could facethe beach. My family smiled and waved as I slightlyglided back toward the beach. My feet hit the sand and I ran back onto the beach

in the reverse of how I took off. I wished for a longerride, but as my feet hit the hot sand again I knew thiswould not be my last parasailing adventure.

Summer 2010 3377

PARASAILING

THROUGH PARADISE

As I began to perspire, I didn’t

know whether it was nerves about

flying hundreds of feet in the air

with my feet dangling, or the hot

sun beating down.

“

”

In the blink of an eye...

Orion was a Rhodesian Ridgeback,a breed of dog meant to hunt lionsand avoid crocodiles in the rugged

terrain of Southern Africa.

‘Orion’ continued on next page

was six years old when I firstsaw Orion wasting his killerinstincts on a chewed-up ...

I

by Paige Pignaz

Family

coffee table. My family and I got him as a three-month¬-old puppy on Christmas Eve 1997.He was a wimpy puppy with floppy ears, a round belly

and skinny little legs. Rhodesian Ridgebacks receive theirname due to a strip of fur on their back where the hairgrows in the opposite direction, giving it the appearanceof aMohawk haircut.Despite OrionDs goofy demeanor, his ridge gave him a

regal presence.Even though we called Orion our family dog, he really

was just my dadDs dog A the son he never had. For me, hewas the annoying little brother that stole all of the atten-tion.Orion was the biggest pain in the butt that you could

ever imagine. Ninety percent of the time he dozed off infront of the sun and licked his butt. The other ten per-cent he spent barking in front of the window at everysingle person, bird or car that passed by.One time, while going crazy over a couple of kids who

stood outside our driveway, Orion jumped into the win-dow so hard that it cracked in several places.At my soccer games, other kids brought their Golden

Retrievers and Chocolate Labs, all friendly dogs thatloved to give and receive affection.Meanwhile, my dog stood fifty-feet away, restrained

by a thick leash andmy dadDs strong grip. Sometimes IDdbe in the middle of a game A running, panting and

unaware of anything other than soccer.I still would hear Orion howling at a toddler who just

wanted to pet the Bnice doggy.CWhat drove me the most nuts about Orion was his

ability to Bcounter surf.COn the countless occasions that mymom cooked a

hot dinner and let it cool on the kitchen counter, Orionwould devour anything within reach of his front paws.Before I or anyone else in my family could taste

MomDs dinner, it already would be in OrionDs stomach.He was the Danny Ocean of stealing food.Orion could couch nap on the sofa for several hours,

but at nearly the exact second that we left the kitchenunattended, he would stand on his hind legs with hisfront paws on the kitchen counter to down casseroles,pasta, broccoli, and one scary time, several dozen choco-late bonbons.He even licked the muck off the dirty plates in the

sink.Orion wasnDt sly about stealing food. I was the easy

prey in the house compared to my older sister and par-ents. One minute I could have a donut in my hand, justinches away frommymouth, and in a split second, itwould be gone, quickly making its way down OrionDsesophagus and into his already-bulging belly.Orion was a hundred pounds of pure muscle. I know

this from the time that he dragged me across the streetafter spotting a rabbit during a walk. I was scratched andburned all over my arms and legs.By age ten, I had had enough of Orion and was search-


‘Orion’ from page 39

One of Orion’s favorite pastimes was waiting by the window, perched to bark at whatever came by.

ing in the classified section of the ChicagoTribune for a dog that better suited mytaste. I also convinced my parents to getme a subscription to Dog Fancy, which Iwould feverishly flip through in search ofa breed of dog that didnDt a� bark at myfriends, b� steal my food, and c� pee onmy favorite shirt. I even saved up my $3.50 a week

allowance to splurge on a dog leash anda dish. I was so convinced that I wouldget a new dog. There was only oneproblem: my parents refused. BTwo dogs are too much,C my par-

ents said. BSo what?C I thought, BLetDs just

take Orion to the pound.C Apparently, manDsbest friend was not mine. After several years of incessant begging, my parents

finally caved in and we added Phoebe, a pudgy little bull-dog with a stubby tail and lots of fat rolls. Phoebe was everything I ever thought I wanted in a

dog. When I came home from school, she gave me therock star treatment. I took her for walks without any fearof being hurled across the street. She was my dream puppy. Meanwhile, I continued to

place Orion on the backburner, like a discarded toy that Ihad never really been all that fond of. This all changed several months ago when Orion

began to show his age. At eleven years, his fur coat, oncea brilliant wheaten-red color, was reduced to a pallidbrown. After we installed hardwood floors in our living room

