The energy in the room was palpable.
The election results were about to be announced.
An old man sat in the corner of the room, in a wheel chair. A veteran's hat sat tilted atop his head. He wore a blue tie and a suit jacket.
He surveyed the crowd of mostly young people. They were excited. They were alive, really alive. He had stood in that crowd once.
His hair was now grey, his body worn from years of life experience.
He clasped his hands in his lap and waited.
State by state, the numbers were reported in.
Red. Blue. Red. Blue.
At the end of the night, the result was blue.
He didn't jump or cheer. He left that to the younger activists.
He closed his eyes and began to cry. His country, the country he had fought for, would never be the same.
He felt change. Finally.
Monday, December 15, 2008
For most, Sundays are a day of rest. The Sabbeth, a holy day. Or at least they're supposed to be.
For one paticular football fan in Topeka, Sundays are generally a day of emotional distress.
Every Sunday he made his way to Seabrook's Bar and Grill. He sported the same, raggedy Chiefs cap he'd worn every Sunday for years. He took his usual stool at the bar, directly across from a large flat screen television.
He ordered a Budweiser and a basket of fries. He tapped his fingers on the sticky bar surface anticipating the kick off.
There was still hope before the kick off.
For one paticular football fan in Topeka, Sundays are generally a day of emotional distress.
Every Sunday he made his way to Seabrook's Bar and Grill. He sported the same, raggedy Chiefs cap he'd worn every Sunday for years. He took his usual stool at the bar, directly across from a large flat screen television.
He ordered a Budweiser and a basket of fries. He tapped his fingers on the sticky bar surface anticipating the kick off.
There was still hope before the kick off.
They raced up the stairs of the freshman dormitory, large mattress in hand.
The prank had been carefully planned.
Their suitemate was at the library studying. Afterall, it was only a week before finals.
The mattress slide perfectly beneath the bed of a friend on the third floor.
Their hearts raced. "He'll NEVER find it here!" they conversed amid a few excited high fives.
They returned to the first floor lobby and waited, patiently, for his return and the fruits of their labor.
The prank had been carefully planned.
Their suitemate was at the library studying. Afterall, it was only a week before finals.
The mattress slide perfectly beneath the bed of a friend on the third floor.
Their hearts raced. "He'll NEVER find it here!" they conversed amid a few excited high fives.
They returned to the first floor lobby and waited, patiently, for his return and the fruits of their labor.
The petite woman sat tall in the seat of her shiney black SUV.
She zipped through traffic with ease and without notice of thick, bright traffic lines.
A multi-tasker at heart, she held a steaming cup of Starbucks in one hand and a Blackberry in the other.
Perhaps she was driving with her knees. Fellow drivers had to wonder.
She zipped through traffic with ease and without notice of thick, bright traffic lines.
A multi-tasker at heart, she held a steaming cup of Starbucks in one hand and a Blackberry in the other.
Perhaps she was driving with her knees. Fellow drivers had to wonder.
She wrapped her arms around the frail woman. It was all she could do not to cry. She never thought she would run into this situation as a studio owner. Teenagers aren't supposed to die from cancer.
The mother had come in to pay a bill for lessons. Lessons her daughter may never take. A woman who was never late with a payment, was in the front row of every performance, and seemed to be strong and confident from the outside, was now just a shell of what she had been. Chemo treatments and hospital stays had been harder on the family than the fourteen year old, it seemed.
The mother had come in to pay a bill for lessons. Lessons her daughter may never take. A woman who was never late with a payment, was in the front row of every performance, and seemed to be strong and confident from the outside, was now just a shell of what she had been. Chemo treatments and hospital stays had been harder on the family than the fourteen year old, it seemed.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
To most, the life of a professional NFL cheerleader might seem glamorous. It might even seem easy. But the reality is that it is just as competitive as professional sports in general. Dancers and cheerleaders must be at a peak physical condition at all times. A fluctuation of even a few pounds can make or break a cheerleader in the middle of a season. An unflattering photo or rumor can also mean a pink slip.
All of this for less than $100 a game, in most cases.
