College: a surefire way to ruin leisure reading

Originally published May 26, 2009.

When I was young, I didn’t spend time thinking about college. I didn’t wonder what it would be like or what I would do there. Like many children of middle-class suburban families, I just knew that college happened after high school. College was a given, an expectation.

But once I got to college, I reflected more on the past. The influence of college only works in reverse, and now, as I creep nearer to the finish line, I can say one thing for sure: childhood didn’t mess up college for me, but college ruined my childhood.

Oh, sure; it started with small things. When the holidays rolled around, I watched the Rankin/Bass stop-motion version of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer I had always loved. But thanks to college, criticism marred my viewing experience—why did only reindeer boys get to play reindeer games? Wasn’t Santa an equal-opportunity employer for his sleigh team? Why didn’t People for the Ethical Treatment of Bumbles step in before Yukon Cornelius pulled all the Abominable Snowman’s teeth?

Then college encroached on the childhood pastime nearest and dearest to my heart. I loved reading and read for leisure all the time. Even though I started critically analyzing books in high school, I managed to resist sacrificing my enjoyment of reading to literary theory because at that age, you’re still allowed to dislike books for trivial reasons. Gatsby? Too melodramatic—hated it. Frankenstein? Too monotonous—hated it. Scarlet Letter? Really, really hated it, plus it was so easy to tell from the beginning that Arthur Dimmesdale knocked up Hester Prynne that I proceeded to write “IT WAS HIM” in my book next to every mention of the good minister.

And at the end of the day, I went home and read David Eddings or Neil Stephenson and relegated the deeply boring English class material to the back of my mind for the day of the AP exam. In college, I was certain everyone read William Gibson’s Neuromancer for a class.

Because I imagined childhood spilled right into college, I thought majoring in English was a great idea. Majoring in reading books? Great! Sign me up! Study the things you love already, right?

Or so I thought, even as my leisure reading time dwindled away. I read so much during the academic year that summer reading became more of a chore than a respite. I quit reading sci-fi entirely and replaced it with Virginia Woolf, Salman Rushdie, and (gulp!) James Joyce. Before I could think better of it, I began to highlight and mark my own books. I started to like Whitman.

I thought about essays I could write in my spare time about Frankenstein, which I still hated but had to admit contained a lot of analyzable content.

So, this summer, I decided to put an end to the madness. I marched into my room two days after finals and resolved to turn off my brain. Give me trashy sci-fi or give me death! I refuse to analyze anything!

One week later, I’ve managed to successfully ignore any possible semblance of social commentary or literary theory in Ender’s Game.

Instead, thanks to my second major, I keep complaining about Orson Scott Card’s writing style in all my conversations.

Chelsea is a senior in LAS.

A feeling technology can’t replace: holding a book

Originally published May 18, 2009.

I tend to do all of my major reading over the summer, primarily because of travel. Flying alone has made me realize I must have been one of those babies who would sleep peacefully only after a car ride. But, in the rare circumstances I manage to stay awake for an entire trip, the long interval aboard a plane provides a block of empty time that’s great for concentrating on something.

Saturday was one of those trips I devoted to reading. I started a book while waiting at the airport and couldn’t wait to continue after boarding. The plane, once I was on, was full of reading people—a refreshing sight from seeing 30 laptops instead of books while studying at Paradiso last week. I managed to grab a seat right next to one of my fellow readers, but I forsook our bond immediately when I realized he was reading on a Kindle.

I know what you’re thinking. I sound like every old curmudgeonly literature professor, every person in the quickly-dying publishing industry, and every devoted librarian. Suffice it to say I’m an English major and I’ve considered creating a scent line based on the aroma of old books.

That said, I just cannot get over my deep and perhaps slightly irrational hatred of Amazon’s Kindle device. Yes, I know it has an e-paper display. I know the new Kindle DX will have enough space for approximately 1500 titles. I know the publishing industry will have to work with downloadable content in the same way the music industry should have in the first place.

There’s just something about the feeling of a book in your hands, something about the reality of owning the physical object that feels right. I know many readers don’t care about autographed copies or seeing their own hand-scribbled notes in the margins. But as the guys from Penny Arcade pointed out so well in their March 9 comic, books are already the most progressive book technology out there: they’re completely wireless and don’t need charging. They won’t break if you drop them. You don’t have to worry about people stealing them for sheer monetary value.

Back to the story. I sat next to this Kindle-using gentleman and got situated, shoving my backpack underneath the seat in front of me and resting my real book in my lap. I opened my book to continue reading and found that not only had he taken the armrest, but his elbow was leaning out beyond it.

Since I couldn’t read without pulling my elbows in next to my ribs, I watched as our flight attendant gave the plane safety presentation and began walking through the cabin to make sure everyone had their chairs in the full upright position and that all portable electronic devices were turned off. She paused at our row.