and study, Orion could barely navigate his way aroundthe house. I jokingly referred to him as BBambi on iceCbecause he slipped and slided across the surface. He couldnDt even walk to the front study to bask in

the sun in his usual spot. He was basically confined to a10x16 foot rug spread across the floor in our living room. OrionDs inability to move got progressively worse. My

parents said he was losing all the sensation in his legs.This made it extremely difficult to get him outside to goto the bathroom. Even though he couldnDt help it, IDd stillget upset with him for taking ten minutes just to walkoutside. Eventually, Orion began to lose his bladder and bowel

control. HeDd mess up all over the rug, and even thoughwe wouldnDt get mad at him, heDd still look painfullyashamed. ThatDs when my mom said that it was time to consider

putting Orion to sleep. It felt like a huge punch to thestomach. I had known for a while that it was coming, buthearing my mom say it made it one hundred milliontimes worse. The dog that had been a part of my familyfor nearly my entire life was going to die. And so when my parents loaded up the SUV and took

Orionaway to the vet, itfelt like one of the worst days of mylife. I cried unstoppably, along with everyone else inmy family. Orion seemed a little scared; he hadnDt been out of the

house for awhile, but he still curled up on his bed in thetrunk. Before my sister shut the car door, I fed Orion apiece of cantaloupe, his favorite food. He nudged my hand for another piece, and I was so

mad at myself for not having one. But it was nice toknow that despite being old and in poor health, Orionstill had his signature monster appetite. I guess I could say another great thing about Orion is

that he saved me thousands of calories from all thosedonuts he stole from right under my nose. I miss Orion. IDm definitely not used to not seeing him

lying around on the couch, and sometimes, even now, Imistake a pillow for him. I know more than almost anything else in my life that

Orion wasnDt my dream dog. To be completely honest, hewasnDt even a very good dog. But things just arenDt thesame now that heDs gone. It feels like a giant chunk of myfamily is missing. And even more overwhelming than theawareness of OrionDs absence is the guilt that I feel fornot always treating him kindly. If I hadnDt set my standards so high and envisioned

having a dog like the one in My Dog Skip or any othersilly movie, then IDm sure Orion and I wouldDve gottenalong perfectly well. I just wish I had given him thechance. Luckily for me, I now know not to make the same mis-

take twice. My dadDs on the lookout for anotherRhodesian Ridgeback. I donDt expect this next puppy towait for me at the bus stop or go swimming, but I amplanning on getting along with him and treating him likethe way I shouldDve treated Orion. HeDs not going to my dog, but I already have dibbs on

his name: Gunther. Summer 2010 4411

Orion frequently sunbathed, often with the ultimate goal of an outdoor nap.

couple years before my cousin Joey joined theNavy, he studied hard for the Armed Services

Vocational Aptitude Battery �ASVAB� andmade thewhole military idea sound interesting to me.I had a litany of reasons. I was tired of being at home. I

wanted an actual work ethic. I wanted to get in betterphysical shape. I wanted to travel. And frankly, Joey wasvery convincing.JoeyEs stories about the Philippines, Australia, South

Korea and Japanmade the military sound like a fast trackto a really exciting career.Preliminary research on the jobs the Navy offered

yielded two areas that really intrigued me: news mediaand firefighting. I wasnEt nearing any decision, so withoutthinking twice about it, I signed up to take more classesat College of DuPage.When the fall 2008 semester started, I realized that

maybe I liked college as much or more than the idea ofthe military. Maybe it was the environment, or maybe itwas the attitude of fellow students and the whole collegefeel. Joining the military where you have no real controlfor four years didnEt sound so great anymore.

I planned to earn a transfer degree to a big state universi-ty, but my grades began to slip early on in the semesterfrom the 3.4 that I had my first year of college to a dis-mal 2.6. My parentsE impending divorce and the anger Iheard caused me to lose my focus.Classes became the least of my concerns, and I fell

back into the same academic rut that forced me to gothrough five hellish years atWaubonsie Valley HighSchool.I was almost as lazy from that point through the end

of the spring semester as I was in high school. However, Iput in a lot of effort for one class B FeatureMagazineWriting for CODEs Chaparral student magazine.Although polished writing didnEt come easily to me,

the class forced me to focus onmy own life in the articlesthat I wrote. At the end, I had two published articles formy resume and some additional self-confidence aboutmy ability to do well in college if I tried hard.CWhat doesnEt kill you makes you stronger,D might be

the phrase that best illustrates in a quick, easy way, mytotal situation.Frequently during the academic year, I logged onto


