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College
and communism not so different
Communism is the political system in which the government
controls every aspect of day-to-day life. For example, the
clothes a person are allowed to wear, the amount of food
they can purchase or the profession one can enter. College
is like communism in that the administration controls most
aspects of the student’s daily lives. Students are told
day to day where to live, how and what to eat and when they
can see their friends. First, all students residing on campus
MUST purchase a meal plan, unless extenuating circumstances
exist. What constitutes extenuating circumstances? When
a student purchases a meal plan, each meal costs about $6.
A whole box of cereal costs about $2.50 at United. I think
I’d rather go there! Not every student eats $6 worth at
every meal. A meal consisting of a double cheeseburger and
a McValue fries is only $2.06 at McDonald's, but is it $6
in the cafeteria. And it’s not worth $6 in quality. Why
must the students consistently be told what to eat everyday?
Unfortunately, college students cannot afford the luxury
of getting a box of cereal at United because they are paying
for the meal plan that the administration says the students
must have. Most college students have the right to vote.
If they can have a hand in deciding our nation’s leaders,
why can’t they choose what and where they want to eat? Next,
why do college students on this campus have a curfew? For
students living in McCullough-Trigg, Pierce and Killingsworth,
do you feel childish escorting guests out at 1 a.m. on weekdays
and 2 a.m. on weekends? How do you feel when you have to
check them into the dorms? It’s communism! Big Brother’s
watching you. Ah, yes, this means that visitors of the opposite
sex are not allowed to spend the night. And while on the
topic of the opposite sex, why isn’t every hall co-ed? Do
the powers that be really believe that our hormones are
so out of control that we’ll jump everything within arms
length? Besides people will do what they want. It is amusing
that as living, breathing human beings with fully-functional
minds we are unable to make the egregious decision of when
and who we can see, as well as what we will do while seeing
them. Speaking of the dorms, why are students required to
live on campus until we attain a certain number of credits?
Oh ye of little faith. It is not like living on campus makes
the students go to class more. Students will either go to
class or not. Ultimately, it is up to the student if he
or she will go to class. Forcing us to live on campus is
ridiculous. The college community is flooded with decisions
made for the students by the administration so much so they
really do provide us with the toilet paper we wipe our bottoms
with. That can be found at the front desk where you must
check in each guest. Did I mention you can only have three
guests at one time? But, be sure that when 1 o’clock rolls
around Thursday night, you escort your visitor downstairs
to check-out, or the person working at the front desk will
be sure to give you a call, as a reminder of course, that
college is like communism! Ferrier, a sophomore mass communication
major, hails from Houston.
Some
days don’t get any worse than this one
Have you ever had a worst day ever? I presume that most people in this world can point to one specific day and say that it was the worst day of their life. My worst day was not long ago. I always knew that a day would come when everything fell apart, but what I didn’t expect is what it would teach me about life. As I was walking out of my dorm room one Sunday, I heard my cell phone ringing. I had a debate with myself about whether or not to go back to answer it. I did. As soon as I heard my mom on the other end, I could tell something was wrong. When she told me that my grandfather had died, I didn’t want to believe it. I was silent with no tears and no words for several minutes, but it felt like several hours. When she started explaining that I needed to leave immediately after classes on Monday, I felt like the world was spinning. Nothing made sense. Monday I made it through half my classes and talked to the rest of my professors and got excused to leave early. I drove to Perryton at 10 a.m. It took me four hours, which was less time than it should have. I was speeding a bit. The viewing in the funeral home was so strange. I don’t think I have been at anything more ironic in my life. There were people laughing and little kids running around. Then there were people crying, and then there was me. I was somewhere in between. When we got to the gravesite it was cold and misty. My father, who died when I was 18 months old, was buried there as well. My little cousin Seth clung to me because he was cold. I stood directly next to my biological dad’s grave. My grandma said that she thought Grandpa was happy because he was finally in a place where he could see his son once again. The memorial service was a flurry of me not really knowing what was going on but just following people around. Everyone had a story to tell about Grandpa or my father. Not too long after everything was finished, I decided to get on the road so I could make it to my Wednesday classes. About 15 minutes on the road I saw smoke coming from my car. I stopped in the next town and had it checked out. The mechanic told me how I might only “possibly” make it back. He sold me some oil that I was supposed to put in every 30 miles. When I stopped for the first time, I opened the hood of my car and there was oil everywhere, and, worse yet, it was on fire. I grabbed my cell phone, closed the hood, and walked away from my car. Once I was certain that the fire was out, I got back in my car and sat for a while. I didn’t know who to call. My family would not be home yet, and I didn’t want to call my grandma. I tried to get a hold of my other grandparents with no success. So while I waited for my parents to get home, I sat and cried. About one-fourth of the people who drove by stopped to see what was wrong. My faith in people was raised significantly. I had always believed that no one stopped anymore. Although I was upset it raised my spirits to know that “good Samaritans” do still exist. When my mom finally called me back, she told me to call my aunts and uncles in Perryton. Since I was hyperventilating from crying so much, my mom called them, and they said they would come get me. When they arrived I got everything out of my car, and we drove the hour and a half back to Perryton. A cousin who was on her way to Dallas offered to drop me off in Wichita Falls, and I thankfully accepted. Although that day is branded in my mind as one of the worst days in my life, I will never forget how the worst things in life often bring out the best in people. During that whole time everyone I encountered was kind and supportive and understanding. That worst time in my life brought into focus all the people who truly cared about me. Dickerson, a sophomore English major, hails from Canyon, Texas.
I would like to begin by asking you a simple question. When you read our school paper, do you feel like you’re reading the stories and complaints of 100 African-American students who feel it’s necessary to tell about how they are mistreated and looked down on because the white man has done them so much wrong? Well, I propose two new articles: one being about how lucky they are and not unlucky by being born in America because they could be born in god-awful Africa where they would weigh no more than 100 pounds their whole life and be eaten alive everyday by fleas and insects. But that’s not the point. The point is that many young men such as myself who attend MSU feel it’s embarrasing to walk down the streets and to class and witness mobs of African-Americans congragating in the streets making fun of white people as they pass by. I am so embarrassed when I sit down for a meal with my family in our cafeteria but can’t enjoy simple conversation because the blacks feel it necessary to yell and be as obnoxious as possible at all times. Their rude, immature and insecure attitude is always displayed in the cafeteria as well as all around the campus, but yet they always are displayed in the school paper as heroes. But to set the record straight, I am not a racist because my wife, Latoya Jacobson, is an African-American, and she feels the same way about these issues and is embarrased of her own kind at times. Thank you and remember white people are cool too, so don’t be ashamed to write about other races as well. God loves us all. Peter Jacobson
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