ideas, trends, and open dialogue
mcastillo
a senior majoring sociology and minoring in dance. It’s shorter than her last major, biochemistry and molecular biology, and gives her much more free time to enjoy the little things in life. An avid film fan, she spends a good portion of her free time either watching movies, reading about movies, or writing about movies. Other than sorta-preparing for grad school, she enjoys photography, dancing, getting randomly artistic, exploring Boston, filling her days with friends and events, talking to her mom, talking about Florida and the theme park industry, and spending days at the beach. Aside from being addicted to Facebook and Twitter, Monica co-writes for http://beyondthebacklot.wordpress.com/ .
Posts by mcastillo
Exes and Whys…Life after Lost Love
Aug 16th
Handy guide to biking-and all the risk it entails!
Oh yeah, it’s a romance related post. Just because I think love needs a little more lovin’ here at Culture Shock.
Now if you personally know me or one of my exes and think you’re getting some juicy gossip-you can stop reading right here. I am not a fan of kiss and tell. The purpose of this post is to throw down some musings I’ve had since loving and learning how to leave. From my first kiss to my last stop at the heartbreak hotel, getting over lost love is like learning how to become an adult. It’s growing pains.
But damn, what pain. No pill cures it, no tub of ice cream is fulfilling enough. What you feel is the best medicine is sometimes the worst thing for you to take. But sometimes, it feels like the only thing you got.
That's gonna leave a mark...
It’s not so much the breaking up part. That’s the fall off a bike, landing knee first on the scraggly pavement below. Ouch! Seconds feels like sore hours to some; It’s the pain of first impact. Sometimes that decision to end in hurt is not even yours to make-it’s your partner’s. Reasonably, for no reason, or unreasonably, love life as you know it is over, swimming with the fishes at the bottom of the Charles River in the dead of winter over. You may want to reconcile differences, give love another (and another and another…) chance, or try to be friends right afterward. Pause. While you only have split-seconds to decide whether you want your hands or your face to meet the pavement next in a fall, you can take all the time you need to make those decisions. Love waits, as my mom says, and anyone who tries to tell you otherwise already has another horse in the stable. Either way, giving and getting breathing room is not a bad idea for either of you. If things have deteriorated this far, it’s probably necessary. (Let me throw in the disclaimer, that all relationships are different. I don’t want to sound like relationship help hotline; I’m just sharing tips that have gotten me through emotional, irrational trying times).
Warning: Unpredictable Trail Ahead
Then comes the healing, the getting over, and getting your groove back part. Wincing, limping, you may try and ride again after a crash. You may go a little slower, more cautious. Some may go faster, wanting to get home to clean up. Others may just stand clear of the bike, shake their head, and say never again. Healing is as individual as the person going through it. Keep in mind that pain and grief are good indicators that you are human and that you can care deeply about something. This societal stigma against crying and outrage is suppression of natural emotions. Go ahead, don’t feel ashamed to cry, be a little angry, vent to friends-but in moderation. It’s supposed to be a coping mechanism, not a permanent state of mind. Cry it all out, dry the tears, and get walking.
Friends help make it better-you just gotta trust them!
Once walking, put yourself back in society. Go out with friends, reconnect with an orientation friend you haven’t heard from in awhile. Like bike riding, you have to remind yourself what’s it worth to you. The trails, neighborhoods, and the feeling you get when you’re riding as fast as possible on an open stretch of road. For relationships, it’s human connection. Friends, socials, and the random conversation while waiting for the T; Its the feeling of being a part of something. Part of the group, the community, the city you live in, we search for that acceptance. Granted it’s not as deep or physical as a personal romantic relationship-but some best friends may argue they may know you better than your ex. Chances are, they’re right. Focusing on your friends and family will help stabilize you as you move along.
One pedal in front of the other...
But, there’s still pain. While no longer bleeding or scabbed, those wounds still smart when people mention it to you. Maybe you’re a bit sensitive to the scar on your knee, you would prefer covering it up with pants than having people stare or ask you about it. You prefer never riding your bike again after the spill. Fear of getting hurt is natural-it’s a survival instinct. Listen to it. It just means you’re not quite comfortable with getting back in the saddle-yet. However, if you do see the opportunity for a bike ride/relationship, you need to be honest with yourself and the others around you. Ask yourself if you are prepared to go through the motions and possibly end up hurt once more. Otherwise, you may not be the only one hurt this time around.
