Words, the worst enemy: Hope Smith reads as books are piled in front of her.
Feature Photo by Madi Mertz

I’ve always detested reading. Even in elementary school, I remember hating trips to the school library because the teachers always made us check out a book, which just sat on my kitchen counter until it was due.

As I got older, I would blankly stare at articles and textbooks, either forcing myself to read them or just pretending ­­­­­­–­ to avoid conflict with the teacher.
This clearly isn’t the way to go about school: not reading key material and only finishing it at home. My knowledge suffered from this habit, and I know it would hit me harder down the road with college and jobs because I simply couldn’t read.
I used to think it was just my special quirk, and it’d become less of a hassle or, even better, go away as I got older. But I was wrong; it got worse. Eventually, my reading issue became so difficult to work with that I just gave up.
When I did read that rare article in class, I never finished it, nor did I ever finish reading the assigned book in World Studies. Instead, I would end up taking it home to read aloud, alone in my bedroom.
However, I did have homework other than just finishing in-class readings. I needed a change of habit from being so furious that I ended up crying.
Changing the habit took two steps: First was catching my attention and the other was making me take action. The first step was to see my PLAN test score. I scored 89 percent better than all Americans at my level in mathematics on the PLAN test, but only scored 27 percent better than all Americans in reading. This was a problem.
I coped with the dilemma for so long, and it wasn’t easy to shrug off. At first, like I do with any bad situation, I refused to confront the issue and forgot about it instead.
The second step toward improvement was when Columbia had snow, and lots of it. Teachers played catch up to maintain a timely schedule for covering all the curriculum before the end of the school year. Every teacher shoved multiple articles at me to read during class.
When I got to my house, I had so many articles and textbooks and notes to read. I was overwhelmed. On the car ride home I told my mom that I hated school. I excel in school and never complain about it, so this was uncharacteristic.
My mom was determined to get the help I needed to boost my score and increase my reading rate. However, the school wouldn’t give me assistance because I got straight A’s last semester.
My grades prove I can be successful without extra assistance. The guidance counselor said that to qualify for the additional help, I would have to be two or more grade levels behind, and according to the STAR test taken at the beginning of the year, I comprehend everything fine, thus not being behind in reading skills.
These past months, I’ve learned that if I need help, I can only help myself. If I can stay afloat in my struggle to read, if I choose to continue the fight not to be illiterate, then I will learn more than how to decode letters. Forcing myself, I now read aloud to myself using tools like a ruler to guide the line of text I’m on, and it feels good. More than anything, though, I’m hoping that one day, I will love to read.

• Redefining video games
• Blame the parents, not the games

In order to sell, video games must contain amazing graphics, ear-ripping sounds and, in most situations, blood. Activision, the creators of the “Call of Duty” franchise, said that it alone profited more than the “Harry Potter” franchise and the “Star Wars” franchise together, totaling more than $11 billion dollars.

This violence suggests that killing is a normal activity. Many have argued there is a connection between violent video games and teenage killing. There should be more studies executed to determine if there is a correlation.

The first video games were not made with any graphics or any sound, and today, many would probably not consider them to be video games at all.  Thomas Goldsmith Jr. and Estle Ray Mann made the first game in 1947. They got the idea from the World War II military missile launcher screens and created a game that simulated shooting rockets at targets. However, 65 years ago, there were no such things as graphics, so they had to put a sticker with an X on the monitor to symbolize the target.

The next known video game was not designed to be fun, but to show people how intelligent machines were and what they could do. Between 1947 and 1958, Alan Turing created a “mate-in-two” chess game, which could only move two spaces and then stop. Today, even an amateur programmer could create those types of games.  Games created in the past, however, are pertinent for games in this century.

In 1951, a man named Ferranti invented a computer named the NIMROD. Though it weighed more than a ton, it had only one task: to play Nim, a mathematical game. This was the first time anyone had created a computer game to play games on, and the NIMROD was presented at the Festival of Britain on May 5, 1951. Alexander S. Douglas created OXO, or Noughts and Crosses, in 1951 as well. It was the first video game created that used a digital graphic display. The remote for the game was a rotary telephone.

William Higinbotham created an interactive computer game in 1958 called Tennis for Two. It was made to promote atomic power and was on display for the Brookhaven National Laboratory’s annual visitor’s day.

Between 1957 and 1961, MIT created many interactive graphical programs using the TX-O experimental computer.  One of the many games they made was called “Mouse in the Maze” and it allowed players to place maze walls along with dots in the maze, which represented either bits of cheese or glasses of martini. After they designed the maze, a computer-generated mouse would run through the maze and test it.

The variety of video games at this time did not exist 20 years ago.  Some of the most popular types include shooter, survival, adventure, strategy, RPG and MMORPG games. Every year, the new games released have better graphics and sounds than they previously did. In shooter games, the graphics of the blood and death are becoming too violent for the children that play them, who vary in age from seven and up.

Avid gamers I spoke to admit they have gotten used to the idea that killing is OK after many months of play.

If violent games change the way 16-year-olds think, wouldn’t they also brainwash younger children to believe that killing people is normal; it will be fine, and the person will spring back to life after five seconds anyway?

Many recent massacres were linked to a person playing violent video games, causing many to believe there is a connection.

One example would be the Newtown, Conn. shootings in December 2012, which killed 20 children. The man behind the gun, Adam Lanza, spent hours playing violent video games in his dark basement. His games included countless guns, and he even owned some of the guns featured in those games.

His mother, Nancy Lanza, was a gun enthusiast whose family owned at least 12 guns. Every week, she took her two children, Adam and Ryan, to a shooting range to practice with those same guns.

“There are too many video games that celebrate the mass killing of innocent people – games that, despite attempts at industry self-regulation, find their way into the hand of children,” Sen. Chuck Grassley (R-Iowa) said.

It is possible that if Lanza had not played those violent video games, he would not have thought about killing those innocent children.

I am saddened that most of the video games created today are focused on killing. I truly love video games that don’t have that type of gore in them. It is becoming harder to play games without violence because the video game industries only create games that make the most amount of money, which are war games. I call this the “new era of video games,” which is truly redefining what a video game is.

Until 25 years ago, people made video games to prove that people could program computers and other hardware to do things that were never imaginable. Just like Alan Turing did with his “mate-in-two” chess game, designers created video games, showing the capability of machines.

Once industries like Atari and Nintendo noticed the potential, they tried to create profitable games. This led to the creation of video games for the sake of business, without thinking about the negative side effects the games would have on children’s minds. Even if children can’t see the consequences of the violent games, will they eventually realize what they did to their minds when they were younger?

I wish games could return to the time when the person holding the controller had power over the game. I wish we had never entered an era where games control people.

In order to lessen the number of violent video games, we should stop demanding them.

Video game creators will only design the games that produce the most profit, and we cannot change that. However, we can change what games make them money and discourage savage behavior. We must stop purchasing games that contain endless violence and gore. Hopefully, this will cause the video game industries to produce enjoyable non-violent games.

Written by Abdul-Rahman Abdul-Kafi

Screenshot by Abdul-Rahman Abdul-Kafi

 

Since the Columbine massacre in 1999, pundits have blamed ‘violent’ video games for affecting children’s minds because an investigation discovered that shooters like Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold enjoyed “shoot ‘em up” video games.

Just this winter, video games were the target of inquiry during the investigation of the Sandy Hook shooting in Newtown, Conn., which found that the perpetrator, Adam Lanza, owned and played video games. This led National Rifle Association (NRA) president Wayne LaPierre to blame video games for the shooting.

Interviews after the shooting show that Lanza was a socially fragile boy captivated by warfare video games and intent on military service. However, a few months after the shooting, former Federal Bureau Investigation profiler Mary Ellen O’Toole said she believes video games don’t cause violence.

During a panel discussion on February 24, O’Toole said evidence did not support that theory.

“It’s my experience that video games do not cause violence,” O’Toole told CBS News. “It’s important that I point out that as a threat assessment and as a former FBI profiler, we don’t see these as the cause [of] violence. We see them as sources of fueling ideation that’s already there.”

Despite O’Toole’s statements, the NRA jumped at the chance to blame video games for inspiring young people’s aggressive behavior to avoid the public’s cry for stricter gun control laws.

Parents should be at the forefront of change. For example, the late Nancy Lanza, Adam’s gun-loving mother, should have had second thoughts about buying ‘violent video games’ for her mentally unstable child.

Christopher Ferguson, a psychology professor at Texas A&M International University, stated that youth violence had recently declined to the lowest level in 40 years at a time when video games had become more violent. In his opinion piece on the CNN website, he described the reaction as a moral panic.

“It’s worth asking ourselves why we keep returning to video games despite the lack of evidence to support its link to violence,” Ferguson said. “Of course, this kind of association is not new. Some scholars blamed television for the crime wave of the 1970s and ‘80s, which has since vanished. And comic books in the 1950s were blamed by psychiatrists for not only delinquency but homosexuality. In hindsight, these strands of associations look ridiculous, but in the moment they served a purpose.”

Henry Jenkins, an MIT media scholar, debunked myths surrounding video games. Much like Ferguson, he believes moral panic about violent games is harmful and could lead adult authorities to be more hostile to many kids who already feel cut off from the system.

He believes the hostility can also misdirect energy away from eliminating the actual causes of youth violence and instead allows problems to continue. He pointed out that no research has found that games are a primary factor that could turn a person into a killer.

Ferguson also mentioned that weeks after the shooting, there were high-profile crimes committed by older men. These criminals never fit the video game player stereotype.

Video game ratings exist to inform parents of the game’s content. Unfortunately, parents often ignore these warnings provided by the Entertainment Software Rating Board. Furthermore, they aren’t aware of their child’s mental stability.

Professor Jenkins is right; there should be more strict marketing that targets young consumers accustomed to mature content and educates parents about the media choices they face. It is the parents’ responsibility to make decisions about what’s appropriate for their children. Bad parenting is to blame for child delinquency, which leads to this kind of school shooting.

“Most children who commit violent crime show an early combination of personality and family factors that include having trouble getting along with playmates in preschool,” Robert Butterworth, a Los Angeles-based psychotherapist, said. “By second or third grade they’re doing poorly in school, and have few friends. By the age of 10 they’re picking fights and getting labeled by their peers as social outcasts. They typically come from families where parents are poor at disciplining because they are indifferent, neglectful, too coercive or they use harsh physical punishment with little love.”

Sure, guns don’t kill people. Sure, video games don’t create violent acts. But, bad parenting makes children into monsters. Bad parents are the ones to blame for school shootings in America, not video games.

Written by Jay Whang

photo by Sophie Whyte

It hasn’t taken me long, during my yearlong running career, to become thoroughly obsessed with everything to do with the sport. From spending much of my hard earned money on shorts, Dri-Fit shirts and tights, to my daily visits to Missouri MileSplit, the go-to website for all things Missouri cross country and track, running has become a prominent part of my life.

While it is important to be equipped with a quality stopwatch and proper athletic apparel, the most valuable item to a runner is his trainers. Having a good pair of shoes is not simply a fashion statement; a good pair of trainers is imperative to your success as a runner as well as to injury prevention.

It is important that you find a pair of shoes that not only look good, but that you feel comfortable in and have solid support and cushioning. This way, your feet and legs don’t wear down as you rack up the miles.

In the year since I entered the world of competitive distance running, I’ve gone through four sets of trainers. Each one of them was solid, and I haven’t found a shoe yet that I haven’t been satisfied with.

My first two pairs were Asics and Sauconys. Each had great support but lacked a bit in the cushioning department. As a result, my feet really took a pounding, and I was sore most nights after my run. However, both those shoes had great longevity, lasting me a track season and a summer respectively. Although I hadn’t minded my previous pairs, I was ready to make a change. That’s when I gave Nike a try, and my love affair with trainers really left the ground.

My first pair of Nikes, the Zoom Vomero 7s, were great cushioned shoes with outstanding support, leaving little to be desired elsewhere. One notable downside with the extra support was extra weight that heavily contributed to stomping at the end of high-mileage workouts. This was a minor issue though and the pair served me great mileage over the winter. When track season rolled around, I decided it was time for a change and purchased the current shoe of choice among the Rock Bridge distance crew: The Nike Air Pegasus 29s.

My first thought when I put on my Pegs was that I must have been walking on a pillow. Pillow-like is the perfect way to describe the type of cushion the 29s provide. Your foot just sinks into the shoe and the sole forms around your foot to create an ideal position of comfort. At the same time, Pegs don’t sacrifice support, which is also given in abundance on this model.

Thanks to the winter storm that recently made its way through mid-Missouri, I found myself having to run through snow at times. This experience soaked my shoes, and as a result, I did receive some minor blisters that healed in less than a day. I learned the lesson that the Pegs aren’t waterproof, and will give you some nice blisters if wet. Other than that, the shoes have been good on my feet and legs, and I haven’t really had any problems with soreness since I put them on.

The ride is good and the signature Nike waffle-iron design on the bottom gives a nice spring to push off from when taking each step. Every landing is smooth, and the comfort of every stride definitely played no small part in me running a personal record in our two mile time trial, in horrible conditions no less.