INDECISION

SOMEWHERE

By Matt Wells

A

THE MILITARY

BE

TW

EE

N

AND A HAUNTING BOUT OF

the U.S. military sites to find jobs that might appeal tome. After the academic year ended, the military attrac-tion grew as a better option to extra work of math andscience.The military sounded better every day - an alternative

to the frustration, pain and anguish from parentaldivorce squabbles.However, my path became clearer mid-year in 2009

after I met with a Navy recruiter who said the combina-tion of my poor eyesight and other difficulties would pre-vent me from joining the Navy. Still wanting to join a branch of the military, I made an

appointment to speak with the Air Force recruiter whowas straight with me about my eyesight, weight and myother difficulties. I weighed about 170 at that time and was told I had to

get down to 160 in order to make the Air Force weightrequirement. The recruiter printed out a diet used tominimize caloric consumption and, according to the AirForce, slim down before surgery. ItEs called the

Sacred Heart Diet, adisgusting blend ofstewed tomatoes,green onions, beefbroth, Lipton ChickenNoodle soup mix, cel-ery, green beans, car-rots and peppers,which is supposed tobe made into a soup.I took the sheet

with the week-longschedule and alteredthe diet to suit myown tastes. I donEt likestewed tomatoes orgreen peppers, andmuch less the ideablending everything into a soup to eat all week.Instead, I ran three miles a night and drank water by

more than a liter at a time. I think the bottle was 1.8liters. I ate green beans, carrots and grapes and, in addi-tion to that, as well as food with high fiber for that extrahelp. Even with meat and cereal still on my diet, I weighed

about 162 or 163 pounds within two or three weeks andhad better endurance from the running . During that summer, I even started to be more inven-

tive with longer runs, using Google Maps to find placeswith sidewalks so I wouldnEt be killed.I ended up having big scrapes on the inside of my

thighs due to the friction of the shorts and the sweat onone particular run. Turning into Forrest Gump one boring July day, I

decided Cfor no particular reasonD to run and walk a bit

over 11 miles. I twisted and turned up one street anddown another for three to four hours almost all the wayto and back from the town of Montgomery. My best jog at one point during that run was between

five and six miles.I was so fatigued that as I dizzily straggled home, I had

to rest somewhere on the grass alongside McCoy Roadaround the Fox Valley Forest Preserve near my house. With my legs too tired to crouch or pace while replenish-ing my fluids, I sat down for about five or ten minutes todrank the rest of my water as I panted and wiped thefountain of sweat off my forehead.I was nearing the Air Force requirement of 160. I didnEt

think my eyesight would be a real problem. I donEt thinkthat a recruiter would waste his time talking to me, stay-ing on me about losing weight and then setting up atime for me to drive to Des Plaines to take the ASVABtest.After taking the ASVAB test on July 15, I ended up scor-ing a 94 percent, which basically would set me up with

any job. I was excited andtold my recruiter rightaway via text message. I had visions of living inSoutheast Asia, Australia,Europe or maybe in anexciting town out West orthe eastern seaboard.The only problemthrough all of this was thepesky bump in my midsec-tion just below the ribs thatI had for several years. Ithought it was just some-thing I was born with thatjust got bigger as I got big-ger, but no big deal. I was diagnosed with ahernia. My cousin Joey

responded to my inquiry about what would happen if Ishowed up to the Military Entrance Processing Station inDes Plaines with this thing that barely hurt. If I showedup with a hernia, he said, the military would reject me. After consulting with a surgeon about the risks, I

chose laparoscopic surgery on September 1. My recoverytime included fall enrollment at COD. The plan was tojoin the military in the winter or early spring.Instead, I took on additional responsibility as the

Courier student newspaper sports editor after a surprisecall in August before classes started. Those Chaparral arti-cles had paid off. After two years of thinking, running, almost joining

the military, eight months of doing a job and recentlywinning two journalism awards, I know my indecisionhad become an absolutely perfect decision for me.

Summer 2010 4433

The military sounded better every

day - an alternative to the

frustration, pain and anguish

from parental divorce

squabbles.

“

”

before I went to class.My car was plugged into the house all night so the cold

didn5t sap energy from the battery. Before I could startthe car5s engine, I had to unplug it from an electrical out-let in the house. Cars in Alaska, especially anything madebefore 2000, must be plugged in to keep the oil warmand the battery charged during extreme temperaturedrops.

To open the car door, I had to use the car keys to chipaway at the ice in the lock. It only takes a few momentsfor this routine task. As I start the car, the engine groansas if I caused it some pain by inserting the key into theignition. As the groaning subsides, I quickly run back intothe house to pack a lunch.

I usually left for class at ten in the morning when a hintof sun turned the sky a soft pink.Ice fog thickened the air as I drove to the college campus.The fog was much like any other fog, but its cold hurt ifyou breathed deeply. As it hit the back of my throat, thecold air forced a cough as it crept into my lungs.