It’s funny, but in the same way we compare scars from our youth, we compare love wounds. We’re stuck with the baggage of our past, that’s just the way it is. Accept it, deal with it, put it in the basement with the tricycles and Power Rangers bike. We’ve grown out of it; that just won’t suit us anymore. Don’t be embarrassed, we all made the mistake of getting a Reptar bike too many. It may have been hard to give up your Sharper Image scooter at one time, but now you’ve found a more reliable and mature transportation: a car.
Sometimes you have to go through a lot of duds in order to find the one that fits you best.
Relationships can take you places you’ve never been, both good and bad. Bumpy roads and silent dull lulls can make it tedious at times. Outside weather forces may wreck havoc on your peaceful Sunday drive. Traffic jams and car accidents are some of the risks we take. Sometimes we have to fight uphill battles, fight for the perfect spot, or fight a driver who’s trying to cut you off in traffic. And then there’s the cost of maintenance. To me, it’s all worth it-as long if it means I get to where I want to go.
But don’t forget the helmet!
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Living the American Nightmare
Jul 28th
Meet the millions of immigrants who travel each year to our land for a better life- or Public Enemy #1, according to the state of Arizona.
I’m pretty sure a lot of people have heard about what’s going on in Arizona. If you haven’t do a quick Google search and fill yourself in nicely, with arguments with both sides, please. (I have included a couple of links below-not enough, just a few)
Now, I’ll continue.
It was on a plane to Miami that I came across a story on CNN that brought me to tears. It’s story of one family’s struggle to establish themselves as hard-working Americans, who out of fear of deportation, threats, and bankruptcy; they must now leave their home of almost twenty years. Now I don’t usually cry watching cable news (although Larry King is scary looking and Nancy Grace looks like a deranged shark out for blood a la “Jaws” style), but this story brought a twenty-year-old in mid-flight to sniffles. There’s something precious about the American Dream-the idea that you can work your way to a better life for you and your family. Hard work=success.
To me, that Dream is sacred-it’s what TRULY founded this country. Colonist came here to work, not to vacation, own mansions, or blow their earnings in a consumerist culture gone rabid. They came to work the ground, fight the unknown, and set up shop for their culture and Crown. Hell, immigrants nowadays just want a driver’s license and health insurance-such underachievers. Did I mention those predecessors also brought other humans to do the work for them, against their will? This is the stuff employee of the month was made for. I’ll stop the sarcasm for a moment…
Fair point...
In short, my point #1: our country was founded by workers. Not monarchs, popes, or invading tribes of Visigoths-your average European bloke trying to earn a couple of coins to send back to the wife and kids or to save up for a hand in marriage. The American Dream is that you can work yourself to a better situation. I believe that should be open to anyone who makes that pilgrimage; Pilgrims of all eras included.
“Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she
With silent lips. “Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”
But one coastal landmass wasn’t enough. We claimed (i.e. stole) this territory from sea to shiny sea. We stole from natives and yes, our neighbors to the south once claimed California and a few bordering states their home turf. Well, it must have driven map makers in the president’s cabinet crazy that there was such unevenness in an otherwise pristine, yet unique shape of land mass. So it was taken from under the inhabitants’ feet, faster and far more violent than any eviction notice.
Whoops-you got your country in my state line!
Point #2: This land isn’t our land. History has shown that lands can change owners time and time again, sometimes faster than the average person changes clothes. What brings Americans together is not land, its commonality. It can be over sports, religion, politics, or even TV shows. I am from one state, you another, and our friend yet some other, but we all share some experience alike. With that we relate to one another. State lines can change, but we are a part of a United States of America.