Performance is always the first thing I value in a shoe, but I also prefer it to look stylish as well. Like most Nike products, the 29s deliver in a big way. Neon green

is a popular color right now in boys running. While not all out blinding like my Nike Free Run 5s, a very stylish shoe with awful support that I would never train in, the Pegs keep it toned down. A nice touch of the green on the sides and a solid combination of a grey body and the black swoosh make up the model I own, definitely my kind of shoe.

Overall, my Nike Air Pegasus 29s are quickly becoming my favorite pair of trainers. The cushioning is simply unmatched and the support is right up there with the best. Add in the great look and you have an outstanding shoe.

By Josh Ripley

Feature Photo by Renata Williams.

Summer is filled with car rides, festivals and sun bathing. An essential part of all of those activities is music. I took it upon myself to develop a playlist filled with music I feel screams ‘summer 2013’.

Any song that made me feel great, and I felt I could blast on repeat, are the picks for this summer. Everything down to the lyrics and beats will make you just want to sing along. The songs I chose vary in variety and one is for sure to be your summer theme song. I recommend checking all of these songs out this summer as well as checking out more from these artists. I’d also love to hear what your song picks for this upcoming summer are.

1. Can’t Hold Us – Macklemore & Ryan Lewis ft. Ray Dalton

When Macklemore & Ryan Lewis came out with Thrift Shop just a year ago (but didn’t become popular until February of this year), very few, including me, believed they’d make another hit. “Can’t Hold Us” is their way of slapping everyone in the face that didn’t believe them, because this song is enjoyable. The mix of rapping with the catchy hook/chorus all over the piano music gives a new and fun sound that will keep people listening and singing along.

2. 22 -Taylor Swift

Taylor Swift always gives her listeners pop-country chart toppers. “Twenty-two” comes from her album Red, which will be blasted all summer and is just so upbeat. Her lyrics are perfect for summer because they’re just Taylor and her friends having fun, which is what summer is all about. “It feels like one of those nights; We won’t be sleeping,” are some lyrics from her song that express how summer nights are.The verses are fun and the drop to her chorus is even more fun to listen to; you will be singing along.

3. Radioactive – Imagine Dragons

I have no clue what Imagine Dragons is talking about, nor do I care to learn, because the song doesn’t need an explanation. The song begins with a cool little melody then drops into this verse that explains an interesting, yet weird scenario, that cannot be turned off. The beat is exciting; the only down fall of this song is it’s short. “Radioactive” is three minutes of catchy lyrics and a lively beat that will be replayed over and over.

4. Cruise (Remix)  - Florida Georgia Line ft. Nelly

I’ve never been a true fan of country music, but this song I can vibe with. “Cruise” is a mixture of country and rap done in a nice way. This song is definitely going to be hot this summer; it just sounds summer-y with the use of lyrics, like, “I got my windows down and the radio up.” I can imagine ‘rolling down my windows and cruising’ as the song says. I think “Cruise” will attract a lot of people who don’t necessarily like country, because it’s just a fun song that I would not have expected to ever be made. Another collab from Florida Georgia Line and Nelly is rumored, so if you like this song, keep your eyes open.

5. The Way – Ariana Grande ft. Mac Miller

When I first heard about this song and who made it, I couldn’t help but ask, “Where did this come from?” And I’m sure I’m not the only one because Ariana Grande seems so innocent, and Mac Miller isn’t. Knowing Ariana from Nickelodeon paired with Mac Miller sounded crazy, but this song is so cute that the lyrics are playful and sweet, such as, “I hope you hit me on my celly when I sneak in your mind.” For us that didn’t know Ariana could sing, this proves it. Her voice sounds great with Mac Miller’s rap. “The Way” is one of my favorite picks for Summer 2013.

6. Come & Get It – Selena Gomez

7. Power Trip – J.cole ft. Miguel

8. Get Lucky – Daft Punk ft. Pharrell Williams

9. Next to me – Emeli Sande

10. Alive – Krewela

By Renata Williams

What’s your favorite song for Summer 2013?

Junior Kylie Smith shows off her creativity with makeup on Instagram. Photo by: Kylie Smith

Every day I refresh my instagram each hour, watching the number of pictures with astonishing effects rise. People show off their “DIY” creations or the infamous “selfies” we all know and love. As I secretly stalk my friend’s pictures, I notice a common trend: the pounds of makeup they love put on to not only attract more likes on the pictures, but also make them look more photogenic.

Then I look at younger girls, and these 10 year old girls already think black raccoon eyes is what makes them pretty. Did our generation forget the motto “It’s on the inside that counts”? We obviously did because even I’m guilty of never going out without my foundation and bronzer.

I can’t even remember the last time I went out in public without even a spec of foundation, or the slightest flick of a mascara brush. Is my self-confidence really that low that I can’t have anyone see me without a bunch of crap on my face? But then I realized I’m not the only one. It seems like every RBHS girl I see loves to share makeup tips and tricks to make us look our best.

Someone needed to step up to the plate, and tell everyone that it’s OK not to wear makeup, something so simple, but so frightening to think about at the same time. But before this, I needed to experience it for myself; so I let down my shield and came to school bare faced.

It’s no surprise that every girl has some sort of insecurity without makeup on. “My skin is so blotchy, my eyes are so small, I look like a boy, etc.” And I admit, some of these excuses come from me.

As I was getting ready for school that morning, I thought about wearing a hat so I could hide my face, but that would defeat the whole purpose of this challenge. So I put on my big girl pants, ditched the hat and braced myself for the weird looks I was expecting when walking into school.

My first hour, US Studies, which has approximately 60 people in the class, was what I was dreading most out of the whole day. I walked through the door and immediately my good friend came up and, half sarcastic and half smiling, said, “Oh, went with no makeup today, did ya?” She added a little side nudge and smile.

I started laughing because she’s seen me before with no makeup, so I wasn’t afraid to stand up to her. I told her why I rejected my eyeliner and she applauded me. She told me I was brave because she would never have the guts to do what I was doing, even for a day.

Throughout the day I realized coming to school without makeup has its positives. I could rub my eyes whenever I wanted, and I didn’t have to go to the bathroom three times a day to fix my eyeliner. Also, it was a lot easier than I expected. The few people who commented were those in my classes that I’ve talked to but don’t hang out with on a regular basis. Sweetly, they just told me I look good without makeup on. The more people who told me this, the more I felt good in my own skin.

Though it was unfamiliar to go a day being completely myself with no makeup, I know it’s not for everyone. I’m not even sure it’s for me. Now that I know what it feels like, I know it’s not my lack of self-confidence that makes me want to wear makeup every day. It’s the feeling I get when I pick out new products and the different colors and looks that you can create. It’s the “girlyness” aspect that I love when I get ready to go out at night with the sparkly eye shadow, rosy cheeks, and red lips that I adore.

The experience adjusted my view of my appearance and self-confidence, and I hope everyone gets to try it. Try not to care what anyone thinks for a day, and be yourself completely. You might find yourself along the way hiding under all of the makeup you had been wearing for so long.

The change of swimsuits over the years.

This past summer, I was tanning at my neighborhood pool, basking in the sun, when I glanced over at the chair next to me and noticed that the woman in the chair was wearing a bikini that barely covered her breasts, exposing way more than I had ever wanted to see.
I was absolutely shocked and embarrassed for her; I didn’t think a woman would dare expose so much skin.
It really upsets me because swimsuits that are this revealing are becoming more and more common. The definition of modesty is ever-changing, and unfortunately not in a good way.
As our generation redefines modesty, it is also affecting the lack of respect men display towards women. The more revealing a swimsuit is, the less likely it is that a guy will want to talk to a girl based on her personality. With swimwear especially, there needs to be a stopping point with how revealing they are; otherwise, the lack of modesty in swimsuits will continue to worsen, causing the lack of respect women receive from men to decline.
Just 60 years ago, it was completely unacceptable for women to even wear bikinis. In fact, beauty pageants banned bikinis in 1951 after the Miss World Contest. As late as 1959, women could be fined $5 for wearing a bikini on New York’s Rockaway Beach. Previously, in 1931, a law was placed: The Local Government Act, Ordinance No. 52, that set exact dimensions for swimsuits.
For example, men’s and women’s swimwear had to have legs at least three inches long, had to completely cover the front body from the armpits to the waist and had to have shoulder straps or other means of keeping the swimsuit in position. The law lasted until 1961, but should have lasted longer, in my opinion.
Obviously, that’s not even close to where the standards for swimwear stand today. So what happened?
In the 1960s, a series of cultural reforms changed the United States, including the modesty of swimwear. After Brian Hyland came out with his classic song, “Itsy Bitsy Teeny Weeny Yellow Polka Dot Bikini” in 1961, the song triggered a bikini-buying spree among American teens, thus revising the definition of swimsuit modesty forever more.
After the United States accepted the bikini, the modesty of swimsuits rapidly decreased. Fashion designers introduced the monokini, the thong bikini and increasingly immodest bikinis that are still being produced today.
I think the United States should have definitely stopped with the bikinis worn in the 1960s. They were fashionable, still fairly modest and flattering on almost everyone. Bikinis now are immodest and not necessarily flattering. The most unflattering bikinis I have seen, no matter how fit and skinny you are, are definitely thong bikinis.
The fact that thong bikinis exist truly disgusts me. Would you wear an actual thong in public? Probably not, since according to Women’s Health Magazine, only two percent of women in the United States do.
Bikinis reveal way more than most peoples’ underwear shows, which should be a hint to most people that it’s time to rethink what they are wearing in public.
If this bikini fabric decline continues any further, we will soon be living in a world where nude beaches are a daily occurrence and where women don’t have any respect for themselves.
Women need to show appreciation for themselves by taking a stand against this bikini evolution by dressing in more modest swimwear styles.Women complain about the lack of chivalry, but how can men demonstrate chivalry toward us when we aren’t dressing in a way that shows that we have respect for ourselves?
Dressing in a less revealing swimsuit can cause men to have more respect for us because they won’t just be admiring us for our bodies, but for our personalities. Therefore, this will help to prevent the decrease of chivalry we see in men today, thus allowing for chivalry to make its way back into the world.
So women, out of respect for yourself and your future family, stand up against the decay of chivalry and respect. You can do this simply by changing your swimsuit.

An application to Truman State University, with a place to write gender and race. (Photo by Afsah Khan)

Rich white males still dominate America. In its 237 years as a nation, upper-class white men still control the United States,; our politicians, our economic leaders, even our academic pioneers remain, overwhelmingly, wealthy, white and male. Though discrimination is illegal in America, not enough has been done to fix the inequality suffered by so many for so long.

In order to rectify this wrong,  affirmative action is needed.

 For almost 100 years after America’s independence, slavery remained a central part of American culture and industry. For another 100 years after that, governmental segregation was present in the United States. Racial minorities, especially African- Americans, were not offered the same educational opportunities and as a result, lacked the skills necessary to acquire high paying jobs and fell into poverty.  Their children lacked the means and money to pursue higher, more expensive education and, as a result, were stuck with the same economic misfortune as their parents. This cycle of hardship continued and is still present today.

The 2011 Census reports that 26 percent of African Americans, 27 percent of Native Americans and 23 percent of Latinos are in poverty, while only 12 percent of Caucasian Americans fall below the poverty line.

 Racial minorities are not less hard-working nor less intelligent. The cycle of poverty is simply hard to break. In addition to this, minorities have to deal with the additional prejudices present in society today; stereotypes still exist in America, and many still face racism from the peers and coworkers.

 Some, like Sen. Lamar Alexander, say the need for affirmative action is finished; the discrimination and lack of opportunity felt by minorities is a thing of the past. This however, is untrue. Often times, for job positions, Caucasian Americans will be picked over equally qualified African Americans.  According to the Bureau of Labor Statistics, in 2011 there was a 7.1 percent jobless rate among African Americans holding a bachelor’s degree while there was only a 4.1 percent jobless rate amongst white Americans with the same education level. Though African Americans are equally qualified; they have a harder time than their white counterparts in finding a job.

Affirmative action can help to fix this problem of poverty as well as the issue of discrimination. While institutionalized racism is illegal in America; simply outlawing it does not insure equal opportunity. When minorities have been forced to stay behind for centuries, and have fallen behind, something must be done to allow them up to come back up to speed.

Right now, the Supreme Court is reviewing a case of affirmative action, Fisher v. University of Texas. Abigail Fisher is suing the University of Texas at Austin concerning the college’s affirmative action policies . This is the second time in a decade an affirmative action case has reached the Supreme Court. People need to realize that, while affirmative action may not be the perfect solution, it’s the best one. Diversity is an important part of any culture, and is needed in both the educational and workfield.

Several fields suffer for lack of diversity. Having only one type of ethnic, socioeconomic, or gender in anything promotes convergent, instead of divergent thinking. Different types of people bring different perspectives to the table, which is necessary for progress as well as thoroughness.