The road was covered in glossy ice and small grey andblack pebbles where the city dropped gravel to add trac-tion for what sometimes became a wintry Slip5n5Slide.

It only took fifteen minutes to go anywhere inFairbanks, including my college. By the time I got there, Iwas a little more awake thanks to the smattering of twi-light and the radio.I think the college men standing in forty-below weatheron campus as an annual stunt in nothing but their boxersalso had something to do with waking me up.

Student parking lots sported cement poles lined up inmilitary fashion with outlets poking out for car enginesto be attached. Thankfully, I do not have to pay to plugin my car. I don5t think anyone would be able to go tocollege in Alaska if they had to pay part of the electricbill.

As I headed to my biology class, I didn5t pay muchattention to the growing pink sky that will be visible foronly a couple hours. My interests turned to osteology,but I still sat near the window to absorb as much sun aspossible. It depressed me a little to only see trees coveredin snow when I looked outside day after day.

After class was over by three in the afternoon, it wasdark again as if it were eight in the evening. Walking tomy car through this giant ice box, ice tears from the coldformed in my eyes, freezing just as they hit my eyelashesand making it difficult to see.

I was too hungry and cold to allow my car the suggest-ed ten minutes to warm up so I drove off at the speed ofa baby learning to crawl. Cars don5t even like theseextreme temperatures.

After the ice fog cleared later in the day, it was a littleeasier to drive, but there is still not much to see. AMcDonalds, Denny�s, Wendy�s and Pizza Hut are allnoticeable through the snow.

As much as I find Fairbanks to be boring in the winters,it is not as bad as North Pole, which is twenty minutesaway. The only thing one can do in North Pole is go toschool, hang out at Safeway �which is like a Dominick5sor a Jewel-Osco store�, go to Wendy�s or rent a moviefrom Blockbuster. Well, there was Santa Claus� house,but even when I went there I was always severely disap-pointed.

I was already a little tired by six when I headed for mywaitressing job at Pizza Hut. I probably would have fallenasleep on the bench if it weren5t for the energetic peopleI worked with.

Even without a lot of customers, my shift goes by fastand I want to head home for bedtime, and for one daycloser to that twenty-four hour sun.


‘icebox’ from page 9

This is a caption box

A chilly winter day in Fairbanks can easily freezecar batteries.

Stretches ofroad in Alaska

may bescenic, butthey’re not

entirely desolate.Gasoline

stations areavailable on

an average ofevery 50

miles.

closer and the bed creaks as he sits next to me,kissing my forehead.-Wake up, Sleeping Beauty,. Larry whispers inmy ear. -Santa has prepared you a Christmasfeast..-Sleeping Beauty can/t wake up until herprince kisses her awake,. I whisper to him.-Well, we can/t have Sleeping Beauty stayingin bed all day,. he whispers back as he kisses me.I slip my hand beneath my pillow and pull out asmall, thin box wrapped in shiny red paper.-Mrs. Clause must have left this here for you,. I sayas I hand him the present. He opens it and pulls outthe Tim McGraw CD he wanted but didn/t buybecause his car stereo was broken.-Thank you, now I guess I have to go and replacemy stereo so I can listen to this,. he says with a grin.I just smile at him, thinking he/s probably alreadypeeked inside the package under the tree that holdshis new stereo. Oh well, I peeked at my present, too.I can still feign surprise when I open the beautifuldiamond ring he bought me. I have decided that I

willsay yes……I leaned toward thecasket and kissed Larry/s coldforehead, wishing he would open his warmbrown eyes. A tear slipped, landing at the corner ofhis eye, which looked as though he had shed thetear.My future with Larry for better or for worse alsohad slipped away, and my tears of sorrow at his pass-ing were as much for me as they were for him. Ikissed Larry one more time and then the casket wasclosed.

4455Summer 2010

UNDERGRADUATEApplied Sociology & Political Science (BA)Business Administration (BS)Criminal/Social Justice (BA)Fire Service Administration (BA)Healthcare Leadership (BA)Human Resource Management (BA)Information Technology Management (BS)Management (BA)Nursing (Bachelor’s to BSN)Organizational Leadership (BA)Paralegal Studies (BA)

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For information visit us online at www.lewisu.edu, or contact us [email protected], or (815) 836-5610.

UNIVERSITYAccelerated Programs for Adult Students

‘suicide’ from page 13

Larry and Melissa converse over coffee before Larry passed on.

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Summer 2010 4477


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Summer 2010 4499

North Central CollegeBe central. Be yourself.

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Summer 2010 5511

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