Cut to more modern days. Birth Control and refrigerators were all the rage, and many Americans went to the Drive Ins to catch the latest double feature. But wait, make sure you file to bathrooms that are not only separated by sex, but segregated by race. Feeling uncomfortable, yet? It’s not the big bouffant on your head, it’s Jim Crow laws. In case you forgot, because chances are you weren’t born yet, second class citizenship was legally protected by our government as late as the late-sixties. There’s a whole slew of laws that segregated races from each other, some include colorfully named ordinances like the Asian Exclusion Act and Japanese American Internment. This country already has a beautifully long list of race-driven declarations; let’s leave them there. Stop adding discriminating legislation that only serves to hurt people and leave scars of resentment for generations after. That’s right-human beings. Not Marvin the Martian, E.T., or Chewbacca under the guise of “illegal immigrants,” these are people with families we’re talking about here. Arizona Gov. Jan Brewer (name drop!) won votes over claiming it was a safety measure against the drug cartels. Wow, way to stereotype here, just like when Southern politicians scared white voters to vote Jim Crow laws into rule lest black men marry their daughters. The scandal: scare tactics haven’t changed much in over a hundred years.
Hospitality, an American specialty.
Point # 3: Racist is Racist is Racist. Call it by any other name: protection, nationalism, or state pride-it is still the same. Manure is poop is crap. The first is merely a polite way to describe a fertilizer preference. Protection from criminal drug cartels is merely a logical mean of self preservation. Poop is the layman’s term for excrement and stereotyping immigrants to drug dealers is propaganda. Crap is the more vulgar of terms for the last two synonyms, and isolating and persecuting a group of people based on unsound evidence or suspicion is unjust in EVERY sense of the word. Case in point: it’s all bullshit to me.
There are now millions of modern-day pilgrims who won’t get the chance to make the memories or dare to dream lest they risk deportation. This recent law has effectively exterminated that chance for millions in Arizona. In its place, something much more sinister nature has set in. Embitter and betrayed, hundreds of thousands of people have packed their belongings and headed for the border of anywhere that doesn’t look like it would be America’s next top racist state. The political leaders won’t represent you, and the entities sent to serve and protect are now your hunters. I wish these kinds of terrors only stayed in “The Twilight Zone.”
Picture: Inappropriate
What we’ve created in Arizona is the American nightmare. Stigmatized for being different, persecuted for speaking another language. No matter how hard these people work, they will never have the chance to work themselves out of poverty, have social security, earn an education, or even the chance to enter the white collar workspace. We are creating a new segregation, a new slavery system.
It’s already happening. Immigrants without papers are forced to look for illegitimate jobs. They are exploited in their position, and there is nothing they can do about it. They can’t sue, because they’ll be reported. They can’t take it to their boss, because they will get deported. They can’t unionize in order to demand fair wages, because the company will report on their own workers and their families at home and merely recruit fresh blood from the border once more.
I don’t know about you, but I’d like my children to be proud of their heritage. I’m paraphrasing a BU Alum here, but I’d like my kids to live in a society where color didn’t matter. I’d like to road trip with my friends one day and not be asked to step out of the car because the last name on my license reads “Castillo.” I would like to see my father not get pulled aside while going through airport security because he shares the same last name and happens to be carrying a laptop. I would like to know that my mother does not always have to carry her U.S. passport while driving home from work. I’d like to see my sister have the same chance at a non-segregated school district where she would get the chance to interact with all kinds of people, regardless of their race or economic background.
The Grim Reaper of Millions of Dreams, Gov. Jan Brewer
Shame on the country that stood by and watched millions of lives ruined. Shame on the people who think by white-washing their communities, they can eradicate crime. Shame on Jan Brewer for turning on her legally registered Latino voters only to send them to a foreign country or to force them to carry legal documents at all times. Shame on law enforcement if they actually pull over drivers for the color of their skin or for picking on non-English speakers.
This shouldn’t be the old days of yesteryear. We have come so far in appreciating the value of a human life. Better health care, better work environment, and better of quality of living has progressed enormously within the past forty years. For some reason, racism still exists. Oh, the target’s changed through the years, from Russian-Americans wrongfully accused of Communism during the Cold War years to the post-9/11 persecution of American Muslims. By hiding the facts behind the mask of an ethnic stereotype boogie man, politicians and war mongers hide the human side to their struggles. Again, immigrants didn’t come to a country that despises foreigners for rest and relaxation. They come to work for their Dream, provide better for their families or to restart their lives in the land of opportunity. They are doing what the first pilgrims did, showing up un-announced to work for money.