According the Association for Psychological Science, in 2007 the ratio of men to women in math, science, and engineering fields was 3:1. Programs like affirmative action can fix this huge gap. MIT, which recruits women, has a 1:1 ratio of men and women; and if working to close this gender cap. Widely acknowledged as the number one college for technology, MIT promotes the recruitment of women because, they say, “women think in a way different than men; in a perspective that’s needed and is lacking in math and technology.”

Progress and inventions are stalled because of lack of diversity,and affirmative action can fix that.  We, as a nation, are suffering and falling behind because our lack of perspective. Affirmative action was put in place to serve a purpose and help the nation, one that it continues to do. The time for affirmative action has not past; it’s as needed as ever. We need to work to ensure equality and dispel stereotypes now, so that affirmative action for any minority, whether it be on the basis of gender or race, will not be needed for the next generation.

Feature Photo by Mikaela Acton

Seven out of 10 RBHS students use Twitter, according to a survey of 360 students taken by the yearbook, Flashback. While the number is dissimilar to a national statistic from Education Week that shows only eight percent of teens use Twitter, the number still shows how much impact this outlet has on RBHS.
Many use this social media merely to disseminate and gather often meaningless bits of information, but others look to Twitter to take in breaking news. Even though this method of aggregating knowledge is extremely efficient, the accuracy has recently been called into question.
Just one month ago, two bombs exploded near the finish line of the Boston Marathon. This dreadful tragedy sparked a week of madness in the city. The faulty news coverage and widely-believed internet rumors did not help alleviate the stresses of the week-long manhunt that culminated in the death of one suspect and the capture of his brother, Dzhokhar Tsarnaev.

Looking back on these events, one lesson the public should have learned from the week after the bombings was that in a time of crisis, most news sources sacrifice accuracy for expediency. Many news websites use other news sources to provide their breaking news, which means that if only one site used a faulty source then the bad information would be quickly sent around the internet.
Another important message from the bombing coverage was the massive use of the Boston Police Department’s radio scanners. In the midst of the manhunt, some officers were using Twitter and various other social media for tips, leading to incorrect names of suspects being spoken over the scanner. This reinforced people using sites such as Reddit, an outlet which initially called out the wrong perpetrator.
As Politico copy editor Kelsey Hayes tweeted, the whole situation was a “giant writhing mass of journalistic derp.”
Imagine for a moment that social media sites like Twitter were in existence after the 9/11 terrorist attacks. The speculation and conspiracy theories that could potentially emerge would likely have been thousands of times greater than those after Boston. On social media, people tend to interact primarily with those who share their own opinions, and dissent rarely occurs, leading to an ‘echo chamber’ of their beliefs.
Other than the various ‘false flag’ conspiracy nuts, there were many unintentional mistakes: The New York Post initially reported that 12 had been killed by the blasts. The New York Post, as well as many on Reddit, incorrectly identified the bombing suspect. CNN and The Associated Press both reported Wednesday that a suspect was in custody. Reddit readers pointed to a missing Brown student as the suspect, which began to gain traction on the Thursday as the student’s name came on the police scanners.

Perhaps the most important journalistic point from the Boston Marathon attack and ensuing manhunt is that 21st century media are broken. These days, everyone with a Twitter account thinks they’re a journalist. While they are to ‘report’ news, true journalists should always take the extra time to verify their information.
The urge to be the first is always difficult to overcome, but it is better than issuing apologies later when the real news is published.
When it comes to breaking news, stay off Twitter, other social media and live news updates. Take a break, a drink and a nap. Then check again, maybe even the next day, and hopefully by then the real story is revealed.

by Kristen Buster

The clock strikes 12 a.m., and I still have an English paper to write. My computer mocks me with its overly white screen. The furthest I have gotten was a witty intro that had no relation to the topic of women’s rights.
We’ve all been at the point where the amount of overdue work is so great that it’s easier just to keep putting it off, but as that clock ticked on, my stress level continued to rise. My bag of Cheetos was shockingly empty. I achieved no comfort from the comfort food and it was finished. I’ve been in this situation more than I’d like to admit, but eventually the work gets done.
Of students, 80 to 90 percent procrastinate, according to “Psychological Bulletin, Vol. 133, No. 1.” It seems with that high of numbers, someone would have thought of a product by now to help with procrastination.
Until then, I’m left with just the essentials: tea with honey, a study playlist full of upbeat music, a comfy blanket and chocolate to motivate me. Lots and lots of chocolate.
I’m also the type of person who works better with a lot of white noise. So usually I’ll turn on the television in the background. I make sure never to turn on something I’m interested in or it’ll end up distracting me instead of encouraging me. I have the bad habit of completing a show’s whole season in one night once I’m hooked. We TV is always my channel of choice.
Multitasking has become a big problem. With high speed internet, it’s not hard to switch from social media site to homework to music in a matter of seconds. It may seem like a helpful ability, but in reality, it’s doing more harm than good.
Scientists found that switching focus on different tasks at rapid speeds slows down the ability to process the information. In the long run, it will end up taking more time for a person to do a task because their brain can no longer process that information as quickly. It is so used to switching. According to National Public Radio, multitasking also creates shorter attention spans.
One time, on a dreary Sunday afternoon, I was finally going to start on a book assignment that was two class periods overdue. It was 5 p.m., and I figured I had an hour to waste before I had to get started, which was a mistake of its own. I watched one episode of “Rupauls Drag Race” and was hooked. I must have made it through two full seasons before I looked at the clock again. It was 2 a.m. and the furthest I’d gotten on my paper was a title. Netflix is my kryptonite.
I learned to work for what I enjoy most. This happened because I was spending way too much time on the internet instead of my homework. It got to the point where I would create multiple DIY projects, leaving my room in a jumbled mess and my homework untouched.
So instead of staying up way too late, browsing sites that had no significance in my life, I allowed myself an hour on the computer if I got all my homework done first. This way I went to bed on time, while getting my homework done and not flooding my brain with useless information.
I also motivate myself with things I’ve been wanting for a while. Whether it is a new shirt or a new movie, making myself work for something I originally wanted allows me to relieve the stress of school work and still gain what I really wanted. I came upon this plan because I found myself spending my entire paycheck within 24 hours of getting my money.
I’d reward myself with one clothing purchase after I finished my homework. This helps keep my grades up in addition to my bank statement. I’ve also noticed I don’t want as much stuff if I wait; it no longer becomes impulse buying, but simply becomes items I genuinely want.
Sometimes it’s just easier to push it off and let my future self deal with the stress of overdue projects. But those grades that didn’t seem so important at first will suddenly become real when I’m sending them off to colleges.
So, as the pressure of finals pushes into us this coming week, instead of being stressed over silly things, like that take home quiz that was due two months ago and seems to be bringing my grade down 5 percentage points, I’ve learned to motivate myself in ways that work for me. I’ve become less stressed because of it.

By Nina Johnston

So that is why I am here, writing about my mom. for her and others to see how much she means to me.

Photo by Renata Williams

My mom will say her favorite memories for Mother’s Day were when my sister and I were little and made her breakfast in bed. Our only time doing so, though we say we will every year. I tend to take my mom for granted and Mother’s Day opens my eyes, which, if I am honest, is sad. I should appreciate my mom every day, for all she’s done, but of course, I feel like I do the opposite most days.

Now, I can write and write about my mom to try to convince you that she really is a great woman; her kind heart, her generous spirit and her overall love for her kids well being, but that is not the true point of all of this. As we teenagers grow up, we allow Mother’s Day to be our back-up for the other 364 days that we don’t show our appreciation to our moms, & showing our moms on Mother’s Day isn’t enough. I’d love to convince people to not only show their mom they are loved on Mother’s Day, but show them every week with little things such as a note telling your mom how much she is loved.

So, I am going to challenge myself this coming year, and I want to challenge you. On random days try sending your mom a text, or picking up her favorite chocolate. Without her asking, show that you care; it’s so easy to do.

To me, I view Mother’s Day as an excuse. I understand it’s meant to give mothers their day of thanks, but moms deserve more. One day isn’t enough. Love should be shown all of the time because, regardless of how selfish I act sometimes, I love my mom.

So, on this Mother’s Day, and the days to come after, I will show Mom how much I love her.

And today, on Mother’s Day, it’s all about my mom, and thanks to the wonders of the world wide web, the most important woman in my life will know forever how much she means to me.

By Renata Williams

What is the best thing about your mother? I would love for you to celebrate her in our comments section.

Talking to senior Morgan Widhalm, Mary Margaret Coffield advises her on make up choices. Coffield learned earlier Friday at the Flashback assembly that she was Teacher of the Year. Photo by Mikaela Acton

Belatedly, I am finding my voice, to thank my school community upon being named RBHS Teacher of the Year. Having that recognition is a confidence boost — suggesting that the ways in which I approach teaching are understood, perhaps effective, and certainly appreciated. That means so much. It’s a huge boost!

Each May assembly when the “drum roll” starts to announce this distinction, I look about at so many colleagues in that gym who could easily be the person with plaque and bouquet in their arms. I know that I am not unique. This school is rich in gifted teachers, and the students know it. Almost every student has a favorite teacher.

Today marked the last assembly for Rock Bridge’s 2013 class, and wrapped up the year with performances and awards that showcased the very best of RBHS. It was a special event, with dozens of former teachers and administrators present, recognizing the 40th anniversary of the school.

It’s a shame that today we must also recognize the atrocious way we students treat our classmates in performing arts.

Rock Bridge’s Jazz Ensemble performs during the May 2 Assembly. Photo by Mikaela Acton

Each assembly starts and ends with the jazz ensemble playing songs as we arrive, songs the musicians have spent countless hours of practice perfecting, only to receive no  acknowledgement other than from rehearsed MCs. But this is to be expected, for at these moments, the band is just playing background music to usher classmates and teachers in and out. Later they’ll get their moment to shine, showcasing their talent and hard work in a performance just for them.

But as we all know, their moment of glory rarely comes. Sure, there are individual moments where friends cheer for their drummer friend or teachers lead a standing ovation, but for the most part, we ignore the band. We ridicule them by mocking how they close their eyes during intense moments of the song or the rests that  we perceive as awkward silences, not understanding complex musical arrangements. What was with that solo? It was all over the place. How embarrassing for them. And for all their hard work, these students don’t even get to play on the stage, forcing the camera to shakily pan across the sea of students who are more interested with their hand being on screen than recognizing the musicians.

Things didn’t improve this morning when our award-winning show choirs went on stage. These performers are phenomenal – there’s no debating it. Straight out of performing at the Grand Ole Opry and winning best in show, champions in the glee club world, Rock Bridge can boast a truly amazing musical team. But by the way we treated them, you’d never know it.

A show choir performance is not meant to be a typical sight, and for that reason, today they wore outrageous, sparkling dresses, and even the boys had caked-on layers of makeup. It’s necessary for performers to overdo it a little so everyone in the audience, regardless of proximity, can get the full effect. Instead of understanding this, students took to making fun of these musicians and actors, and taking pictures for Twitter. In a move so stereotypical it deserved to be in a 1980s John Hughes film, an RBHS student tweeted,  “Why would you take part in this,” captioning a blurry picture of City Lights’ performance. It garnered eight favorites and one retweet.

City Lights performs “Welcome to the Mad House” during the May 2 RBHS Assembly. Photo by Mikaela Acton

But a better question is, why would you tweet that? Why would you make others feel bad about a performance and a group that is exceptional in what they do? The students who favorited the tweet should be equally ashamed. The internet is a place where it’s incredibly easy to be mean, but a trial to do the right thing. Because of this, at least eight students decided to encourage the bullying, and dozens more ignored it altogether, thinking it’s best to just stay out of it. By going along with it, we proved how gutless high school students can be when it comes to standing up for one another, and that for all the progressive, accepting traditions at RBHS, we haven’t learned anything at all.

At RBHS, we pride ourselves in our athletic and academic achievements, yet we ignore and ridicule those who step outside the box and shine in a more creative way. It’s unacceptable, and a disgraceful way to close 40 years of our school’s open and free traditions. Hopefully, we as a student body can learn from this, and show performers the respect they deserve. We need to take the plunge and cheer on our school’s artists. A standing ovation at every note isn’t expected, but showing some interest during and after shouldn’t be too hard.

Most importantly, we need to stand up for the kids who sing and drum and strum the guitar. They put their music on the line when they get on stage, or below it for that matter, so maybe we can risk a little popularity so that at our 45th or 50th anniversary, we’ll commend not only the kids with their 4.0s, and the all-state basketball champions, but also the piano soloist.

By Jilly Dos Santos

This is an editorial. For more information on editorials or commentary, click here.

Image used with permission: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Isclr.jpg

On the front of it, the Indian Supreme Court’s denial of a patent for Novartis’ new anti-cancer medicine seems like a bad choice. The decision, made just two weeks ago on April 1, would logically stem any type of drug innovation in India. After all, if companies are not allowed to patent their hard work and therefore profit off of it, where’s the motivation to pour time and money into developing newer drugs? After taking a closer look, however, the Court’s decision proves itself to be a pro-people ruling whose positive outcomes outweigh the negative consequences.

