8B
Friday, May 2, 1997
UNIVERSITY DAILY KANSAN
GUEST COLUMNS
Material possessions put into perspective
You know, it's hard to write about something that touched your soul and changed your heart. It's hard to pinpoint one emotion when so many are coursing through your head. It's hard to tell someone else what you're feeling when you're not sure yourself. But usually, I think those experiences are the ones that need to be shared the most. So bear with me.
It was Sunday and it was hot. Sticky. We had arrived in the Dominican Republic the night before, and the next day we would begin working on the health clinic. That day, however, we were visiting the people who had come to help—poor, Hatián, sugar-cane cutters and their families who could barely afford food, much less basic health care.
Most of the group set off for the rural villages in big vans, but I traveled with a small team of nurses. Our plan was to spend the day dispensing vitamins, antibiotics and painkillers in a makeshift clinic.
Soon we left the vegetation behind and were driving past acre after acre of sugar cane. Then we saw them. In a scene reminiscent of the 1800s, two huge oxen stood patiently chained to a monster cart piled high with sugar cane. Two men hacked at the cane with curved blades and a third threw the long pieces up to the man in the cart. Obviously, they had been at work a long time because the cart was almost full.
We bumped along the dusty road, past low-growing trees and flowering bushes that masked the ugly poverty of this third-world country. An odd mixture of smells blew in the open window, slapping me in the face. I couldn't decide if I wanted to hold my nose or breathe in deeper.
Our driver, Ketly, stopped the car and we got out to talk to the workers. Their gaunt bodies shone with sweat, and their wrinkled faces broke into toothy smiles as we approached. The men looked old to me, like they should be sitting at home, not slaving in the heat. All of them had brown teeth. Ketly explained that was from gnawing on sugar cane — often the only food they got all day.
We had come armed with small bars of soap, toothpaste and toothbrushes. Ketty was translating a conversation between the nurses
and the men on the ground. I shaded my eyes to look up at the man who was now sitting on 'top of the cart. Shaded by a straw hat, he was the oldest of them all and seemed exhausted. His hands, however, showed that he was no stranger to hard work.
Kely turned to walk back to the car, and I realized I still had a toothbrush in my hand. I stood on tiptoes to hand the little box to the man. He just held it, staring down as if he could not believe the box was in his hand. Then he looked up and I saw a tear slide down his face. He raised the toothbrush over his head and, the only English I had heard from any of the men, said, "First."
It was his first toothbrush.
All week, as we poured concrete floors for the clinic, I thought of the wizeden old man in the sugar cane field. We were spending thousands of dollars building the clinic, but it had taken only one toothbrush to make him happy. As some group members whined about our meals, our hot quarters, our lumpy beds, I knew that neither that man nor anyone he knew ever had experienced the luxury we complained about. He had never even owned a toothbrush.
And suddenly, it was over. I climbed on a plane and went home. Air conditioning. Street lamps. Manicured lawns. McDonald's. Clean water. My house, stuffed with furniture and knickknacks.
Then, tears. I cried. I cried for everything I had and everything I took for granted. And I knew it wasn't over, because I would never be the same.
Megan Jordan Leawood junior
Do not be ashamed of Seinfeld addiction
Hi. My name is Dave, and I'm addicted to Seinfeld.
This breathetaking drama influences all of my daily interactions, all of my philosophical thoughts and all of my romantic relationships.
tant theme and adds structure to my life. Anytime I find myself faced with a pressing dilemma, I consult my handy Seinfeld Episode Guide to see how Jerry, George, Elaine or Cosmo would handle the situation.
I follow George's example of how to treat an unruly bubble boy. I now know that it is impossible to pull off the roommate switch (darn). And I know how to avoid an annoying uncle.
The self-proclaimed show about
nothing actually contains an impor-
As of yesterday, I have never had my nipple exposed on a Christmas card or disrupted a piano concerto because of a Pez dispenser, but, if those situations should arise, I will know how to handle them.
But the show does force me to ponder some deep thoughts. What exactly happened to Kramer's hair? How long can I remain master of my domain? Did Keith Hernandez act alone when he spit on Kramer, or was there a second spitter?
My abnormal amount of Seinfeld knowledge stems from a lonely childhood. I only had three friends: the TV, remote control and couch. Every Thursday night at 8, I'd park my butt in front of the tube and begin my admiration.
Yes, I know the show is fictional, but I swear that every episode is based on something that has happened in my life. I've spent hours thinking about first names that rhyme with female body parts. I've been planning my next vacation: a strange, erotic journey from Milan to Minsk. And last weekend, I had my own vomit streak end. Sure, mine didn't begin June 29, 1980, like Jerry's, but I was working on a good six months.
Seinfeld has been my inspiration to pursue a career in medicine. I'm trying to market the Junior Mint as the cure-all for every disease. My doctoral dissertation will investigate the history of the shrink factor.
But what is it about the show that makes me like it so much? I think it's because it's a down-to-earth show about people like me. Some other shows, such as The Cosby Show, never portrayed a character getting drunk, never acknowledged characters having a run-in with the law and never acknowledged characters having intimate relationships. Seinfeld does it all for me.