One Nation, for us all?
People have got to start seeing illegal immigrants for who they really are: people. Just like us, with hopes, dreams, and families too. Only when society begins to re-humanize the people they are persecuting, can acceptance begin.
Until then, stand back and watch yet another episode in the American shit show.
Links
Roger Ebert’s take on another case of racism in Arizona: lightening kid’s faces on a school mural. What better way to tell kids we are all equal by purposefully altering the appearance of classmates. Also at the bottom is possibly one of the worst Fox News interviews I’ve ever heard- folks, that’s saying A LOT.
The Fed Gov. vs. The State of Arizona. If we want to make sure this kind of legalized discrimination stopped with the Civil Rights struggle in the ’60s, it needs to be stopped at the National level. Let’s keep this country free of hate for all.
Arizona Sheriff tells CNN, “It’s opening jobs for U.S. Citizens.” Meet Arizona’s Miss Congeniality 2010!
GOP Remarks on Immigration. It’s not as negative as you think.
Summer Memories
Jul 12th
Way back in the summer days...
A sweltering hot summer day. Or daze perhaps. One that would take me back almost four years ago to the day.
It’s funny to notice what captures your memories of a certain place and time in your life. Maybe it was a perfume, a bouquet of flowers, some comfy clothes, or a certain favorite food. It’s something so ingrained to one of your five senses, you can almost revisit that time and place exactly. The buildings may have gone, the people vanished, and the items of your cherish memories are dust; all that is left are your memories.
My first brush with college happened a few years before coming to BU. In fact, it was in University of Miami, in a summer program for high school kids. I was among the youngest of the students and participated in the Pre-Med track focusing on infectious diseases.
For whatever reasons unbeknownst to me, I remember that summer almost as vividly as if I were living in it now.
I remembered the plumeria scented body spray I used everyday before classes. My awful introduction to “shower shoes.” The achingly long walks in the sun, across the palm tree laden campus to the dining hall, then the mad dash that my friends and I would make to our classes. The brick walkways in front of our bookstore that served as soccer fields. The pilgrimages to the rec center for a swimming pool. The daily commute of our study week on the Miami Metro to Jackson Memorial Hospital. The smell of the hospital cafeteria, with sounds of my group pleading with our R.A. to let us go in to get Carvel ice cream. The garden that shaded half of our building’s entrance. The run back to the Metro station to avoid the rain and the 5 o’clock traffic. Regrouping with friends from other programs in the lounges, until the R.A. came by and reminded us we had to be on the girl’s floor before curfew. Lights out at 12…
It’s ironic because I can’t tell you what I had for lunch a few days ago, yet I can still navigate that campus like it was just yesterday, when I snuck out of the dorm to take pictures of the fountains on campus. It was forbidden, you see, because there was an actual gator in the main lake on campus. We named after one of our R.A.’s.
I remember some pretty great times: My first baseball game, my first dive off a diving board, snorkeling in Biscayne Bay, playing games all through the 4th of July, seeing one of the sequels of “Pirates of the Caribbean” on opening night, soccer after the rain, watching the France against Italy World Cup game soaked after leaving a pool party early. But the bitter moments have stayed with me as well: my first roommate dispute, surviving the most awkward of sex ed classes, living outside of my family’s household for the first time, visiting a HIV clinic in one of the poorest neighborhoods in America to get a lecture on the disease, seeing a mother bouncing a baby on her lap, waiting in that same clinic to get tested.
But for all the low and high points, possibly the reason why this period in my life sticks out so vividly is the people I shared this time with. Each were characters in their own right. I can remember late night chats on my friend’s bed over the recent roommate drama. Serious political discussions with another. My one friend’s impeccable impression of Arnold Schwarzenegger. Another friend’s wacky outfits, another’s soft-spoken manner. Which two were practically sisters, which two were always ready to order take-out. A friend’s certain pose, a friend’s certain prose. We were a group of international kids, united by our youthful optimism for our future, college. Different as we were, we worked together. We stuck up for each other, helped each other study, and yes, pitched in to make the $15 dollar minimum to get Chinese food delivered.