Novartis recently developed a new drug, Gleevec, which is purported to combat cancer through interference with “protein Philadelphia,” a molecule that promotes oncogenesis, or the growth of cancerous tissues. Gleevec progressed through all preliminary trials with good results, with many patients showing regular blood tests after treatment, a sign that their cancer went into remission. Because of this, Novartis sought to patent the drug in one of the biggest growing human markets the globe has to offer: India. However, after applying for the patent, the Indian Supreme Court promptly denied Novartis their patent application, meaning that Gleevec can be synthesized and distributed by anyone under generic brand names instead of solely by the parent company.

How, you might ask, does this help anyone? The research scientists who poured hundreds, if not thousands, of hours into such discoveries lose work. The companies who directly fund said scientists lose money. The people themselves lose the improved medicine that result from the aforementioned companies attempting to outperform its competitors in terms of medicinal efficacy. That isn’t just bad, it’s terrible! It’s a lose-lose-lose situation where nobody comes out on top! But to truly understand why the Court decided the issue in the way that it did, we have to take a look at the context.

India is not known for being a particularly rich country. In fact, the per capita earnings for the average Indian is about $3,900 according to www.cia.gov. Assuming a dual-income, the typical Indian family is raking in just under $8,000 per annum. That’s a paltry sum compared to much of the world, but it’s the rate that Indian citizens have to deal with. While there is obviously a difference in the purchasing power of rupees as compared to dollars, it’s pretty easy to see that there isn’t much spare cash on hand for most Indian people, even when it comes to something as important as their own health; therein lies much of the basis for the Supreme Court’s decision.

Patenting any drug drastically increases the cost at which it is sold. Not because there is an extra assurance of quality, as any scientist can synthesize a compound once the formula is released. Not because of any special attributions, attentions, or dividends that are given to the researches responsible for the breakthrough, as all extra fees will go to the company which holds the patent. Patents raise the price for no other reason than the fact that companies like Novartis want to artificially inflate the cost of medicine to increase their quarterly profits.

If you’re anything like me, that’s an abominable reason. These companies want to monopolize their market to profit off of the suffering and pain of human beings. There is no justification for such actions other than cold-hearted greed. The ever-present pursuit of gold corrupts entirely the pursuit of the betterment of humanity. That’s that stuff I don’t like. Novartis and its ilk need to understand that you simply cannot restrict the basic human right to good health and a happy life for the sake of money. There are some things that simply should not be monetized and medicine is one of them.

The Indian Supreme Court absolutely made the correct ruling. This is a decision that should echo around the world and be replicated in all corners of all nations. Though it was most likely motivated by the economic impracticality that the patenting would pose for patients, there is a wholesome ideal behind it that should not be forgotten.

And now, we come to the land of the free and the home of the brave. The United States is a corporate haven; the cynic would assert that its laws are based off of the whims of lobbyists and the rich businessmen who control them. Yet at its core, it is a government “by the people, for the people, of the people.” We, the people, are the basis of change and improvement. So this is where it comes down to you, the reader. It’s more than likely that the few of you who read this will skim the contents, shrug, and go back to living your life without giving this more than a few seconds of thought. Yet for those of you who truly wish to make a difference, there is something you can do. Contact your senator, your representative, the congressmen whose sole purpose is to represent your will on both the national and state level. Tell them that you do not support the abhorrent practice of patenting medicine and its subsequent monopolization

Everyone needs to make a buck and everybody needs to eat, but what companies like Novartis should realize is that such things can never be accomplished at the expense of others. Americans exult the values of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, but can any of these things truly be chased in the throes of illness? Sickness is the enemy of happiness, keeps you jailed within the confines of your body and mind, and hobbles any such journey. Perpetually perfect health is impossible, but aiding the easy dissemination of medicine is not. So do it, and let all live the life they wish to live.

By Rajesh Satpathy

Julia Schaller stands in the Los Angelos Airport, caught in the rush of airport traffic.

As I sit here, in the Los Angeles Airport, I am reminded of how weird people are. I don’t mean that in a bad way, I actually mean it in the best way possible. As the sounds of flight announcements, cell phone rings, quiet chatter, and TV news collectively fills my ears, I drown in this unique cosmos of colliding worlds, and I couldn’t be happier. I find myself falling in love with airports.

There’s a quote from one of my favorite movies of all time, “Love Actually”, that describes the beauty of airports and I think about it every time I’m in one: “Whenever I get gloomy with the state of the world, I think about the arrivals gate at Heathrow Airport. General opinion is starting to make out that we live in a world of hatred and greed, but I don’t see that. It seems to me that love is everywhere. Often, it’s not particularly dignified or newsworthy, but it’s always there – fathers and sons, mothers and daughters, husbands and wives, boyfriends, girlfriends, old friends. When the planes hit the Twin Towers, as far as I know, none of the phone calls from the people on board were messages of hate or revenge – they were all messages of love. If you look for it, I’ve got a sneaky feeling you’ll find that love actually is all around.”

I couldn’t agree more with these lines. There’s a certain beauty to watching people hustle from one terminal to the next, either to await an adventure, to return home, or to simply be there when a loved one arrives. I could spend hours just sitting in any airport, people watching. It’s so interesting to see how people get from one day to the next, and airports are a key place to notice how humans really interact with each other. During spring break, I had connecting flights from Kansas City, MO to Dallas, TX, and then from Dallas to Phoenix, AZ.

The plane had mechanical difficulties, so my flight ended up being delayed about four hours, which messed up the schedules of those of us on already booked connecting flights that were on time. After frantic calls for re-bookings and much confusion, it was worked out that the few of us who were supposed to be on the Phoenix flight should try to run from our arrival gate to a departure gate across the airport for a different, earlier flight so that we could make up any time that we could since we already had such a long delay.

There was a woman on my flight who took me under her wing. I was traveling alone and so was she, and when we arrived at the airport, she said a brief “Come on, girly!” I followed, and for that 20 minute journey to our new terminal, we were family. I found myself walking side by side in a monstrous airport with a young woman, who I knew absolutely nothing about, and yet, trusted completely. She was my travel companion, and she didn’t fail me. We made it to the gate, and we ended up getting on the flight together. We had a moment when we both got on the flight. We would never see each other again, but we knew. We looked at each other when she boarded in front of me, and we knew. We were just two people, whose lives fatefully intertwined for just over an hour, and that time would hold no real significance in the course of our time on Earth. We understood that. But that’s why it’s so awesome.

I truly believe airports bring out the true exquisiteness of humanity. Not only that, but airports are so symbolic to life. There are people constantly entering and leaving, some that you know, some that you’ll never know. Since I only have a couple weeks left of high school, I suppose I’ve been taking more time to stop and reminisce, while also intoxicated with the possibilities of the future. At the end of this coming summer, or even earlier, so many people that I’ve grown up with will make their way out of these terminals and get on with their lives. Each gate is a new opportunity. There are so many places to go and things to do, and so many paths beckon me.

I’ve always wanted to just pack my bags, go to an airport and just go. Have no direction, but just randomly choose a terminal and follow it wherever it leads and make an exhilarating voyage of it. That’s kind of like life, though, isn’t it? We have so many opportunities and options every day, and so many times it’s hard to choose what the right thing may be. It’s hard to know which path to take in order to lead you on the most adventurous journey, with the best destination. But that’s life, and that’s the essence of airports.

So next time you’re in an airport, take a second to look around. Think about your life, or just observe the people around you. I think you’ll be surprised at how infatuated you’ll become with life.

By Julia Schaller

Art by Michelle Zhuang

As we climbed the stairs from the transit and anticipated the warm California air, he greeted us — a warm smile and dark, chocolate skin stretched thin over his cheek bones.

“Why hello there!” he said, holding his bright smile and my attention. “They call me the best-dressed homeless man in San Francisco.”

My muscles instantly tensed, and I fought the urge to fetch my $200 phone from my side pocket and secure it between my palms.

He didn’t look homeless. He wore cargo pants, a few layers on top and a hat, but when this man titled himself as “homeless,” my first impression of him swiftly changed from a friendly welcomer to a scandalous beggar and low-life con-man scheming to take my money and belongings. I couldn’t help it; I have been trained to think this way.

The abundance of this new foreign breed was a shock when entering the heart of this bustling town. Even before being able to admire the three stories of a glorious Forever 21, my eyes couldn’t help but first dart to the woman lying in front of the doors on the ground, her feet bare and blackened from long trips up and down the cracked and rough pavement, no doubt shaking a can with a few pennies to any passerby. If it wasn’t for the slight up and down movement of her body when she would occasionally take a breath, you could barely tell that she was alive.

Although they usually ask for spare change during the day and hold cardboard signs on sidewalks and street corners, what’s worse is seeing them drift into slumber against light poles. Before seven, Union Square, one of the richest parts of San Francisco, fills with plastic, made-up faces and stilettos, while the night scene crawls with the hungry and helpless curling up on the marble, polished steps of Burberry and Prada.

After just being here for two days already, I have had to censor my mind to these people. Mom always said to never give them money — they will always abuse it or buy things that hurt them even more, but is this responsibility to give to the less fortunate now discarded? I have two extra bedrooms in the house I live in, I eat when I’m not hungry, I sleep in a bed made for two people, and I can’t decide what to wear in the morning because there is too much to choose from.

I have to pretend I don’t hear their cries or even that I don’t care. I convince myself they are acting the part or that someone else will give them money when, in reality, I am kidding myself. They are the less fortunate and the disabled, the worn and weary. They are people, living a life I hope to never turn to but just might have to if tragedy strikes.

I lied to a woman I didn’t know this morning. She saw me across the street and ran to meet me, and without even knowing her name, I lied to her. I assume I already know her story — she’s a good actress, she has money, and she just wants to play me.

“Will you please give to an old homeless woman?” she pried, clasping her hands together as if she was praying to ask God. “Please — Anything. Will you please help me?”

But I don’t know her story, nor did I want to know, because the truth could possibly make me show sympathy in light of my selfish nature. I told her I didn’t have any money as I clutched a Subway breakfast sandwich and coffee. I lied to her. And without a second thought, I walked on with a full wallet and a cold heart.

If I get the chance to meet this woman again, I would take her to dinner and sit with an open mind and ears. I want to know these people and view them as more than beggars and a nuisance. I want to think of them as human beings with histories, families and lives — which might just put them on the same level as any one of us.

By Kaitlyn Marsh

Students have come up with creative ways to ask dates to prom. Photo by Laurel Critchfield

Prom: the one night that many seniors look forward to. Girls search for hours and even drive hundreds of miles to find their perfect dress. On the other hand, the boys go and spend an hour maximum getting fitted for a tuxedo.

In many cases, guys and girls stumble over each other, trying to find the date they always dreamed about, and we’ve seen girls left disappointed if they are asked short of flowers, balloons, a cake, huge signs, fish, car paint and a box of truffles surrounded by flower petals in the shape of a heart.

The stereotype that the boy has to ask the girl in a romantic way puts tons of unnecessary stress on each guy to outdo the others. In the end, the already-expensive prom night gets even pricier as the cost of asking adds to the average expenditure of $1,078, according to USA Today. The burden of paying normally falls to the more masculine of the duo, so the girls requiring the guys to ask them in a more-than-special way are just adding cobwebs to already-empty wallets.

Some people feel like their whole prom experience would be ruined by the fact that they have no date. The thought of going alone is some seniors’ worst nightmare. But to some, going alone just means that they can spend a fun night with friends.

The perks of going “stag” can outweigh the perks of going with a date.

You will have more time to spend with your friends than if you were worrying about whether your date was having fun or not. There is no expectation for fancy gifts or corsages, and the guys can spend more money on themselves (since it is their prom night, too.) Girls can have a more stress-free evening because they won’t have to worry about the pressures of having a perfect night.

However, going to prom with a date has its benefits too. For girls, you don’t have to worry about paying for anything the entire night. In the guys’ favor, they get to show off their gorgeous date to all of their friends.

You will still be able to do all the prom stuff even without a date. You can still dress up, get your make-up done, have a corsage or boutonnière and dance the night away. You can slip into pictures with your friends and go to dinner and the after-parties without the extra baggage of a date weighing you down.

Prom is something every high school senior should experience. It beats staying at home. We don’t want to be those people looking back and asking, “What if?” We want to be able to open a photo album and remember the night for what it was worth. So whether we go with a date or stag, prom is only as fun as we make it. Go out, take it all in and let yourself have a night worth remembering.

By Drew Rodgers, Lauren Livesay and Megan Goree

Ice melts on a student’s car from the snow storm on Feb. 23. Photo by Laurel Critchfield

My eyes were half-open as I groggily moved the bristles of my teal toothbrush across my pearly whites. The door of my bathroom creaked open and my mom popped her head through the crack. I looked up with my sleepy eyes and mumbled “Huh?” expecting to be chastised for waking up late. Instead I received what I thought was a joke. “Laurel, make sure you set aside extra driving time. It’s snowing.” Wait, what? My bleary, just-awoken mind couldn’t quite comprehend the information it had just received.

Snowing? But it’s April! The thought, by itself, scared the pants off me.

But it was indeed snowing. Little white flakes, like cloud dandruff, mixed with a slushy rain that would soak one to the core, were floating down from the sky.