“Sir, if that has an off switch, it needs to be turned off and put away,” she instructed.

I smiled to myself as I opened up my book and resumed reading.

Let’s hope these nicknames are none of yours

Originally published May 12, 2009.

You could call this semester a number of things: too long, for one, but also frustrating, boring, hazy, or maybe fulfilling. Plenty of momentous things happened, too. 2009 so far has meant Obama’s first 100 days in office, the election of the first openly gay head-of-government (she’s Iceland’s prime minister; Her name contains too many non-standard characters to successfully write here), Alex Rodriguez and Manny Ramirez allegedly using or testing positive for performance-enhancing drugs, and Arlen Specter walking across the aisle (not to be confused with producer Phil Spector, who was finally found guilty of murdering Lana Clarkson).

With so many famous figures and so little space to talk about them, it would be difficult to name them all and link them to their much-discussed exploits. Likely you’ve heard their names being thrown around on campus at one point or another.

It seems to me some are so well-known that they deserve to become slang — nicknames or titles to fully express how impressive or appalling someone’s actions have been.

So, for your convenience, here’s a brief guide to all of the up-and-coming titles soon to grace your spring 2009 Facebook memes.

If you managed to take the helm during a group presentation due to other members forgetting two of the most crucial parts of your presentation and successfully land the presentation with a conclusion that wasn’t your original thesis but got everyone out of the presentation alive and unharmed (and maybe even an A), you may have earned the title of “Chesley ‘Sully’ Sullenberger.”

If you come from a long tradition of U of I alumni entering into a particular field, you may have been thinking that your familial connections would be enough to get you in good with the employer of your choice instead of going through the standard application and interview processes as most other graduating seniors.

Regardless of whether you have the conscience to back out of using such distasteful celebrity status at the last moment, you’ll likely have already established yourself as a “Caroline Kennedy.”

For those of you who decided to quit your fairly successful college career in order to grow a spectacular lumberjack beard and pursue your dream of becoming a rapper, the people who knew you probably think of you as “Joaquin Phoenix” now.

People might have attributed the nickname “Betty Brown” to you if you’ve recently ranted that Americans should change their last names so that “Americans” (white Texans, of course) can pronounce them more easily.

And while we’re thinking about Texas, if you’ve made the claim that you can secede from the United States at any time, your friends are probably calling you “Rick Perry” behind your back.

If you’ve made a big fuss that your views on gay marriage kept you from getting that coveted exec board position in your RSO, other members may have started calling you “Carrie Prejean.”

All the people who got so drunk at Kam’s that they couldn’t remember where they left their phones, keys, or i-cards, couldn’t recall the name of the bar or even that they vomited all over another patron? These are the “Lady Gagas” of Champaign-Urbana.

And, if you’ve constantly boasted about your magnificent spring break cruise that may have included a guest appearance by T-Pain, you may be going by “Andy Samberg” these days, especially if you happened to be flipping burgers while your friends were at Kinko’s straight flipping copies.

Aside from all of these, here’s hoping that nothing you’ve done this semester has garnered you any of the following references: “Rush Limbaugh,” “Norm Coleman,” “Levi Johnston,” “Timothy Geithner,” “Rick Wagoner” and “Roland Burris.” And if you’ve done anything to achieve status among your peers as “Blago” or “Octomom,” we’ll certainly be reflecting on your “claims to fame” come the end of next semester.

Chelsea is a senior in English and creative writing.

Something gold can stay: make summer a state of mind

Originally published May 7, 2009.

Summer, despite the heat and humidity the word embodies, is as refreshingly cool and crisp as the tall glass of peach iced tea sitting next to you on your front porch while you read. (For me it is, at least. Some of you may be thinking of an “ice-cold frosty” while you listen to Mike Shannon and John Rooney announcing the ballgame, or that lukewarm two-liter of Dr. Pepper positioned conveniently near the futon while you play XBox.)

It’s been that way for as long as any of us can remember. By the time May rolls around, attention spans and motivation have run out entirely. From kindergarten to college, we fantasize about all the things we’ll have time for once that elusive break starts. Fall semester becomes impossible to imagine, drowned out by fun, friends, and freedom.
After multiple all-nighters, we know that the first week of summer is reserved for sleeping late … which of course turns into staying up late, and sleeping in late again the next week. It’s a vicious cycle, but we insist that we’re recovering from the rigors of academia.

Before I know it, I’ve slept in until noon every day for a month, and I know I’m not the only one. I get behind on my list of things I wanted to do and end up only doing things that force me out of bed, like working.

But this is my last golden summer, and that’s why I’ve been so concerned about it. Even with my summer jobs, I’m not quite an adult yet — the summer still belongs to me. After this, I hand over the keys to my summers to whatever professional employer I sign on with after graduation.