Why the sudden rush of memories over the holiday weekend? Not too long ago, I received a text from a friend congratulating me on the anniversary of the best summer ever. A few days later, he visited me, far from the shores of Miami Beach on one of the weekends we had shared once before-four years ago. We talked about the past like it was yesterday, however noting how strange it felt to say it’s been four years since. Back then, it seemed like it would take us forever to get into college, and many of us agreed that we would all go to University of Miami-together. Four years later, and possibly less than a quarter of us have stayed in Miami. Some of us have changed majors, gone through tough times, and switched schools, but we still treasure that summer.
Earlier this year, I hunted down one of the photos off of my MySpace page from that summer. I could only find one left. A .gif file I had painted a border on to fancy it up. Remnants of my 16-year-old self that struggled with her individuality and sought to keep the memories of her independent days alive through to college. It was a photo of my Pre-Med group, smiling in the seats of our main lecture hall. We had scheduled our own spirit day (pajama day), made our own events, and of course, always had dinner together.
I don’t know if that sort of closeness has been repeated in my life. I won’t know that until those moments have ended. Slowly, but surely, life took its toll on our friendships. Distance and difficulties had taken its place in lieu of emails and text messages. My phone died and with it, most of my contacts a few months before I graduated high school. I made the switch from MySpace to Facebook permanently in my junior year. A few friends made the jump too, and I relocated them once more. However for the exception of the friend who visited me, I have probably only talked to one other person from our group this year. That’s it.
But it’s not so sad, far from it. I still have the summer memories of my time with them. I cried the day my parents came to pick me up; I don’t think I could have been more upset to see them. We all cried that day. Teary good byes, and heartfelt hugs before the long road trips and air trips ahead. None of us were quite sure when we would see each other, and with some of us in other countries, there was no guarantee a reunion could ever happen. To this day, we’re scattered about in different colleges, miles and time zones away. But, you know, it just takes a random text, a walk past the store I bought my plumeria perfume, or a chat with an old friend to remind me of simpler times. Back when the biggest decisions of my life was deciding where to go to college and where should we all go to celebrate our last night together.
Thanks for those summer memories.
Our "graduation", Class of '06.
Little Bird Blues
Jul 5th
A little baby bird...
When you are in elementary school, there’s a certain lecture you get. No not THAT one. It’s one about animals: how we should respect our local wildlife and how we are to leave animals in their habitat. No? Fine, I went to school in an area that still is home to panthers and alligators, which sometimes are sold as pets, get abandoned, and end up eating some poor kid that strayed too far from the back yard. Nature is to be admired and respected from afar.
Well, lo and behold, I still find nature all around me in the concrete and brick ways of Boston. From my first mice kill this past month to my first few weeks in my Warren dorm room in the discovery of “house centipedes.” Oh joy, everything I feared in the animal kingdom lives under my bed. And not in a cool Pixar way either.
But as hostile as I find myself against nature, the elements, and basically everything I am allergic to; there is something that still appeals to me about nature. Simpler, yet brutal; charming, yet harsh. The beauty can mean destruction, and no second chances when you are only delicately hovering above the bottom of the food chain.
Blame it on my maternal nature, but babies-from any animal-nearly always elicit the audible “aw” from me.
Baby birds are no exception, but what do you do when you have been taught to leave nature to nature? How about when that same nature is going to end the thing of your affectionate attention?
I'm loving the hair-I mean, feathers...
Walking down Bay State, I decided to appreciate nature the best way I know how: photography. Photographing flowers, beaten bricks on the street, ivy clinging to the doorways of houses; the usual photographic stock.
Almost home, my eyes wondered to a shady tree over looking the sidewalk. What had been a largely serene, quiet walk home was interrupted by the innocent chirping of a ball of puff wobbling on the mulch. A tiny baby bird, legs haphazardly supporting the fluffy feathered body, stared me down. No trust was in his dark eyes.