This weather phenomenon didn’t make any sense. Just two days ago, I woke up to sunny skies and high temperatures. I smiled at my ability to slip into lace shorts and a silk shirt with three-quarter length sleeves. Being able to walk outside without a coat on was the most exciting part of my week.

But now, waking up and seeing the dreaded white fluff falling from the sky, I had to struggle into a pair of crisp jeans and dig a sweater out of my box of winter clothing that I had just put away.

During the recent rainstorm, the temperatures dropped as soon as the clouds turned the day to gloom, and I was left sad and soaking in the parking lot in my shorts and sandals. I had joked about “making a commitment to spring.” Even though it clearly wasn’t warm enough to flaunt bare legs and toenail polish, I prepared for each day by ignoring the denim jeans hanging in the back of my closet.

Today, that wasn’t the case. I couldn’t make excuses for dressing in summer clothing when the hints of winter still hadn’t passed. Even when I walked outside in my bundles, my bones shivered, and goose bumps popped up on all visible skin.

The fact that it was snowing was depressing. Because of this, I have personally decided that it should not snow in April or March or any other spring month for that matter. But I have no control over the weather. I have no say over what the clouds decide to spit out. This reminder of a fact that I’ve known my entire life makes me realize something much bigger. In reality, I have control over very few things.

I may have control over what activities I will take part in next Friday night, but in the long run, decisions such as this don’t really matter. Things that actually matter also happen to be things that I can’t control. Realizing that early makes life so much easier.

When tragedies occur, such as the unexpected death of a family member or a natural disaster, some people have tendencies to blame themselves, even though it’s irrational. But realizing that, as humans, we can’t control things such as life and death or the weather, we can focus on working around them to control the things that we can.

So when it snows in April, and you don’t think it should, take a step back and realize how few things you can control. Take a deep breath and relax.

By Laurel Critchfield

Image used under fair use doctrine

Though some may see the ugly release of “SimCity 2013” as an isolated incident, it’s another example in a long line of recent and weird anti-consumer trends in the games industry. And it comes from the company voted the worst in the United States two years in a row in The Consumerist poll.

“SimCity” has had a whole heap of trouble since its release March 5. Overloaded servers prevented folks from playing the first week; early mods showing that Electronic Arts’ claim the game depended on server-side calculations was demonstrably false, and the fanbase realization of the many broken underlying systems in the game made us forget about “Aliens: Colonial Marines.” It also laid bare a near-systemic problem with the gaming industry: seeming contempt for gamers themselves.

Why else would Maxis lie to their fanbase about the viability of online play? The efficacy and intelligence of the Sim agents within each city? The pathfinding system that’s worse than “Starcraft 1” (that may be slightly hyperbolic)? And from EA so soon after the disappointment of “Star Wars: The Old Republic,” and “Mass Effect 3” before that and “Dragon Age 2” before that. Beyond EA, “Aliens: Colonial Marines” disappointed anyone with a pulse, but at least its Metacritic score reflects that.

This shows an underlying and disturbing problem with the current gaming industry: the shallowing of established Intellectual Properties. Though it would be easy to blame EA as its reputation is, mildly, Voldemort, the answer is much more depressingly sensible.

To examine current trends in the game industry that have delivered disappointing sales for numerous shooters and strategy games and even more theme park MMOs, we must remember that publishers such as EA are out to make money, not necessarily quality games. In good economic times, this brought us the original “Dead Space,” “Mirror’s Edge” and “Braid.” They might not have sold as well as, say, “Call of Duty 4,” which came out around the same time, but it didn’t matter. They were experiments, and great ones at that.

Our economic climate now is decidedly more dour than mid-2000’s. The economy drove off a bridge into a pit of despair in 2009, and even now we’re just barely reaching the lip. Suddenly, experiments with new IPs such as “Mirror’s Edge” and “Dead Space” were unthinkable — every game needed to sell enough to keep the company afloat. So those projects were put on hold, and sequels to popular IPs were rushed out the door as quickly as possible to make money. The games themselves became safer in content, often emulating the most popular shooters in a certain category — “Call of Duty” in the FPS market, “Gears of War” in third-person action, “Zelda” otherwise, and they rapidly became lobotomized, repetitive rehashings of such classics.
This leaves us where we are today: the market is flooded with games of some quality that are all the same to the point that it has become meta — the game “Spec Ops: The Line” comes to mind. It’s ugly. Real ugly, and the bright spots from AAAs, such as “Far Cry 3,” are few and far between. Indies thrive, of course.

Luckily, the solution to this problem is quite simple: vote with your dollar. Support indie developers — Bastion, Cave Story, FTL, Natural Selection 2, ARMA 3, DayZ — and high quality AAA titles to show EA and other huge game companies that a safe game does not necessarily mean a shallow and lame one, and help save the industry from itself. You could even say as you pay the cashier, “It’s dangerous out there; take this!”

By Adam Schoelz

Art by Yasmeen El-Jayyousi

It is generally agreed upon that vomiting from physical exhaustion is a sign of a hard workout. For that matter, beaded sweat, a heart rate elevated to 200 beats per minute and the loss of enough salt to make a lick are also signs of improving physical fitness.

Yet the school system declares that after school workouts of student athletes in Missouri simply don’t count. Students are required to take Physical Education classes despite years of athletic training.

To be sure, this editorial is not a dig against P.E. classes. For students not engaged in sports or other physical activities, they can educate students about the importance of consistent exercise, the value of team play and the procedures to avoid injury.

The problem arises when students who already consistently participate on sports teams must take P.E. instead of another class. Athletes already know how to stretch, exercise and push themselves. Instead of putting them in a class where they’ll simply be bored, why not allow them to expand academically?

Take for example, the contrast between cross country, in which complete exhaustion is routine, and fitness walking, which is exactly what it sounds like. Both last a semester; in XC, students work out roughly 90 minutes a day, comparable to fitness walking. But in XC, students run, which burns roughly double the calories according to www.runnersworld.com. Inexplicably, the one that burns less calories is worth a credit.

The easiest reason to deny this credit is logistics; one could argue that keeping track of classes for athletes is difficult, as practices occur outside school. But we already have a template for more open-ended classes: independent studies. A student could sign up for a physical education independent study with a P.E. teacher. At the end of the season, the teacher could contact students’ coaches about performance, attendance, grade and effort.

Teachers aren’t compensated for independent study, so P.E. teachers might be reluctant to embrace change. However, class sizes would stay pretty large, as many students don’t engage in sports and many who do still take weight lifting; the school wouldn’t have to drop any P.E. teachers from payroll.

There isn’t a clear reason why Missouri doesn’t allow this. When contacted, a Communications Office spokesperson for DESE, the Department of Elementary and Secondary Education, said the department doesn’t have a stance on whether these classes could be used for P.E. credit. Our administration has a chance to spearhead a new type of physical education, the type that sports provides; fitness for a lifetime.

Our society needs to emphasize physical education ­­— with almost a third of our youth obese, according to the National Council of State Legislatures, that is clear. But athletes know the importance of staying in shape, and they’re also students who would leap at the extra hour to take another class or study.

Students can roughly simulate this extra hour with online P.E. However, the problem is that it’s unclear where RBHS comes in; working with another school can lead to uncertainty about the validity of grades, not to mention the potential for cheating.

The trick comes at where to draw the line. Do club sports count? What about show choir? Dancers are pretty sweaty at the end of a set. For now, I’d say a full season of one MSHAA-recognized sport should count as a half-credit P.E. class since a season is roughly analogous to a semester.

It’s inefficient for students to take another semester of a class they have, in effect, already taken. Student athletes should have the option of using their sport as not only a tool to improve physically, but also academically. Administrators should work with district and state officials to make this a reality, and students should demand their hard work be rewarded.

By Adam Schoelz

Art by Yasmeen El-Jayyousi

Gravitational forces in history have had a mixed reception. Though they have kept us all from flinging into space, they have also led to numerous deaths by drowning, falling, dropping off rocks and, indirectly, obesity.

Idiomatic expressions, however, have had a wonderful and varied time playing with weight and gravity in the fashion we as humans cannot, at least until we learn to manipulate the gravitron. To “carry one’s own weight,” is to track one’s own progress and do one’s own work and is generally considered a positive in the field of labor, whether mental or physical. Some carry more than their own weight. They seek extra challenge, credit and collegiate experience and invariably end up doing great things.

They are called astronauts.

In school, they are called Advanced Placement students, and for some silly reason, we punish them for it. I am enrolled in several AP classes. I like them. The teachers are great, the coursework is engaging and topical and the classmates! Oh, the classmates! What discussion, what attitude, what research! But I digress.

AP classes are harder than regular and honors classes. That’s the entire point. Take a harder class; get some college credit if you can pay for it and pass the test. But the other point of AP classes was to be the hardest curve, the biggest workload — the best challenge. It’s a great environment for some of the top students in RBHS to work together, no doubt, and a mind without challenge grows fat and lazy.

But the system rewards those who challenge themselves as little as possible. As an AP class is harder than an honors class — a hard call to make objectively but still I think a relatively accepted one, when Honors World has roughly five essays over the year compared to AP World’s 30. It follows that getting an A in an AP class is harder than in an honors class, as well it should be.

However, the way that collegiate acceptance works nowadays is if you want either an academic scholarship or admittance to an Ivy League (TM) institution, you need at least a 3.8, bar none. There are so many smart kids, so many 34 ACTs and 2260 SATs, so many kids with heavy course loads and writing awards and high school internships that colleges have to draw the line somewhere, and somewhere happens to be between a 3.6 and a 3.8 GPA in most cases.

Applying to colleges and universities is a stressful experience, and knowing that skewed statistics wind up on their resumes only compounds the experience.

So a savvy student must ask himself: how much do I want to learn? Is it worth it to take an AP class if it means I may take a hit to my GPA?
This is an awful question. Isn’t schooling supposed to be about learning at its core? Social learning, time management learning and traditional learning — math and history and science and art and English and literature. Letter grades, however, have surpassed true education in importance totally. Letter grades are, at heart, arbitrary, depending on teacher, class and point-in-time assessments of knowledge, an imperfect measurement of understanding — any testing system can be fudged, and many students make an art of it.

As a school and as a college town community, we should try and take some of the pressure off of students while maintaining the importance of true learning. We should move to a weighted grading scale, where an A in an AP class would be worth a five and in a non-AP class it would be worth a four. It could even be calculated on a case by case basis — nationwide, some school districts allow pupils to choose whether or not to weight their GPA.
Students who challenge themselves academically should be worried about learning first, grades second. We must open up conversations with the school board, stop grubbing for letter grades and start demanding the necessary shift to a weighted grading system.

By Adam Schoelz

Art by Michelle Zhuang

As the graduating seniors of 2013 prepare for their final days at RBHS, they leave with their freedom, their individuality and the experimentations of their senior year. As of Feb. 2013, these experiences will be altered if Missouri House Bill 136 is passed, and students at RBHS and across Missouri will be forced into finishing their senior year with two mandatory, senior-level mathematics and science courses.

After the bill’s first hearing in February, its announcement unsettled some students with its sudden suggestion of the stripping of student ability to hand-select their course load for their last year of secondary school.

With the frustration and the objections that come with a state-regulated schedule, it is important to note that the math and science curriculums in high school are vital and irreplaceable by any classes available at RBHS or any high school for that matter.

The logic and thinking practices that accompany any heavy math or science course are necessary to the development of students as learners and as educated members of society. However, are both types of courses necessary for a full four years in contributing to the success of students throughout their high school careers?

Each contributes to the academic journey of high school students, and with the United States ranked a mere 11th in international standardized math scores and a 10th for science scores, according to a study conducted by the Institute of Educational Sciences, it’s clear that some reform is needed. Math allows students to explore problems both real and theoretical in various enlightening approaches. Science courses do the same, giving students a large realm of basic knowledge, including critical thinking, problem solving capabilities and a firm grasp of the natural world.

Math and science courses are vital to students’ educational experience, whether they’re invested in the mathematic-scientific end of academics or not. However, the choice to let the state regulate the course load of all high school seniors is a little extreme. The bill casually limits too much of the schedules of all seniors by taking up two of eight blocks in their schedule and demanding that all seniors with the exception of the academically superior, sign up for an excess of both math and science courses, regardless of the 3-credit rule, for these areas of study.
Instead of forcing students to take classes that may or may not affect career-oriented classes, giving students the option of taking one or the other will not only give students a stronger sense of freedom, but will also encourage a path of mathematical and scientific study which is growing immensely in the United States.

Undeniably, a background in math and science fields will contribute to the overall knowledge of any individual, despite their desired field of study. But so would classes that educate students in the fine arts and hands-on skills. By allowing students choice in their educational diet, the state legislature can give them the ability to explore new interests while still ensuring they are schooled in either the scientific or mathematical fields.
Therefore, the state legislatures and schools throughout the United States would benefit greatly in requiring only one course in the fields of either math or science as opposed to both.