It had been her dream to be a Dallas Cowboys Cheerleader since she learned there was such a thing. Her father was a deeply dedicated Cowboys fan and her family spent many weekend afternoons together immersed in Cowboys games. Even Thanksgiving was about more than turkey and cranberry sauce - it was about the Cowboys.
Her bedroom was a tribute to her dream. Each year the new squad's poster would hang above her bed. Every restricted meal, every work out, every dance class - every day of her life revolved around becoming a DCC.
Finally, it was her turn. She was 18 and a senior in high school; she was eligible to audition at Texas stadium.
Her heart raced as she signed her name and picked up her audition packet at the registration table. The air was tense and thick with hairspray. She passed girls much leaner, tanner, and blonder than her. It became painfully clear that ten years of training may not have been enough. Though her talent may be enough, her hair might not be big enough or her teeth not white enough.
She sailed through the first cut with ease, moving on to the choreography round where she would be grouped with a few hundred semi-finalists to learn actual DCC choreography INSIDE Texas Stadium. On the actual turf! She didn't want to forget a second of the experience.
As she came through the entrance tunnel the sheer size of the stadium stole her breath. She could literally hear the screams of fans that would soon fill the thousands of seats that surrounded her. She took her spot at center field and bent down to feel the turf. She closed her eyes and combed her fingers through the plastic blades.
All of this for less than $100 a game, in most cases.
It had been her dream to be a Dallas Cowboys Cheerleader since she learned there was such a thing. Her father was a deeply dedicated Cowboys fan and her family spent many weekend afternoons together immersed in Cowboys games. Even Thanksgiving was about more than turkey and cranberry sauce - it was about the Cowboys.
Her bedroom was a tribute to her dream. Each year the new squad's poster would hang above her bed. Every restricted meal, every work out, every dance class - every day of her life revolved around becoming a DCC.
Finally, it was her turn. She was 18 and a senior in high school; she was eligible to audition at Texas stadium.
Her heart raced as she signed her name and picked up her audition packet at the registration table. The air was tense and thick with hairspray. She passed girls much leaner, tanner, and blonder than her. It became painfully clear that ten years of training may not have been enough. Though her talent may be enough, her hair might not be big enough or her teeth not white enough.
She sailed through the first cut with ease, moving on to the choreography round where she would be grouped with a few hundred semi-finalists to learn actual DCC choreography INSIDE Texas Stadium. On the actual turf! She didn't want to forget a second of the experience.
As she came through the entrance tunnel the sheer size of the stadium stole her breath. She could literally hear the screams of fans that would soon fill the thousands of seats that surrounded her. She took her spot at center field and bent down to feel the turf. She closed her eyes and combed her fingers through the plastic blades.
Thursday, October 23, 2008
He rolled over to glance at his clock.
5:43am.
He flopped out of bed, threw on a pair of untied shoes, grabbed a sweatshirt from the top of his laundry basket and stumbled out the door.
He melted into the crowd of students leaving the building with the redundant sound of the fire alarm in the background.
They walked out the east door, as the always do, and towards the lawn.
"Oh my God! It's a real fire!" someone shouted.
He turned back toward the building to see the massive cloud of thick black smoke billowing from the fourth floor.
"Should have grabbed my laptop," he thought.
5:43am.
He flopped out of bed, threw on a pair of untied shoes, grabbed a sweatshirt from the top of his laundry basket and stumbled out the door.
He melted into the crowd of students leaving the building with the redundant sound of the fire alarm in the background.
They walked out the east door, as the always do, and towards the lawn.
"Oh my God! It's a real fire!" someone shouted.
He turned back toward the building to see the massive cloud of thick black smoke billowing from the fourth floor.
"Should have grabbed my laptop," he thought.
Holy Yogurt
"Ten!" a nearby voice shouted.
It was thick. It was pink. It was lumpy. But he could almost see the bottom.
"Nine!"
His heart began to race, he was so close.
"Eight!"
He scooped the last spoonful of goop from the seemingly bottomless pit of strawberry yogurt.
"Seven!"
He hated strawberry yogurt. It reminded him of an unfortunate tricycle accident that landed him, at three-years-old, in the hospital.
"Six!"
The nurse gave him a strawberry sucker to ease the pain or possibly to distract him, he wasn't sure. Either way, the smell or even thought of the terrible fruit haunted him to this day.
