Being refused
By JOHN MARSHALL
In the few short days that are left to get in a writing lick on this newspaper, I would like to tell a few people about some fellow human beings who might be in a little worse shape than any of us. When you read about Albert Harris, think about how easy it is to bitch in an affluent society. Albert is not affluent. He is not even rich enough to be poor. But he has a few things that some of the richest bitchers in the world do not have. Read about it.
Albert Harris is old enough to look you in the eye through his dirty glasses and tell you how rough it used to be before the depression. He is old enough to squint at you and scratch the side of his black, wrinkled face and talk about being refused. Listening to this, and looking at the short, proud old man standing there in dirty clothes, every button neatly sewed, the cap always cocked in place, the rubber bands and strings telling but not telling you how long it has been since Albert Harris had a real pair of glasses—looking and listening to Albert tell you about being truly refused might make you think about some things.
Albert begs people for old newspapers.
"Sometimes they are real nice. Other times they get nervous-sort of-and say no thank you," Albert says.
What Albert was trying to say, as you watch him drive the old battered rusty Studebaker pick-up into the next driveway down the street, is that people would rather burn their garbage than give it to a beggar.
It does make them nervous. The blue old truck slowly turning into your driveway, the old slightly bent man, silver hair curled under the edge of his cap getting out of the squeaky cab, shuffling up to the door, with strands of bailing twine hanging out of the back of his blue jeans . . . "Have you got any old newspapers . . ."
And someone finally says yes.
Albert says thank you and you watch the old man strain to pull the twine tight around the heavy bundle, a few veins in the side of his head bulging as his neverfrowning mouth stretches across the gums . . . a bit of sweat on top of the lip. No, you can not help him throw bundles into the truck. "Keeps me in shape I guess, lifting them into the back of the truck," Albert will say. You wonder why he does this.
Albert Harris buys groceries with the old newspapers he throws into the back of the battered truck with bailing twine holding the front bumper.
Albert gets 40 cents for 100 pounds of old paper. The old rugged little man looks at you, though, saying that it is not all bad. "On a good day," Albert says, "I make four or five dollars."
That means that on a good day, Albert, who is old enough to remember what it was like when women fought for their rights, must lift a lot more than half a ton of paper and then unlift it at the paper mill that buys it.
"I remember when we really had it bad and no one would hire anybody like me. Things's a little better now."
Things are a little better for the stunty rugged little person who makes four or five dollars in one day and then loses more than half of it paying for the truck's drive from Lawrence to Eudora where he lives with his wife. His wife is a maid "at one o' them sorority houses up on the hill."
It is hard for that man, but he would never tell you about it. What it is like to have people look through the screen door and never open it and just say no or yes or come back some other day because we do not have any, but what I really mean, thank you, is that I don't want to get the linoleum in my kitchen dirty. Thank you, no.
That is what it is like to be refused. To be refused that extra cent for one hundred pounds. To be cheated out of eight or nine old newspapers that you don't need and you want to burn but you do not want the floor dirty because "the help" just waxed it. To not want to give up those three or four month-old magazines because the girl in the middle looks so neat.
And so the little man called Albert will come by next month—"don't you worry, I'll be back again,"—because you were really nice to him.
You gave him about 65 pounds of garbage so he could eat.
And you stuck out your hand to him and he grabbed and smiled so big you thought he would break his face. "I'll be back," he grinned.
The battered blue truck just starts and rolls out of the driveway and on to the other houses. There will be looks and stares and refusals, and cheats. But Albert just will grin and say thanks anyway. He thinks it will be a good day anyway if he works hard enough.
Ignorance by the press
There is a headline in this morning's Kansas City Times which reads: "Reagan Says Reds Behind SDS Blow."
The story underneath that headline in no way implied that the California Governor said Reds were behind any SDS Blow. Whatever an SDS Blow is. Perhaps the people on the copy desk in Kansas City were referring to the nationwide SDS movement which has succeeded in closing down a few campuses.
Rubbish. (And I cleaned that up.)
But perhaps the Kansan and
those newspaper editors and reporters should pay more careful attention to what we hear other people say. Or what other people write.
A mistake—indeed, a faux pas—such as appears in this morning's Times is printed example to what some leftists might justifiably call "the ignorance of the Press."
nationwide campaign led by persons loyal to America's enemies. . . Reagan said."
No Reds. No ROTC Blow.
It's the same old story. A 2000 year-old story at that. "Let him, who is without sin . . . cast the first stone." he story says that the campus movement against ROTC is part of "a
Whether there are or are not Reds behind any nationwide campus movement is beside the point. The story did not say that, and the headline did.
This is reason why politicians and protestors alike distrust the credibility of the press.
I am sure that the people at the Star and Times could pick at this newspaper with unrestricted criticism. But for lack of a better example today, the "Blow" must fall. (JTM)
Golf, bridge and how I'll have to like them
By MIKE SHEARER
"Why are you wearing that towel over your head," my friend Sam asked me last week.
"Oh, no reason," I said while smearing face cream over my forehead and under my eyes.
"No reason,huh," he said walking toward a stack of books on my desk. "Why do you have all of those books on cosmetic surgery, wrinkle removal and hair transplants?"
"I'm studying for the Western Civ comp." I lied.