This will open up the schedule for seniors to explore their individual interests of study and will give the state and the country the comfort that students will have an easy transition into universities and their futures by having all students maintain a steady level of study in the math and science fields.
Students will receive the chance to discover their individuality and talents by signing up for courses which challenge and interest them, while maintaining an involvement in the state-required math or science courses. This way, the bill would still encourage uniqueness and exploration, values promised to students at RBHS.

Math and science courses will ultimately benefit all individuals while satisfying state requirements. This will allow for the easy transition into a stronger state-regulated schedule for next year’s seniors. The opportunity to choose either math or science as opposed to both will make this transition even simpler. Forcing students to take both courses will inhibit this easy transition, make room for objections and provide an undesirable course load for all seniors.

By The Rock Staff

This is a staff editorial, in response to the question, “Should the House require students to take math and science classes senior year?”
Written by Hagar Gov-Ari

photo by Manal Salim

Of all the things that rack our brains, we tend not to dwell on the things that scare us. We keep our thoughts focused on the happy things so that we aren’t terrorized by the fears that can easily consume our lives. However, these fears can’t be avoided completely, and they tend to reappear and rekindle at times when we least expect it.

Ever since I was young, I’ve had a fear of the night. Not the darkness itself but the trouble that follows it. You hear stories all the time about murders, kidnappings and fights that happen in these late, shady hours. So, I’ve always watched my back when my surroundings were shaded, in continual preparation for a possible attacker.

This past November, I took a trip to San Antonio with the Journalism staff, where I had planned on having the time of my life, exploring the tourist shops, walking along the River Walk, and most of all, enjoying the time off of school. However, my happiness was disturbed when my fear of the night rudely emerged.

During my time in this foreign city, my friends and I made a very stupid decision. At around 10 p.m. one evening, we stepped out of the hotel doors onto the eerie Texan streets. Though it was an innocent idea, taking a trip to a local burger joint for a delayed dinner, it was definitely not the smartest one, knowing my omnipresent fear of these late hours.

Throughout the day, we walked the streets peacefully, because in the back of our minds, we knew that we were out in the broad daylight, where anyone could see us if something bad were to happen. However, night brought about a whole new atmosphere, one where we could be scooped up by the shadows and no one would know.

Everywhere I looked, I felt as though someone was watching me, scoping me out, trying to see what would be the best way to kill me. The situation wasn’t any more comforting when considering that the two people I chose to go with were also girls, naive teenage girls at that. We were about as vulnerable as it got.

photo by Manal Salim

You could easily point us out as tourists, and our aura reeked of terror. We were pretty calm as we left the hotel, but the further away we walked from our home base, the more we realized that we were no longer safe. We became aware of the suspicious groups of people lining the streets at the late hour and determined that our decision to leave the safety of our hotel was not a very well-thought-out plan. We scarfed down the food so quickly that I’m sure if we weren’t so focused on being scared to death, we would have thrown it right back up.

Our two-block mission back to the hotel was at about twice the speed in which we approached the restaurant. The blackness of the night became extremely evident, making me anxious, thinking that someone could jump out from around any corner. Though we were never approached on our journey, we got quite a few intentful stares thrown in our direction. Although I don’t know if these looks could have resulted in a kidnapping or some other sort of dangerous situation, I had never been more terrified in my life.

I can remember a time when I loved to spend my evenings outside, running around the field, staring at the constellations and taking in the sights and sounds of the peaceful darkness. I’d make wishes on shooting stars and run my bare feet through the wind-chilled grass. Some of my fondest memories are from this nighttime scenery.

However, as I’ve grown older, I’ve become more aware of the troubles that lurk in the darkness. As much as I’d like to return to my days of having pure thoughts, free from worries, I know that my understanding of the possible danger is what keeps me safe.

My naive mindset as a child helped me to experience the night as I never will again. But I won’t give up my innocent memories, because I know that they remind me of what the night feels like when the terrors of this world are absent.

By Brittany Cornelison

Photo by Paige Kiehl

Imagine ingesting a toxic chemical that slowly eats away at tissue function without even knowing you’re doing such a thing, a hidden poison that slowly pollutes the brain and the body’s senses. Consider the implications of weekly guzzling gallons of fluid laced with a substance terrifying in its potential for mental impairment. Most people would put such an activity on par with alcohol abuse or drug use given its potential for permanent payments of personal health. Most people who drink tap water put themselves at such risks every single day.

Our state puts $50,000 of fluoride in our water every year. This has gone on since 1973 when a nationwide recommendation said putting fluoride in public drinking water would help the dental health of those ingesting the water. Since then, many documented studies were done proving the myth of the health benefits in fluoride completely false.

So, with all this handy information, why does the Missouri Health Board insist on postponing the recommendation meeting in order to do more research?

Maybe the postponement has something to do with the fear that fluoride might actually help dental health. This opinion appears on a prestigious website such as www.apha.org, claiming the additional fluoride improves dental health. But, what the websites do not include are the studies done on subjects who ingest fluoride and the effects it has on an individual.
With some simple research using Google Scholar, research data sheets, papers and websites aiming to stop the purposeful pollution of our water gives all the facts. The United States Environmental Protection Agency, Fluoride Action Network and Natural News online providers cite such studies and other resources proving the negative health effects of fluoride in our water (if only to make the dentist’s job a bit easier). From these studies, subjects recorded frightening detrimental breakdowns of regular brain function and sensory recognition as well as showing no real signs of positive dental effects at all.

With all this information at our fingertips and wonderfully cited, why does the Missouri Health Board need to postpone it’s recommendation?
One could argue that fluoride is in our toothpastes and used daily. The problem with this argument is that toothpaste is not directly ingested from someone brushing their teeth, and when they slap some Colgate on their pearly whites, they’re not consuming fluoride products so willfully. Also, toothpaste has a much, much lower fluoride content than the amount put into our public drinking water, hence why Missouri spends a whopping $50,000 a year for fluoride while toothpaste only costs about $2 per tube depending on the brand. Fluoride really does nothing good to our bodies unless it is for our teeth and taken in small doses if ingested. There’s absolutely no logical justification for pouring it into our water supply anymore than there is a good reason to bake prescription medication into elementary school lunches.

The surprise of these findings can be unbelievable because the general public is not fairly educated about the artificial tampering with their primary source of refreshment; there is little chance to understand what is exactly being put in our free drinking water. The blame for this lack of education lies on the Health Board itself for not educating a population they are working to protect from disease and bad health; they have just left it in the hands of hard-working and busy parents and students.

Old habits must die hard for the Missouri Health Board, but by educating ourselves and taking action for our health, proper recommendation or not, the fight against fluoride can continue. Get the word out and inform the Health Board that fluoride is indeed not a good thing and must be removed from our water. Its devastating side effects far outweigh any of its minor potentials for meagre dental improvements. The chance of winning extra-shiny teeth in the fluoride lottery is a costly gamble to make when you have to pony up the health of your brain to play such a dangerous game.

Maybe then we will all be at ease when we smile.

By Maribeth Eiken

Art by Jennifer Stanley

Children’s stories are classic works that are always a pleasure to look back on and read through or watch. Many provide robust and original stories that leave them a respectable permanence in the world of literature and film. These works of art, like Lewis Caroll’s Alice in Wonderland, the Brothers Grimm’s Hansel and Gretel and L. Frank Baum’s The Wonderful Wizard of Oz are among such stories, which can capture the attention of all, regardless of age, with their rich narrative, serious characters and original concepts. These masterpieces set a high standard for all fantasy themed stories.

With a respectable place in film history, it’s only sensible for the works to be done justice by any remakes or spin-offs by having the new works adhere to the original stories’ spirit and themes. Logic and respect don’t seem to apply to the current film industry though, as giving the Mad Hatter a sword, sexualizing Gretel and turning the Wizard of Oz into an intense action movie is perfectly acceptable to producers as a way to make capital without any regard to artistic integrity.

Tim Burton’s version of Alice in Wonderland in 2010 popularized the trend of transforming classic stories into over-hyped dramas that take an unnecessarily serious tone. While the film received mixed reviews with a 51 percent approval rating on www.RottenTomatoes.com and 6.5/10 on www.IMDb.com, it managed to gross $1,024,299,904 at the box office worldwide, placing it at 11 among the highest grossing films in history.
The film is a bastardization of the original Alice in Wonderland by ignoring the work’s authentic theme of imagination and makes up for its lack of innovation by centering the movie around a war against the Queen of Hearts that only Alice can end by dressing up in full plate armor and killing a dragon that Caroll barely mentioned in the original literature. The book did have some violent tones but nothing as large as a full-blown war.
Recent releases continue this style of taking an original concept and transforming it into something completely unrelatable. New release Oz the Great and Powerful follows the same road as Tim Burton’s Alice in Wonderland by turning an imaginative classic film into an intensified action/adventure that doesn’t match up with the original spirit at all. Jack and the Giant Slayer and Hansel and Gretel: Witch Hunters, however, bring it to a whole new extreme by taking short stories designed for children and making them completely unidentifiable from the original work.

It goes without saying that many of the old European folk tales which inspired the stories of the Brothers Grimm were somber and often frightening. However, they were ultimately geared towards educating their youthful audience about morality and the dangers of the world around them.
The original Hansel and Gretel is an onerously dismal tale of starving children escaping from a witch by throwing her in the oven, but at the core of the fable is a story about the tragedies of parental abandonment and the importance of children having positive adult role models in their lives.
How does it make sense to throw a witch cult into the story when it was never originally mentioned and turn the children into sexualized characters that constantly try to act tough? Adding in these unnecessary elements lobotomizes the heart and soul of the original story and adds in more mature elements without adding in mature values or depth. But you better hold onto your hats, kiddos, because as they say in the movie, “These aren’t regular witches!” This isn’t the Hansel and Gretel your grandma knew!

The trailer received an NC-17 because of the glorified adult themes rampant within the film. Jack the Giant Slayer is just as absurd; the story is supposed to be about a poor boy discovering a magic bean stalk leading to a giant’s castle filled with riches to steal, not a medieval fight for humanity’s survival against a race of giants.

Despite all of the outrageously dull concepts, negative reception and blatant tarnishing of the names of cherished works, these films still manage to reel in loads of money from the box office. Because coming up with original ideas won’t make any money and takes effort, it’s a diabolically brilliant scheme for filmmakers to take a story that everyone remembers fondly, then pump it full of modern concepts, famous actors, drama, gross action and 3D effects to make a movie that appeals to a consumer as a film that’s based off a child’s story, but is now cool enough for a big grown up to watch. The dual appeal of these types of plots makes them attractive to movie executives, if only because of the ridiculous amount of money that can be made.

As a result, the films rake in buttloads of money. Adam McKay, a producer for Hansel and Gretel: Witch Hunters proved the greed implicit in the creation of these films when he said, “We heard it, and we were just like, ‘That’s a freakin’ franchise! You could make three of those!’”

With better visual and practical effects than ever before, modern directors have a tremendous opportunity to do justice to the heart and soul of old world fairy tales. Film production companies have access to successful and well-written material from authors like Neil Gaiman who synthesize folk tales with modern perception without sacrificing the originals’ integrity.

They have the capacity to create films for a new generation of children and their parents that don’t talk down to kids, but also don’t lose their message amidst sensationalism and the idea that graphic grit is the same thing as substance.

Maybe one day filmmakers will respect fiction and follow a work’s original spirit. Or they’ll continue, and turn Winnie the Pooh into a movie about a honey-drunk bear seeking revenge on the Heffalumps that killed his best friend Piglet.

By Blake Becker

Photo provided by Lauren Puckett

Landon’s eyes are two different colors. They’re mainly blue, but in one segment of his left eye, the iris, is brown. Almost orange. But definitely not blue.

He doesn’t like people looking at his eyes. He doesn’t like anyone examining his face. He gets embarrassed; his gaze falls, and his lips twist into an awkward adolescent smile. He doesn’t talk much about himself. In fact, he doesn’t talk much at all.

But he sings. I think my brother Landon learned to sing before he learned how to speak.

I used to sit outside his preschool classroom after my day of elementary school was finished, watching him through the window. The other kids would be busy with Polly Pockets and Fischer Price fire trucks, but Landon would be singing. He would dance too, drumming against the pavement with his light-up Sketchers. He was content in his own world.

Somehow, no one understood that. The other kids got frustrated with Landon’s silence. But I understood him perfectly. Landon wasn’t a talker; he was a singer.

So, I decided I would become his translator. When people couldn’t understand what Landon was saying, or what he wanted or why he was crying, they came straight to me. When he was frustrated, when he couldn’t explain himself, he glanced at me. I was his savior, immediately transforming his music into words.

We continued like this for years. Landon and I could read each other. He knew when my inspiration was dry and my heart was aching. I knew when his energy was dying and his morale was crumbling. Everything made sense to us. We were united.

Then, somewhere along the way, I stopped listening. Landon started junior high school, and suddenly, puberty claimed his innocence. He closed up, diving into Youtube, memes and “The Hobbit,” clawing at any available escape from adolescence. He closed his bright blue eyes to the world.

I got tired. I got exasperated. I told him to “deal with it,” and I left him alone. The doors to our bedrooms, set across the hallway from one another, were slowly closed.