"Five!"
He held the spoon to his mouth. What a terrible fate. He was just trying to impress a girl.
"Four!"
It had to be strawberry, didn't it?
"Three!"
He took a deep breath.
"Two!"
He closed his eyes and shoved the spoon into his mouth.
"One! Stop! Everyone stop!"
He needed a trash can, but he lacked the strength to make the five foot journey.
He waited as they counted and inspected the contestants' cups. He could see his seven cups were neck and neck with another contestant's pile.
"It's a tie!"
He felt like collapsing.
It was thick. It was pink. It was lumpy. But he could almost see the bottom.
"Nine!"
His heart began to race, he was so close.
"Eight!"
He scooped the last spoonful of goop from the seemingly bottomless pit of strawberry yogurt.
"Seven!"
He hated strawberry yogurt. It reminded him of an unfortunate tricycle accident that landed him, at three-years-old, in the hospital.
"Six!"
The nurse gave him a strawberry sucker to ease the pain or possibly to distract him, he wasn't sure. Either way, the smell or even thought of the terrible fruit haunted him to this day.
"Five!"
He held the spoon to his mouth. What a terrible fate. He was just trying to impress a girl.
"Four!"
It had to be strawberry, didn't it?
"Three!"
He took a deep breath.
"Two!"
He closed his eyes and shoved the spoon into his mouth.
"One! Stop! Everyone stop!"
He needed a trash can, but he lacked the strength to make the five foot journey.
He waited as they counted and inspected the contestants' cups. He could see his seven cups were neck and neck with another contestant's pile.
"It's a tie!"
He felt like collapsing.
Sunday, October 19, 2008
Putting West Plains, MO on the map.
(This is an entry from my political blog for my internship. Please comment here and there. =) www.schroederonpolitics.blogspot.com)
A few years ago, while I was on my college visit to Washburn, my mom and I stopped by the capital building since we were in town. I remember seeing a sign that with Topeka's Word of the Day - "Deference: yielding to the judgment or opinion of another. Courteous submission out of respect for the wishes of others." It struck me enough at the time to take a picture.
It seems like a silly thing to make a sign for - silly that we need to be reminded to respect each other. But apparently a few folks in Missouri need that sign plastered on their foreheads.
Recently, an anonymous citizen put up a billboard depicting presidential candidate Barack Obama in a turban and with the middle name "Hussein." The billboard also claims that electing Obama will "equal" more abortions, same sex marriages, taxes, and gun regulations.
Well obviously, Mr. Anonymous, taxes and gun regulations may increase due to any candidate getting into office, but I fail to see the connection between electing a candidate and guaranteeing an increase in the number of abortions or same sex marriages as a result. If a person chooses to get an abortion or to get married, in general, it's not because the president told them to. That's like saying if you move to Kansas you will be swept away to Oz by a massive tornado.
Might an elected official pass laws to support these two scenarios? Possibly. But jumping to such conclusions and going as far as trying to influence voters with them, is crossing the line.
Now don't get me wrong, I'm all about political activism and am a staunch supporter of freedom of speech, but I am thoroughly sick of how offensive and negative so much of the political outreach is today.
I wonder what would happen if a campaign were run solely on the positive aspects of a candidate. Would it be refreshing to voters to see only positive ads?
So friends, the moral to the story... We should respect our RIGHT to freedom of speech. That means that not only should we respect every American citizen's right to say whateva the heck they want, but we should also respect the right itself and honor it with restraint. As citizens, we should take this right seriously and actually think before we speak and even (gasp) consider how what we say will affect others.
Or, let's at least be a little more creative in attacking a candidate.
http://media.www.washburnreview.org/media/storage/paper1140/news/2008/10/13/Opinion/Obama.Sign.Offensive.Walks.The.Line.Of.Free.Speech-3484218.shtml?reffeature=recentlycommentedstoriestab
A few years ago, while I was on my college visit to Washburn, my mom and I stopped by the capital building since we were in town. I remember seeing a sign that with Topeka's Word of the Day - "Deference: yielding to the judgment or opinion of another. Courteous submission out of respect for the wishes of others." It struck me enough at the time to take a picture.