"How To Feel Young at 50," he read. "Why are you reading this for the Western Civ comp?"
"Aristotle bores me stiff, and would you shut up already?"
I could tell he wasn't convinced when he started glancing through my mail. Near my wrinkle remover, there were letters from some renowned face-lifters and some respectable quacks.
"Does all of this youth-keeping stuff have anything to do with the fact you just turned 21?" he asked.
I grasped the edge of my dresser, nearly knocking the tummy-exerciser off. Fear gripped me.
"It's out. isn't it?" I asked.
"Yes, we know. You're now on the other side of the hill, Mike. You might as well give up trying to be young. Adapt to your own crowd. Learn to bowl,
play golf. And get yourself some respectable looking clothes," he said, picking up my favorite orange and silver checked neck tie.
I was determined to take it like a man. When you're over 21, you don't cry.
"There's just one thing wrong," I said. "At midnight on the eve of my birthday . . . nothing happened. There was no voice speaking from the darkness."
"You were expecting a voice?"
"You know," I said. "I'm 21. 21. I am supposedly more mature now. Mature enough to vote and drink. I even tried."
"You tried?"
"First of all I bought some whiskey just to see if I could handle it like the adult I was. And I couldn't! I drank it all. I acted just like a .. 20-year-old."
I glanced at my exercise bike and wondered if I could trade it in on something practical like a bridge table, foot stool or false teeth.
"And what's more," I went on, "I contemplated politics. I expected a ghost-like image of Dick Nixon to drift out of the shadows and say to me, 'I will now explain to you why you should favor me . . .' I didn't see Dick Nixon. I didn't even see Lyndon Johnson. Only a cobweb.
"I just don't get it. Where does all of this sudden responsibility and knowledge come from when one reaches 21?"
I looked at Sam and he had a tender look in his eye. I remembered the look. Just last week, back in my youth, I had given the same understanding look to an old man who took five minutes to board a bus. Sam pitied me, but he didn't understand me. Young people just don't understand us old people.
Sam could no longer help me. He smiled at me from across the generation gap. I realized it was time for me to shut up. I realized there was a real danger in letting Sam think we old people don't really have political and social knowledge bestowed upon us by the 21st-birthday fairy.
"Sam, when I was your age
... I began. But then I realized
by the smirk on his young face it
would do no good. "Nothing ...
Go on. You young folks have
fun, now.
"Well, old man, I'm off to play tennis," Sam said. He sprung toward the door with that youthful bounce that had been mine just last week.
"Would you please turn on my vaporizer on the way out?"
To the editor:
As a former Kansan reporter and-one-time assistant city editor, may I congratulate you on getting the Kansan "up by its bootstraps" enough to win an ACP All-American rating.
Readers write
May I also congratulate you on your fine news judgment so excellently displayed in Monday's edition. Pardon my naivete, but I never thought de Gaulle would go out like a burned out light bulb, much less think that he would play fourth fiddle to how popular co-habitation is at KU.
THE UNIVERSITY DAILY KANSAN
Published at the University of Kansas daily during the academic year except holidays and examination periods, mester, 10 a year. Second class postage paid at Lawrence, Kan. 66044. Allations, goods, services and employment students without regard to color, creed or national origin. Opinions expressed are not necessarily those of Kansas or the State Board of Regents.
Executive Staff
Editor-in-Chief Ran Yates
Business Manager Pam Flatton
News Editor Joanna Wiebe
Editorial Editor Terry McGrath
Editorial Judith K. Diebrow
Alison Stelmel John Marshali
Sports Editor John Kearney
Asst Sports Editor Jay Thomas
Feature and Society Editor Marilyn Petterson
Asst. Feature and Society Editor Susan Brimacombe
Photo and Grapher Linda McCreey
Arts and Reviews Enzo Bob Butler
Copier Charles Ruth Redmond
Judy Dague, Linda Loxd, Donna
Advertising Mgr Kathy Sanders
Asst. Business Mgr John Rheinfrank
Promotional Adv Jerry Bottentfield
I mean, was Mr. Haynes really surprised that lots of times people live together without benefit of matrimony? Strange that he wasn't just as curious about the election recount or as dismayed by the resignation of his dean.
Yes, Mondays have always been poor news days. And I certainly hope we don't have to wait another decade before we see the Kansan win another All-American as a result.
Kathy Hall Kansas City senior
GOD SAID THAT THOU
SHALT NOT KILL, BUT
WHAT HE REALLY
MEANT TO SAY WAS:
THOU SHALT NOT
KILL UNLESS ITS IN
DEFENSE OF YOUR
COUNTAT; THOU SHALT
NOT KILL ANYONE
UNLESS HES A NETRO;
THOU SHALT NOT KILL ANY-
ONE UNLESS HE'S A NEW;
THOU SHALT NOT KILL
ANYONE UNLESS HE'S
AN INDIAN; THOU SHALT
NOT KILL ANYONE UNLESS
HE'S A COMMIE; THOU
SHALT NOT KILL UNLESS
YOU ARE KILLING FOR
PEACE; THOU SHALT
NOT KILL UNLESS ITS
IN DEFENSE OF MONEY,
POWER, JEWELS, MINK
COATS, OR CADILLACS;
OR THOU SHALT NOT
KILL UNLESS ALMOST
ANYONE TELLS YOU TO.
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