They didn’t reopen until the day I came home and my mother’s head was in her hands. She’d received a call from Landon’s school.

A pair of boys had ganged up on him, calling him a wuss, calling him dumb, calling him gay. It was in his Performing Arts class, a place that was supposed to be his serenity. They teased him because he liked singing. He took music seriously and that made him an object of ridicule.

He wasn’t frustrated or upset when he came home that night. It was almost as if he’d forgotten the whole incident. But I could see behind his quiet resolve that he was shaken. He’d only seen bullying in TV shows and movies — now he’d experienced it. And he was hurt. He was badly hurt.

I went to bed that night drowning in emotions. I was livid. I was exhausted. I was sad beyond comprehension. I was disappointed in myself. I’d forgotten my job — I’d forgotten I was supposed to be Landon’s support beam, his role model. I was supposed to be the one who understood.

I was supposed to be his translator, and I’d forgotten the language he spoke.

But, being the kind spirit he is, Landon taught me again. We talked for hours. I helped him with his music, and he asked me questions about the world.

He asked me why God allowed cruelty. He asked me why we were allowed to have Christmas, when halfway across the world, children were dying. He asked me why some people truly cared and others were just “nice.” He asked me if I would still visit often when I left for college. And, truthfully, I didn’t know the answer to any of his questions. I was terribly aware of my own ignorance.

But I held his hand, and I listened to him talk, and I didn’t tease him when his throat got tight. I allowed him to be emotional. For once, he was entirely honest and entirely open, meeting my gaze with those bright blue eyes. I was there for him again, just as I once was.

In these last few months before college, I’m showing Landon all I can. I’m showing him how to flirt with the cute girls in his science class. I’m showing him how to open a door for a lady because “that’s the gentlemanly thing to do.” I’m showing him how to talk sports because even nerds should know the difference between Michael Jordan and LeBron James.

But, most of all, I’m learning. I’m learning how to be an affectionate sister, an attentive advisor and a best friend. And, I suppose, I’m learning to say goodbye.

So when the day finally comes and I load my black SUV with moving boxes and picture frames, I won’t be prepared, but I’ll be ready. Because I’ll have a CD inserted in the stereo — a recorded album of the songs Landon’s created over the years. And I’ll listen to him sing, and I’ll sing along with him, and I think we’ll just stay like that forever. Apart, yes. But united.

We never leave each other’s sides. When you love someone that much, when you understand each other without having to speak, then there is nothing that can keep you apart. The anger and sadness of reality can’t seep in through my skin. No junior high drama, no college stress, no new life can change what Landon and I have always been: kindred souls. Kindred souls don’t break.

And as I drive off, maybe I’ll glance into the rearview mirror, and I’ll see my face reflected back at me. I’ll smile and remember what countless people have told me over the years: Landon and I have the same bright blue eyes.

By Lauren Puckett 

Art by Jennifer Stanley

For about a year now, all I’ve wanted is to get out. I’ve just wanted to leave Columbia and venture on in life. I had my sights set on the University of Arizona-Tuscon. I did not, however, know exactly what going out-of-state for college would mean for myself financially.

Out-of-state tuition has skyrocketed in the past six years. Last year, CNN Money reported that average in-state tuition for public colleges in 2012-13 totaled $22,261 per annum. That’s not including financial aid, but that number is still higher than ever. CNN reported that the reason college tuition, especially out-of-state, is increasing is because state governments are cutting the amount of money they gave to colleges by $15.2 billion since 2007 because of inflation and America’s 2008 recession.

The number of students attending college rose 12 percent since 2007. This means even more students are having to pay crippling college fees. Not only that, but this makes the college pool larger for applicants, which means the scholarship availability could diminish, making it more expensive for all students considering higher education. With state budget cuts, not as much money is channeled into the colleges, so there is less money in the scholarship pool.

A college or university charges more to students coming from a different state because the school is supported directly by state taxpayers. Attending a school that is in the state that a person’s family pays taxes to will be cheaper than studying at a school in a different state.

What benefits do the state universities get if their only attendees are students from that state? There will be hardly any diversity among students if this continues, and students won’t have the opportunities to venture out into the world and go where they please for their education.

Truth is, the price of attending an out-of-state university that’s not even a spectacularly ranked school is getting to be almost the same price as going to an Ivy League university.

According to the University of Arizona’s website, the estimated cost of attendance for non-residence students including room and board, books and supplies, travel and miscellaneous costs add up to be $40,924, which is more than the price of the tuition to Harvard University, which is $37,576.

There is a disparity between the quality of education between the University of Arizona and Harvard University. Harvard University is the number one nationally ranked best college in the United States, whereas the University of Arizona is ranked number 120 according to the U.S. News and World Report.

A $10-20,000 difference between in-state and out-of-state tuition for a college is illogical. There is no reason someone should have to pay so much more money just because the university they want to go to is in a different state. Harvard University costs the same whether the student lives in state or is from the other side of the country. All schools should cost the same for in-state and out-of-state students.
Without including scholarships, the in-state tuition at the University of Arizona is $24,744, a whole $16,180 difference between residents and nonresidents. With that difference, I could buy the sky-blue Volkswagon Convertible Beetle.

I know I’m going to end up going to college in Missouri now. I’ve weighed my options as far as college goes, and financially, it’s the right thing to do.

In 2011, USA Today claimed teens are causing student loans to soar to $100 trillion because so many more are attending college, and the Federal Reserve Bank of New York reported Americans’ debt will be greater in student loans than credit cards. I blame the ridiculous out-of-state tuition.

College is meant to prepare people for future employment, but with so many students loans, it will most likely take students years to pay off the debt. Many students may not be able to afford schools out-of-state that have a better quality of education, robbing the maximum potential of their success for their future.

The U.S. News and World Report ranked the University of Missouri-Columbia higher than the University of Arizona on the best colleges, but that doesn’t mean all out-of-state schools won’t provide the same high level of education.

If colleges and universities got rid of or decreased out-of-state tuition to a decent amount compared to in-state tuition, our student loan debt wouldn’t be as high, and students could get the opportunity to venture out and go to a school not in their state. Everyone invested in the future of America’s higher education institutions needs to work together to communicate these problems to our state legislators. We need to make connections with the people who have the authority to help reform these institutions so that, ultimately, we can help connect the entire nation into one united educational opportunity. We should be enticing future generations into bettering themselves and, in turn, bettering the world around them.

It seems almost wicked of colleges to charge such exorbitant amounts of money for their own indirect benefit. If more people directly contribute to the world through research and technology, something that requires copious amounts of information retention, there should be a larger amount of state funding to the institutions that catalyze these world advancements: colleges.

By Julia Schaller

photo illustration by Patrick Smith

Asian Americans portray the model minority. We get perfect scores on tests, whether they be unit tests in a class or standardized tests such as the SAT. According to the National Center for Education Statistics, Asian Americans scored an average of 528 on the writing portion of the SAT and scored an average of 23.7 on the writing portion of the ACT, both of which are higher than any other ethnicity for either test.

We get accepted to the most prestigious colleges and universities. We maintain straight A’s in school. We take the heaviest course load possible, even as seniors.

I spent most of my childhood trying to fit all these stereotypes. At first it was because my parents expected me to. But eventually I just expected myself to live up to the expectations that every other Indian seemed to fulfill.

It wasn’t until high school that I felt constricted by these expectations and they began to stress me out to levels of insanity as I started to lose sleep over schoolwork and became more and more absent-minded. The expectations that once motivated me to do the best in school soon came to weigh down on me. After one year of high school, cracks began to appear in the sturdy wall of perfection I had built around myself.

I took Advanced Placement and honors classes but I also enrolled in art to get my fine arts credit. To my surprise, not only did I like art, but I was pretty good at it, too. I had spent so much time trying to maintain a perfect Grade Point Average that I was blind to the possibility that I could be good at something outside the fields of math and science.

While I breezed through art, I struggled in Pre-Calc. It worried me. People would ask what I got on tests, and before I could answer, they would reply, “You got an A.”

I was so used to hearing that statement and knowing it was true that I felt uneasy when it wasn’t. Shouldn’t I get straight A’s? Wasn’t I supposed to be good in math? What was wrong with me?

Indians are known to be good in math. In fact, according to the National Center for Education statistics, Asian Americans scored an average of 595 on the math portion of the SAT, higher than any other ethnicity. So struggling was new to me. The stress of doing better overwhelmed me and left me laying awake blinking through the late hours of the night as I mulled over what I was doing wrong. Every other Indian kid out there was probably finding a solution to poverty or making a machine that would zap the HIV out of infected people. And there I was “failing” pre-calc. What had the world come to if Indians couldn’t even get A’s in math?

In my attempt to be the perfect Indian daughter, I had stressed myself to the point of being in a state of constant sleep deprivation. Even the peace I found during my hour and a half long art class was lost as worry about spoiling my grades in other classes consumed me. And what was it all for?
It was all because of the cliche conception of what every Indian kid has to be like. So maybe it wasn’t a horrible thing to be thought of as a genius because of my ethnicity. But it wasn’t exactly a blessing, either. Any stereotype, even a “good” one, imposes limitations. It limits the way others view us and, more importantly, the way we view ourselves because we still limit ourselves and our choices.

When we embrace notions of how others should act, whether all Americans are obese or that all African Americans are athletes, we limit the goals we deem possible for ourselves. It’s easy to miss the fact that having preconceived notions of someone can place them at a disadvantage.
I shouldn’t feel guilty about not getting perfect grades and living up to these ridiculous expectations everyone seems to have of Indians. Whether we embrace stereotypes of intelligence or physicality, we are simply sending others a message about what we deem is possible for them and what we do not.

By Ipsa Chaudhary 

The cold metal of a gun used to be something to revere. It embodied the values Americans have fought for time and time again: liberty and individual rights.

But then, one too many school shootings broke the smiles off faces around the nation. One too many sobbing parents graced the television screen in the family room. One too many guns stole a child from the dinner table — nobody there to pick at peas and recount the dramatic events of the school day anymore.

Thus came Americans’ great disillusionment, casting everything into doubt. It was no longer clearly black and white whether guns were patriotic weapons defending liberty and individual rights or just weapons dealing death and sadness.

And yet, in spite of these unsettling doubts, almost every attempt at gun control since the Sandy Hook school shooting in December has failed. Only four states – Connecticut, New York, Maryland and Colorado – have passed any major gun control legislation. The federal assault weapons ban proposal has fizzled out, congressional Republicans continue their aggressive protection of gun rights and most congressional Democrats are too scared of losing votes to come out and support gun control.

The momentum and passion the gun control movement had right after the shooting is in a tragic downward spiral. We are dangerously close to doing nothing and moving on, as we have done with every other shooting before.

Americans are passionate about the ideals of liberty and individual rights our nation was founded on, and restrictions on guns seem like a direct threat to those ideals. We are paranoid that our hard-earned rights will be taken away, which is natural.
But there is a line. There is a degree to which guns and metaphorical patriotism can be prioritized over human lives, and we have surpassed it.

We may think we’re choosing patriotism when we fight for guns, but in fact, we’re doing just the opposite, for congressional behavior begs the question: what kind of patriotism is it we believe in if, within 100 days of 20 children and six adults being murdered, we are already ready to forget and move on? We should be ashamed if we do nothing and let their lives pass in vain.

Guns are weapons, weapons that can kill people. The least we can do is take precautions when trusting ourselves with guns, and though popular opinion may disagree, Americans are not entitled to guns without precautions – we can’t be. The entitlement of innocent children to their lives has to take ultimate precedence over everything else.

The most simple and effective precaution we can take is background checks. The Brady Handgun Violence Prevention Act of 1993 established the National Instant Criminal Background Check System (NICS). The Brady Act mandated that those wishing to buy a gun from a federally-licensed dealer had to undergo a background check before they could purchase the gun. NICS effectively ensures that people with criminal backgrounds or mental illnesses don’t get guns.

Except for the fact that many gun transactions aren’t public; they’re private. In 33 states, anyone 18 or older can walk into a gun show or a private transaction and buy a gun, no background check necessary. The potential for danger is stunning.

The solution seems simple: make background checks universal. Though factions in our government often have a difficult time working together, it seems outlandish that anyone could possibly oppose a simple background check to keep guns from getting into hands that would use them to horrific ends.

Of course, such a hope would be naïve.

National Rifle Association Executive Vice President Wayne LaPierre said at the Conservative Political Action Conference a few weeks ago that those who wanted to expand background checks were “insane.” He believes expanded background checks would lead to a national registry of firearms (which is illegal under federal law), and that the government would use the registry to either tax or take guns.Essentially, the only argument against universal background checks is a paranoid hypothetical situation that has little to no chance of ever occurring. Unfortunately, this lone, delusional argument is also backed by a large amount of money.

Americans who still oppose background checks are being dragged, kicking and screaming, into reality and away from the delusional utopia they live in where everybody holds guns and hands. The kicking and screaming isn’t only embarrassing, it’s quite literally killing us.
Humans aren’t perfect, and we’ve forgiven that enough to let ourselves have guns anyway, but some humans are far from perfect, and we protect their right to simply be handed guns. The crimes they might commit are nothing compared to the far more heinous crime we commit when we are the ones providing them with weapons, knowing we didn’t take a single precaution.