It seems like a silly thing to make a sign for - silly that we need to be reminded to respect each other. But apparently a few folks in Missouri need that sign plastered on their foreheads.
Recently, an anonymous citizen put up a billboard depicting presidential candidate Barack Obama in a turban and with the middle name "Hussein." The billboard also claims that electing Obama will "equal" more abortions, same sex marriages, taxes, and gun regulations.
Well obviously, Mr. Anonymous, taxes and gun regulations may increase due to any candidate getting into office, but I fail to see the connection between electing a candidate and guaranteeing an increase in the number of abortions or same sex marriages as a result. If a person chooses to get an abortion or to get married, in general, it's not because the president told them to. That's like saying if you move to Kansas you will be swept away to Oz by a massive tornado.
Might an elected official pass laws to support these two scenarios? Possibly. But jumping to such conclusions and going as far as trying to influence voters with them, is crossing the line.
Now don't get me wrong, I'm all about political activism and am a staunch supporter of freedom of speech, but I am thoroughly sick of how offensive and negative so much of the political outreach is today.
I wonder what would happen if a campaign were run solely on the positive aspects of a candidate. Would it be refreshing to voters to see only positive ads?
So friends, the moral to the story... We should respect our RIGHT to freedom of speech. That means that not only should we respect every American citizen's right to say whateva the heck they want, but we should also respect the right itself and honor it with restraint. As citizens, we should take this right seriously and actually think before we speak and even (gasp) consider how what we say will affect others.
Or, let's at least be a little more creative in attacking a candidate.
http://media.www.washburnreview.org/media/storage/paper1140/news/2008/10/13/Opinion/Obama.Sign.Offensive.Walks.The.Line.Of.Free.Speech-3484218.shtml?reffeature=recentlycommentedstoriestab
Thursday, October 9, 2008
Debate over attendance: She was just "busy?"
(This is an entry from my political blog for my internship. Please comment on it. www.schroederonpolitics.blogspot.com)
Oh, how I love the smell of politics in the morning.
The tight race between Rep. Nancy Boyda, D-Kan., and Republican state Treasurer Lynn Jenkins heated up this week as Boyda raised the issue of Jenkins absences at important KPERS meetings.
It has been reported that Jenkins missed 12 of 46 meetings. In other words, Jenkins was MIA 26% of the time. Boyda reportedly tagged the state Treasurer's absences during such a crutial time for the fund and the Kansas citizens it affects as "irresponsible."
Rather than addressing the accusation, Jenkins has chosen to skirt the issue and avoid giving valid reasons for missing these meetings at a time when the KPERS fund by $1 billion in the first quarter of the fiscal year 2009. Instead, Jenkins told the public she was "busy."
Interesting.
Jenkins and her camp have chosen to throw back criticism of a ten minute absence on Boyda's part during a recent congressional meeting. Boyda reportedly removed herself from the meeting (for only ten minutes, folks) because she felt the speaker was disrespecting Congress.
So... let's put all this together. Jenkins was absent from just over a quarter of KPERS meetings during a time that the fund, that is so important to Kansans, was struggling. Annnd instead of explaining to these citizens that she is seeking to represent the reasoning for her absenteeism, she chose to slam her competitor for standing up for what she believes in by stepping out of a meeting for ten whole minutes. As a young Kansas citizen and active voter, I am left a bit confused.
After all, aren't we as citizens hungry for politicians who not only do their job but actually stand up for what they (and we) believe in?
http://www2.ljworld.com/news/2008/oct/08/campaign_wont_elaborate_jenkins_missing_kpers_meet/?city_local
Oh, how I love the smell of politics in the morning.
The tight race between Rep. Nancy Boyda, D-Kan., and Republican state Treasurer Lynn Jenkins heated up this week as Boyda raised the issue of Jenkins absences at important KPERS meetings.
It has been reported that Jenkins missed 12 of 46 meetings. In other words, Jenkins was MIA 26% of the time. Boyda reportedly tagged the state Treasurer's absences during such a crutial time for the fund and the Kansas citizens it affects as "irresponsible."