I closed in for a photograph; he lunged forward, not approving of my presence here. A tedious game of closing in and backing up ensued. Much to the delight of fellow pedestrians I believe, or to residents of the apartment complex I was photographing at. I danced back and forth from the sidewalk to the brushes of this man-made bird sanctuary, in order to please the subject of my study.
However this cute game between species came to halt when another bigger bird invaded the playground. I knew this was not a parental figure demanding the baby return home, but rather an invader that prompted the chick to lunge into the air, screeching its lungs empty for assistance. As I photographed, the larger bird drew closer. The chick screamed louder. Do I throw down my lens and intervene? Chuck my large purse at the intruder to teach it a lesson? Wait and see?
Intruder Alert!
My questions were answered by the roaring “Easy Rider” motorcycle that flew by the scene, effectively quieting the chick and scaring the trespasser away. A sigh of relief. Baby nature would not die at the claws of predatory nature, at least not in front of me and my lens.
I continue to photograph the chick, crawling on the ground to get better views and to calm to agitated baby. As I inched closer, I noticed a change in the young bird. Its chest heaved so dangerously, it threatened to knock the baby off balance. The eyes would close as if tears were to come pouring out, and it made a sharp breathing sound as if were in the midst of a crying fit. It was possibly one of the worst things an animal do, because it looked so human. Frightened, abandoned, and left to its own survival skills. I had no idea when it would end.
But it was going to have to soon. My legs had begun to cramp in my crouching pose, and I could no longer dedicate more than the hour I had spent photographing. It was time to leave, after one last photo, of course.
I got up from my false height, only to send the poor baby bird into hysterics. It fell over, took a few panicky breathes and bolted for the underbrush. I don’t know what was more humorous, either the way the bird tumbled over ferns larger than him or the fact that he was running in circles. I felt awful at the fact I was so amused at the bird’s flight instinct.
Just then, I got my first “What are you doing here?” from the apartment’s janitor, who had noticed I had been outside the property for sometime. I point out the source of the chirping in the form of a tumbling dust bunny. He told me I should probably get home soon, since it was about to rain and the bird’s mother should claim him soon enough. True, the skies had darkened over the course of the hour I spent, but I was not about to leave the chick I had been babysitting for all that time to drown.
When baby birds cry...
Then, I reasoned, I would just have to keep watching it.
I asked for the janitor for a box, then used it to capture my ward with the help of a book that was rolling around in my purse. Just as it had done with the unwelcomed stranger, it squeaked its utter fear from underneath the cover of my book at the bottom of the vegetable box.
Rushed into my room, and fashioned a makeshift bird cage out of paper plates and my shower caddy. I transferred the now angry feathered foe into the cage and rushed to the basement to concoct some sort of feed for a baby bird. My mind turned to rice and Triscuts. Rice was thrown out, as were the shredded Triscuts. Unlike the bird, who’s mother was no where in sight, I called my mother for advice. What to feed it, how to feed it, all my fears were calmed. I felt like I could handle the situation at last.
Adding water to my Triscut bits, I slowly made a paste with tweezers that I then fed to the bird through the holes in its playpen. Eagerly, the bird lapped up every droplet of the porridge. Full of food and secured in its surroundings, the bird finally calmed in the center of the cage.
Pretty bird-y
A few hours passed, and I noticed the clouds had departed. It was time to return to reality. No more playing mommy to the orphan bird, there was nature for that. With the help of my friend, we attempted to return the baby to the branches of its home. A sparrow hovered over us, possibly the worried mother. A few failed attempts later, and we succeeded in stabilizing the baby unto a branch long enough for us to walk away as the sparrow lowered to the baby bird’s level.
Nature resumed, restored and respected, even in the most savage of environments, a city sidewalk.
The Kids are Not Alright
Jun 24th
Not everyone in Boston rocks this hat. Photo from zazzle.com
On behalf of the haggard and seething non-collegiate inhabitants of Boston and her neighborhoods, I will reiterate the message to the college readers in the audience: “Stop acting like spoiled kids.”