Just how far will I go to watch the show? Well, I schedule study breaks to fit in either the 10:30 or 11:30 p.m. time slots. I refuse to work late nights during the week or at all on Thursdays. I've stopped at bars on road trips to catch a glimpse of Elaine dancing, Kramer opening doors, and Newman doing ... well,
The show is currently in its eight season and is the top-rated sitcom. It has won numerous awards, including Emmy, Golden Globe and Screen Actor's Guild awards. But CNN reported that Jerry Seinfeld may not be back if his contract is not renegotiated.
just about anything Newman does is fascinating.
If *Seinfeld* were canceled, what would I do with all my free time? If you figure at least one hour per day (both the 10:30 and 11:30 episodes — like I said, I'm addicted), plus time spent researching the character's backgrounds, I'm working on about 10 hours a week. I could get a part-time job. I could study more. I could have a social life. Nah, I think I'll just spend the night with my three friends thinking about the good o' days.
Not that there's anything wrong with that
Dave Breitenstein O'Fallon, Ill., senior
Despite hatred, Texas fans worthy of respect
I was born in Norman, Okla. It's my
birtighthip to hate Texans. And I do.
I detest every last one of them, even my relatives in Dallas. But as much as I despise the state, the citizens and that wretched Longhorn orange, I have a new-found respect for the Lone Star State tradition.
It all came about a few nights ago. I was covering the baseball game between Texas and Kansas for the Kansan. I waited for the national anthem to begin. But something was wrong.
The announcer came over the intercom.
"Due to technical difficulties, we will skip the playing of our national anthem. Thank you."
That was when it happened. The Texas players gathered in a huddle near their dugout. They turned and faced the crowd, bowed their heads and held the "hook 'em horns" in the air.
Then the singing began. My eyes riveted to the source. Standing next to me were nine middle-aged, slightly overweight, rabid Longhorn fans singing — a cappella no less. They were facing the players and reciprocating the famous Texas hand gesture.
The crowd was stunned. I was mesmerized. Was this really happening?
"The eyes of Texas are upon you," the men bellowed.
As a Sooner child I had heard the stories. I knew Texans were slightly off their rockers. But I had never seen anything like this. I was frightened.
The singing grew louder.
"Until Gabriel blows his horn."
The Texas fans, however, weren't finished.
The song concluded. Cheers erupted from the Texas players. The nine slightly overweight men whooped, hollered and yee-haw as loud as only nine slightly overweight men can. The Kansas fans didn't make a peep.
Longhorn center fielder Brett Loeffler crushed the first pitch of the game over the wall in left field. The nine men cheered as he ran the bases. Loeffler crossed home plate and returned to the dugout. The men turned toward the Texas players. Wildly waving the "hook 'em horns," they began to chant.
"Brett, Brett, Brett."
Loeffer stepped out of the dugout. With a quick flip of the wrist, he graciously tipped his cap to the men. They erupted.
"This is too much<sub>i</sub>" I muttered.
"Too much."
I was appalled by the scene, but secretly I wanted to be the 10th member of the chorus. I wanted to chant. I wanted to sing. It looked fun. This group of men had more spirit, more pride and more tradition than some entire universities could ever muster.
I hate Texas, yet for some strange reason I wanted to belt out their fight song from the bottom of my lungs.
Two games, six Longhorn home runs and countless chanting later, the night drew to a close.
The Longhorn ball players gathered in a huddle. It was cold and rainy Most of the Kansas fans had left seven innings earlier. But there were the nine men — standing, saluting and singing.
"The eyes of Texas are upon you until Gabriel blows his horn!" I hate Texans
Harley Ratliff Norman, Okla., sophomore
Death of an old friend refocuses priorities
I recently have had the morbid pleasure of having my attitude adjusted. This spring brings graduation for me and many anxieties. It is now time to find out whether I can succeed in a narrow and competitive field of my choosing. Can I deal with the many fearful obstacles that await?
My concern for my future was steadily growing until last Saturday morning. That was when I woke to a phone call from my crying mother. Randy, the son of some long-time family friends and a childhood friend of mine for 10 years, had died in a boating accident.
Randy was a year older than me and lived in Colorado. He married about four years ago and had two children. The youngest is less than a year old. Randy has always loved the outdoors. He was an avid hunter, fisherman, hiker and anything else you can do in the Colorado mountains.
In fact, he was fishing in a mountain lake with a friend last Friday afternoon when he died. Because there were no witnesses to the tragic events of the day, no one will ever know exactly what happened. The body of Randy's friend was found the next day. He apparently died without much struggle —even his sunglasses were still in place when they pulled his body from the lake.
Five days later, with the lake half empty, Randy's wife and family are still waiting for searchers to find his body. So far they've found his boots and his coat turned inside-out. Apparently Randy struggled before his death. The water temperature was in the low 30s and authorities say the struggle couldn't have lasted more than three minutes.
With the questions of how and why such a thing could happen and the shattered families it has left behind, my perception of my graduation anxieties has certainly changed. Now, whether I succeed or fall on my face in the next year, thoughts of my friend Randy quickly focus my gratitude. There's joy in the opportunity to do either.
Allen Pickert Garnett senior
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