Needless to say, I can’t let this summer go by without accomplishing the things I have in my queue of things to do. I have books to read (Chuck Palahniuk!), pieces to write (summer DI, Chelsea strikes back!), a bookshelf to stain ($2 at the Dump-and-Run!), and a guitar to play (Roy Orbison!). I need to rethink how I approach this glorious reprieve. If you’re having the same feelings, maybe you should, too.

They say patience and wisdom both come with age, and as a soon-to-be fifth-year, I’ve accumulated at least useable amounts of both. Time and experience teach you not to race through an RPG’s main storyline while completely ignoring the sidequests that make it great, and that practicing guitar really does make you better and is actually an enjoyable activity.

Most relevantly, drawing nearer to the robust age of 22 has also shown me that summer has to be more than a one-shot effort at cramming in as many accomplishments as possible over the span of three months. In the middle of October, we’ll all be missing the sweetness of July, and the afterglow of that glorious, tightly-packed period of pure awesome isn’t going to last all the way to December, let alone through next May.

No, getting the most out of summer is about changing your habits to guarantee yourself time to do the things you want, that make life good – even into the fall. Summer free time is just the catalyst for making those changes.

By forcing yourself to manage your time better, you can give yourself regularly-scheduled time to do the things you love and want to do every day instead of once a month (or, if you’re an architecture major, never).

Whether you’ve got one last summer or a few left, you’ve got two choices. You can keep trying to squeeze all the fun out of summer and find yourself quickly losing your chances to do the recreational things that make you happy. Or, you can live every day like it’s summer.

Chelsea is a senior in creative writing and English.

Censoring domestic violence ad doesn’t fix the problem

Originally published April 30, 2009.

We get to see a lot of things on television: kissing, fist-fighting, blood, naked bodies, surgery. The most popular shows on television right now try to simulate the most graphic situations we can imagine in everyday life — law enforcement and medical treatment.

But when it comes to domestic abuse, anything close to “everyday life” is apparently too close.

This month, British charity Women’s Aid released a two-minute film directed by Joe Wright (who also boasts Atonement on his directorial resume) starring Keira Knightley as an actress returning home from a day of filming.

In her apartment, Keira’s live-in boyfriend confronts her, accusing her of cheating on him with her leading man.

Nothing unsafe for television yet, right?

And if British advertising watchdog Clearcast has their way, that’s where this ad will presumably end. Nothing intense, nothing thought-provoking, and certainly nothing like real domestic abuse.

The full version goes on to show Keira being slapped, grabbed by her hair and thrown to the floor by her boyfriend just before he begins brutally kicking her.

The ad in its entirety has been posted on the Women’s Aid Web site, YouTube and has been shown in British theaters. But Clearcast has deemed the ad too violent for mainstream television viewing.

News flash, censors: that’s the point.

Domestic violence really happens every day, unlike some of the other explicit things we see on television. According to statistics listed on the Women’s Aid website, one in every four women will be a victim of domestic violence, and one incident of domestic violence is reported to the police every minute. The Knightley ad uses the most powerful of these statistics: that two women die every week from domestic violence.

Yes, the violence depicted in the video is disturbing. By its very nature, domestic violence is disturbing, and depictions of it should rattle us to our cores. As spokeswoman Lucy Brown said, Women’s Aid constructed the ad around anecdotes from women who had experienced domestic violence themselves.

Running the ad on television brings the horror of domestic violence into the homes of people who thankfully haven’t faced it firsthand, so that they are made to acknowledge its existence and potential severity. And with the economy in its current state, there’s no better time than now to initiate such an ad campaign.

Susan Miller of the Rose Brooks Center in Kansas City, Mo. mentioned in the Kansas City Star Monday that in the last year, her agency has experienced a dramatic increase in the number of victims seeking assistance and in the lethality of domestic violence cases. Miller suggested that employment layoffs aggravate domestic violence situations as they force the batterer to be at home more often, but also because victims feel as though leaving will render them unable to support themselves financially.

If people consider the influence of the global recession, it becomes clear why Women’s Aid would ask for small donations from viewers instead of aiming the Knightley ad at a smaller demographic and listing a help hotline phone number. Enacting widespread aid programs takes funding and the attention of those who aren’t victims. When the best way to catch the attention of television viewers is realism, Clearcast’s mandate that the realistic portions of the film be cut frankly suggests that they either don’t believe domestic violence is a problem in Britain or that they would like to discourage the public from supporting women’s assistance organizations.

Despite the massive number of online views the Women’s Aid ad has accumulated, it’s critical that it reach televisions and living rooms across Britain (and honestly, we could use something similar in the U.S.). For women and children in violent households, there’s no Clearcast to blow the whistle on what’s “too violent.” Censoring the ad — or rather, promoting voluntary ignorance — will not make domestic violence disappear.

Chelsea is a senior in Creative Writing and English.