Although it may surprise some of those who never leave their central campus, but there are actually people who live in Collegetown, U.S.A. Residents who wake up at ungodly hours of 6 or 7 in the morning to get their kids up and get them to school before dashing to the 9-to-5 job, only to face the prolonged commute home in rush hour traffic. Woe to the neighbors of college students then, according to the Metro’s comprehensive June 1st front-page article and the Boston Phoenix‘s recent headline over the battle of Mission Hill, a neighborhood popular with Northeastern students.
According to the statistics in the Metro article, during the summer season 461 complaints poured in from neighbors in Brookline ranging from noise to littering beer cans to public urination-on their homes. Ordinances on noise and increased police presence seems reasonable to people who fear going out at night because of twenty-something savages.
Why has it come to political activitists taking on college students? Do we not live peacefully side-by-side throughout the rest of the year? Yes and no, for the number of parties tend to soar with the temperatures and the amount of free time. An activist for Mission Hill residents blames Northeastern for not providing enough housing. While housing availability is not the issue at BU; it’s predominately costs that drive students off campus in search of cheaper alternatives. The price gouging affects homeowners too as prices are hiking out of reach for both students and residents. Taxes too fall into this pattern, as increases drive even more locals from the area. The damage has been done, local committees, and pitchforks at the ready-and College kids are determined to stay and party on.
Heed this warning: if relations are not improved between college kids and locals, we are going to be the ones to pay. Increased insurance taxes, ordinances against noise starting at even earlier hours, and a cop-led crackdown on minors who drink maybe just the beginning. Why not coexist with your neighbor-not war with them? Turn down the volume from your speakers; remind your party pals that people are trying to get some sleep, stop screaming like it’s a Red Sox Riot. I never believed that the rowdiness of unruly drunks were excusable. If they hit and kill a pedestrian while driving, they are still held accountable. No exception to that logic: if they destroy or disrespect in public, they should be still held accountable. Purge those folks from the get-together before they hit the party killing Godzilla Stage. Because if people do not sober up about how they treat their neighbors, we’re not only going to screw up our chances of living in Boston but also the next generations of students after us. I’m not exactly at peace with forcing people, including local commuters, to live in dorms if they would prefer to live in the city. We should have the option to choose where we live, and that includes making friends with the neighbors we chose.
The Reluctant Graduate
May 28th
Will I feel a part of the Class of '11? Only time will tell... Image from WordPress user redjotter.
This pass commencement was a bittersweet celebration for many that day. For the class of 1970, it was 40 years of never getting to celebrate their colligate achievements coming to an end. For parents, relief; and for some students it was saying good bye to people they had come to know like family.
Not only was I saying goodbye to friends then, but the realization of my own impending graduation kept sulking in the back of my mind the entire day.
Yet the lanyard around my neck reads in bold: “Class of 2012.” I am rushing to the graduation stage against my will.
This past year was a nightmare of what usually shows up only in overly dramatic soap operas. Death, breakups, abandonment, robbery, financial ruination, and family drama would’ve been great for an Oscar winning film, but I was less than amused that I had to deal with this in reality. However, only the financial issues are pushing me past the podium a year too soon.
Crazy enough in my high school days, I took extra college classes out of boredom. When I arrived at BU, I was handsomely rewarded for my work and had most of my divisional studies covered. Great, now to focus on my premed studies-which came to a grinding halt this past year as well, as I decided I was too disconnected from what I love in the hard sciences. Many tears, heartbreak, and disappointed family members later, I switched into sociology.
Bad news since there is not much money promised to those who go to grad school for sociology and I, like many fellow students here, am in enough debt to compete with my parents, in less than a mere few years.
Which brought this nasty little detail to my attention: I have two more years of taking out loans, and even more if I chose to pursue grad school. My parents told me truthfully, they could no longer help me spend my way into a debt I will possibly never recover from. As they told me, I will be paying for my children’s college tuition while still paying off my loans. Even with all I had to survive this school year, I did not want to leave. BU, however pricey the price tag is, is home to my friends, teachers, and advisors that have helped me enormously through some of the toughest stages of my adult life. Getting numbers together for my parents and pleading for them to let me stay never held so much at stake.
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