Rather than addressing the accusation, Jenkins has chosen to skirt the issue and avoid giving valid reasons for missing these meetings at a time when the KPERS fund by $1 billion in the first quarter of the fiscal year 2009. Instead, Jenkins told the public she was "busy."
Interesting.
Jenkins and her camp have chosen to throw back criticism of a ten minute absence on Boyda's part during a recent congressional meeting. Boyda reportedly removed herself from the meeting (for only ten minutes, folks) because she felt the speaker was disrespecting Congress.
So... let's put all this together. Jenkins was absent from just over a quarter of KPERS meetings during a time that the fund, that is so important to Kansans, was struggling. Annnd instead of explaining to these citizens that she is seeking to represent the reasoning for her absenteeism, she chose to slam her competitor for standing up for what she believes in by stepping out of a meeting for ten whole minutes. As a young Kansas citizen and active voter, I am left a bit confused.
After all, aren't we as citizens hungry for politicians who not only do their job but actually stand up for what they (and we) believe in?
http://www2.ljworld.com/news/2008/oct/08/campaign_wont_elaborate_jenkins_missing_kpers_meet/?city_local
Thursday, September 25, 2008
Corner Store: Lessons in Life
He looked down at the pile of spilled smoothie resting at his feet, then up and into the faces of the line of frustrated students standing before him.
It was just supposed to be a side job, something that would work around his class schedule. After all, it couldn't be that challenging to work in the union. Right?
"I can't believe it takes twenty minutes to get a smoothie. This is ridiculous," a student muttered just loud enough for the student worker to hear. "I mean, where do they get these people anyway?"
He knelt down to soak up the sugary fruit filled mess with a few clothes that were near by. The immortal words and lessons from Dr. DeSanto replayed themselves in his mind as he attempted to hold himself from jumping over the counter and down the throats of the impatient patrons.
"It's all about customer service," DeSanto once said in class. "Everything is public relations and an opportunity to build a relationship with another person."
He stood up, forced a smile, and turned to the growing mob. "I'm sorry ma'am. It's been a long day. I'm sure you can understand. This one is on me."
Thursday, September 18, 2008
The "gift"
"He was the hardest worker I ever knew," they all said as they greeted the family. "He was a great man. We're so sorry."
Death is a funny thing. It coerces a person into adulthood. It allows forgiveness for years of pain and lays a thick silver lining on the things you thought you could never let go of. It forces buried memories to surface.
When she was little, going to the farm was a treat. Anna, Illinois was an emerald oasis nestled in the heart of southern Illinois. Paw Paw's fields of beans, wheat, and corn stretched as far as the eye could see; he was so proud of that. He wanted to own as much land as a person could see standing from the house.
He had a work ethic like Lincoln, was stubborn as a mule, and had an attention to detail that would rival Martha Stewart in her heyday. He knew every inch of the land, every blade of grass.
In fact, he had the "gift." Her mother had it, too. Of the thousands of clover that grew around the farm house, they could always find a four leaf clover. She remembered spending hours as a child combing through the grass and the gardens, hoping to find this treasure. Hoping that she, too, had the gift. Every trip she looked. She never found one. He would finally lead her right to one. He knew exactly where it was all along.
Now she had finally returned to little Anna, Illinois. She was older, hopefully wiser, more traveled - yet she still got a tinge of excitement as they rounded the corner and first saw the farm burst into view like she was a five-year-old all over again.
She didn't spend the week crying. She walked the property, spending time with old memories. She breathed the country air. Painstakingly, she looked through clover patches trying one last time to find a four leaf clover.
She and her mother were about to leave. It was time to go back to Kansas. As the family said their goodbyes, she looked straight down to her feet. She had finally found it, an almost perfect four leaf clover. Her eyes welled with tears and she bent down to make sure it was real. As a new parent counts for ten fingers and ten toes, she counted the four separate leaves. She held it in her hands and smiled, assured that he had directed her to it.
She carefully set her cell phone down on her desk and stared at the computer screen in front of her.
She couldn't feel anything.
She could only hear those two words replaying themselves in her head.
"He's gone."
Her grandfather, or "Paw Paw" as the grand kids had called him, had suffered a massive heart attack or possibly a stroke only a few hours before. He was rushed from his country farm in Anna, Illinois to Union County Hospital where he was pronounced dead at 8:37am.
He was 74 years old.
She was angry. She was angry for being upset. She was angry for hurting for someone who had spoken to her once in the past ten years. But mostly, she was confused. She hadn't cried yet, she wanted to cry. She wanted to hit him. She wanted to run away.
She sat at her desk for a few minutes and stared at the now completely unimportant email she had been writing. She began to email professors and calling to make arrangements to be gone a few days.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
She gazed down at the crumpled piece of paper in front of her, a collection of letters and numbers that did not quite make sense. She recognized most of the words, but this map of sorts seemed to confuse her more than it did lead her in the right direction.
The bag hanging from her shoulders was heavy; she wanted to be prepared for anything. The journey she was about to take was daunting.
She took a deep breath, five steps forward, and tapped the nearest shoulder. "Could you tell me where... Morgan Hall is?"
No one ever said spending a semester at a strange school in a foreign country would be easy.
The bag hanging from her shoulders was heavy; she wanted to be prepared for anything. The journey she was about to take was daunting.
She took a deep breath, five steps forward, and tapped the nearest shoulder. "Could you tell me where... Morgan Hall is?"
No one ever said spending a semester at a strange school in a foreign country would be easy.
Again!
The teaching profession is one gigantic double-edged sword. The teacher must find the delicate balance between challenging students and nurturing their talents (and sometimes delicate egos) to guide them to their ultimate potential. Throw in about twelve third grade girls, an insanely hot upstairs room, and a chronically malfunctioning stereo, and you have a monster of a storm brewing for a 22-year-old dance teacher who is knee deep in the first week of fall semester classes.
It was a typical Thursday night. She arrived at the studio after a fifteen minute drive that involved closed Topeka roads "due to [infinite] construction" and countless Topeka drivers who refused to drive at or above the speed limit.
She felt a moment of relief as she finally pulled into the "Faculty Only" parking lot. However, the moment was only to be short lived, as she realized the "Faculty Only" lot was filled with clearly "non-faculty" vehicles. Annoyed, she settled for a distant parking spot and made her way into the studio.
She quickly prepared for her regular third and fourth grade tap class and made the trek up the stairs to the Red Room, or more affectionately, "the Inferno." The tiny room at the top of a long stair case had little chance at ventilation - a terrible fate for a class of dancers during hot summer months.
She closed the door, turned on the music, and began leading the youngsters in their normal drills. One student's off-beat rhythm caught the teacher's attention. She stopped the music, and asked the student to perform on her own. "Again!" the teacher commanded, until the step was completed properly.
Feeling defeated, tears began to pour from the small dancer's eyes. The teacher faced yet another dilemma, the perfect ending to a quite tragic day. Wanting more than anything to hug the student, to make everything OK, she chose to "build character" turning the music back on and continuing with class. The tears soon dried, class soon ended, and the teacher was soon in bed. Recovering.
It was a typical Thursday night. She arrived at the studio after a fifteen minute drive that involved closed Topeka roads "due to [infinite] construction" and countless Topeka drivers who refused to drive at or above the speed limit.
She felt a moment of relief as she finally pulled into the "Faculty Only" parking lot. However, the moment was only to be short lived, as she realized the "Faculty Only" lot was filled with clearly "non-faculty" vehicles. Annoyed, she settled for a distant parking spot and made her way into the studio.
She quickly prepared for her regular third and fourth grade tap class and made the trek up the stairs to the Red Room, or more affectionately, "the Inferno." The tiny room at the top of a long stair case had little chance at ventilation - a terrible fate for a class of dancers during hot summer months.
She closed the door, turned on the music, and began leading the youngsters in their normal drills. One student's off-beat rhythm caught the teacher's attention. She stopped the music, and asked the student to perform on her own. "Again!" the teacher commanded, until the step was completed properly.
Feeling defeated, tears began to pour from the small dancer's eyes. The teacher faced yet another dilemma, the perfect ending to a quite tragic day. Wanting more than anything to hug the student, to make everything OK, she chose to "build character" turning the music back on and continuing with class. The tears soon dried, class soon ended, and the teacher was soon in bed. Recovering.
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