Missouri is one of the few states looking to close the gun loophole within its borders this year. Missouri Rep. Stacey Newman has introduced House Bill 187, which would require background checks for all gun sales. She has been lobbying since 2000 against Missouri’s gun policies, but to no effect. It’s tragic that it took shootings becoming commonplace for anyone to care.

In February, Missouri Rep. Mike Leara proposed a bill that, if passed, would send people to jail for introducing legislation restricting gun rights. This would mean that Newman’s bill closing the background check loophole would give her an instant 4-year ticket to prison. Leara’s bill is unconstitutional, and he knows it, but he wanted it “to be clear that the Missouri House will stand in defense of the people’s constitutional right to keep and bear arms.”

Many people agree with Leara’s sentiments. Missouri is a conservative state, and it flaunts its pro-gun attitude. But we have to fight back. Write letters to your representatives, make phone calls, inform whoever you can; the background check loophole must be closed in Missouri. A traditionally conservative state throwing politics aside and doing the right thing for its people is what the nation needs to set change in motion.

Sure, universal background checks on guns won’t solve all our problems, but when we’re still kicking and screaming, every little step counts.

By Urmila Kutikkad

Art by Paige Martin

Each morning I wake up around 6:30 a.m. with my mind in a daze.  I hear the alarm poundingincessantly in my ear, and I blindly swing my hand at the clock trying to stop the noise.  After a few seconds of fumbling around, I find the snooze button and the noise stops; I am allowed to sleep for another nine minutes.

This process repeats every nine minutes until I’m finally conscious enough to realize I’ll be late to school. At that point, why not hit the snooze button one more time?  Nine minutes turns to 45, and I am late to my first class. It has gotten to the point where I don’t even realize that the alarm has gone off until I’ve already hit snooze three or four times; I sleep right through it.

When I finally straggle into the classroom after the tardy bell, I’m still in a sleep daze, tired from my lack of sleep the previous night. As first hour wears on, I begin to wake up and become more and more engaged with what is going on around me, but I’ve already missed out on quite a bit, all because I decided to stay up until 2 a.m.

I’m not alone. Normally three or four students show up to my first hour late and tired. A recent study by www.phys.org showed that only eight percent of high school students get as much sleep as they need; nine hours. It’s a dilemma; do I stay up late in order to get all of my homework finished and still have time to relax, but risk ending up tired and out of it the next morning? Or do I get a good night’s rest and wake up the next morning with a pile of unfinished homework and the memory of a short uneventful evening the night before?

In my experience I almost always choose the prior. The draw of starting a new movie or wasting an hour surfing the Internet can be overpowering when the other option is going to bed, ending the day and leading right to the start of another school day.

In the past there has been a common concept that says that high school students can have a social life, get good grades or get the sleep they need, but can only achieve two out of these three. This has proven true, and I chose the grades and social life.

The same ends up being true on weekends. I will plan to catch up on my sleep over the weekend since

I don’t have homework to keep me up late or school to wake me up early, since, as www.thescientificamerican.com says, sleep debt, like any debt, can be repaid by making up on what was missed.

Yet, this never works out either. Most weekends I end up out late with my friends on Friday and Saturday nights and don’t make up the sleep I missed during the week.

On school nights the short term fun of staying up late is often much more enticing than the long term gains of getting a full night of rest.  With a full night of sleep I am always more alert and engaged the next day, I perform better in school and am in a better mood for the first couple hours of the day.  Without it I am groggy and grumpy for the first part of the day and it takes more focus and effort to understand what is going on in school.

I should regret that I miss out on these benefits of a full night’s sleep. I should want to go to sleep at 10 p.m. each night to ensure I get enough rest. I should be willing to turn off the television, shut the laptop and drop the phone early enough to get a full eight hours. But I don’t. Getting some free time is too important to me to do homework until 9 p.m. then call it a night.

There’s just not enough hours in the day to do everything I want to do and get the sleep I need.  I want to hang out with friends; I want to watch an episode of Breaking Bad, I want to play some basketball or football or take my dog for a walk. To fit in all the stuff I want to do, sleep gets left out. And this is why I end up in bed around 2 a.m. each night.

Is it optimal? Definitely not, but it is manageable, at least for me. Maybe next year’s later start time will solve the problem, at least for high school students. Going into college next year, I’ll definitely try to get on a more normal schedule, but I’m not sure how successful I will be. There will be even more distractions each day living on campus than there are living at home, but it will be even more important to get needed sleep as the workload will be greater and there will be more activities I want to engage in.

But for the rest of the year I’ll still be wandering into my first hour classes well after the bell, and I won’t be the only one. We should strive to find a better balance in our sleeping patterns, and get enough sleep to perform at our fullest while leaving time for relaxation and fun.

By Sam Mitchell

Photo by Renata Williams

Every six weeks, Mrs. Jenkins posts everyone’s grades on Home Access, the district’s site for teachers to post the grades of their students. Interim Progress Reports, commonly called IPRs, used to be sent home on paper copies until this year, when the district decided to go green, though students can still receive paper copies upon request.

IPRs were established to inform families of their child’s grade before the end of the year and get them to help raise the student’s grade, although it seems to have a different purpose. IPRs cause more stress and conflict than they help bring up grades. Parents end up arguing with their child about what they are doing in school instead of helping them with their schoolwork. IPRs are not much help.

IPRs are unnecessary, especially now that they are posted online. Home Access allows us to have unlimited access to our grades, eliminating the need for IPRs. Unless you do not have a computer or internet access, there is no excuse for not getting on Home Access.

Home Access is like an ever-updating IPR. With Home Access, everyone with a computer and Wi-Fi has the ability to check their grades. Parents need to become more technologically involved with the world to keep up with the changing times, instead of kicking back and killing trees that are slowly being driven towards extinction because of people like them.

Paper IPRs need to be abolished except for the select few who are in dire need of them. All of the paper needed to supply each student with a paper copy of his or her grades is appalling. Each standard sheet of paper is approximately 4.5 grams, making the grand total 8100 grams, or 8.1 kilograms, for each IPR. A whole year would use about 108 kilograms, or 238 pounds. That would be about one and a half feet of your average two-foot diameter oak tree cut down each year. Add in all the paper assignments teachers give out, and the number of trees felled is innumerable.

Although we do not use as much paper anymore by posting IPRs online, we still need to get rid of IPRs. IPRs just add more stress into the life of the already stressed teenager, forcing them to toil hard just to get their parents off their back. IPRs are a waste of paper that many high school students ignore anyway, and Columbia Public Schools needs to dispose of them.

By Derek Wang

Do you feel should IPRs no longer be given? Are IPRs even useful?

The flag waves at half staff. Photo by Jacqueline LeBlanc

However, what I find truly devastating is when we blame and attribute stereotypes to groups of people in society’s time of need.

On Monday, April 15, 23,000 runners and nearly half-a-million spectators gathered in Boston for the annual Boston Marathon in honor of Patriots Day.  Around the four-hour time mark, with about 5,000 participants still waiting to cross the finish line, a bomb exploded several feet away from the finish line. Approximately 13 seconds later, a second bomb went off a hundred feet away from the first. The bombs left the site in a pandemonium of smoke, terror and panic, while leaving the country in shock, anxiety and anger. It was later revealed that three people were killed, while more than 100 people were injured.

The bombing was an unbelievable tragedy that just seemed to happen a little too soon after the Newtown, Conn. shooting, which seemed to have happened a little too soon after the shooting in a local theater in Aurora, Colo., which seemed to have happened a little too soon after the tragedies in Tucson, Az. (2012), and in Virginia Tech (2007), and at the World Trade Center (2001), and in Columbine (1999) and in Oklahoma City (1995).

The world is not a perfect place, and tragedies, such as these, unfortunately happen. And each time it does, as citizens, we pray together, we mourn together, we grieve together, and we help together.

Unfortunately, we also blame together.

After the explosion, a Saudi Arabian spectator, who was studying in Boston on a student visa, had his body torn and twisted by the force of the explosion and was consequently put into the hospital. However, he was the only victim who had his apartment searched in “a startling show of force,” as his fellow tenants described it to the Boston Herald. His roommate was questioned for five hours, and he was the only one who was considered a possible suspect early on.

The man ran from the explosion, like many others did; He smelled like explosives, like many others did, and he was from Saudi Arabia, a trait shared by only a few at the site. And he was blamed. Some called him a terrorist; some associated him with al-Qaida, but it turned out he was revealed as a witness and not a suspect.

Shortly after the incident, I heard a Muslim student whisper, “I hope whoever did it wasn’t Muslim,” in fear of being labeled and generalized as a terrorist for a heartbreaking tragedy someone who practices the same religion did. I heard a student chatting with friends stating, “I hope whoever did it was white,” in hopes that society and the media wouldn’t stereotype other races or groups of people as evil. I heard bouts of, “I bet the person was a foreigner” and “the person must’ve been a gun-rights activist.” I heard Republicans blame Democrats and Democrats blame Republicans. People cried conspiracy and hateful words toward Obama and the government. Pro-gun rights groups discussed anti-gun rights groups and vice versa.

And while it takes a severely sick person to commit such a heinous crime, just because the person practices Islam or Christianity, is black or white, is Republican or Democrat, does not mean that is why the person did it.

It is unfortunate that the world is not a perfect place and that tragedies such as these seem to occur often, but as a society, all we can do is unite together in support of the victims and families and people across our country. It is dire that we turn to each other rather than turn on each other, and it is important that we remember that regardless of our race, or religion or political beliefs, we are all people.

The rash assumptions we make in a time of tragedy, anger and confusion can sometimes to be difficult to control.  It’s always easier to blame others than it is to attempt to find the truth. However, we should not let traits such as these act as evidence or affect our judgement. In times of tragedy and need, there are no political parties, ethnicity or different belief systems. In times of tragedy, we are all only people, sharing the same planet and the same community. We are all a part of humanity, and the support and love and kindness we display towards each other together can be one of the strongest forces in society.

By Jacqueline LeBlanc

art by Michelle Zhuang

The sun rises, and I crawl out of bed, stumbling into the bathroom; I follow the typical morning routine of showering, dressing, breakfast. Then the time comes to take my medicine for the day, and my mood suddenly sours as I reluctantly take pills for my Attention Deficit Disorder.

I wonder if a day will come where I can live without being shackled to a bottle of pills.

My ADD became clear to my teachers and parents while I was in elementary school, however I stayed in the dark. I would daydream, forget what I was focusing on, forget homework and lose track of conversations, but for me it was normal. It took the adults in my life little time to notice that something was wrong.

Soon after, I went into my doctor’s office for my diagnosis and left with a prescription that would alter the rest of my life. I was bothered by the fact that I had a tough time concentrating and remembering things like homework, so going along with the plan wasn’t a big deal.

Immediately, after starting the medication, I could read, complete assignments, follow instructions, and remember things with ease. Starting middle school, I was impressed with how efficiently I could work, but was unaware of the side effects of my condition that would soon follow.

As time went on, though, and I gradually became less carefree and energetic, taking on a far more serious personality than other kids. The consequential social conflicts and difficulty relating to others caused me to panic and question the effectiveness of the medicine –– was it really worth the major change in my personality?

Going off the medicine, however, was not a viable solution as I easily lost track of what was going on in class. The days without my medicine seemed to drag on; my head felt like it was filled with a viscous mud as I walked the crowded halls in a drunken state only to fall asleep in the next class.

Treatment plans changed now and then, modifying the doses or type of medicine, but no matter the changes, there were no comfortable solutions. Sometimes an increase in medicine made my mind swarm like it was filled with a million miniscule bugs. I was in a constant state of anxiety and tension. It drove me crazy not knowing what to do, whether it was better to drop the meds completely or if it was right to continue taking the medicine.

After so many adjustments and testing of new drugs, I had forgotten the person I was before the medicine. Until high school I was terrified that the medicine would completely erase my perception of who I truly was. It was intensely frustrating to come to a dead end when dealing with my ADD and medication, but I was more fed up with how this was consuming me with anxiety and strife. It was time to take a different approach.

I’ve come to accept my ADD as a part of me and as a different way of looking at things. The reason the medicine isn’t fixing everything is because my attention problems are part of the flaws of my personality and who I am. ADD is often mislabeled as a disease when it’s really a different mindset, one that doesn’t simply work with the way society is set up.

The medication became less effective and is now a hardly working temporary solution, making it very hard for me to focus on homework and projects away from school. It also added to the procrastination I already have as a teenager. It’s a serious problem that could hurt college life, but even with the hindrances, it’s just something I have to work around because no medication can solve my life for me –– that’s my own responsibility.

Everyone has faults, and even though ADD is troubling, it’s part of my personality and sometimes allows me to see things in a different light from others’ perspectives.

It hurts my pride to take the medicine, and I berate myself for being unable to work to my full potential without some medication acting as a crutch.

Regardless, I am proud of who I am and am confident in my ability to one day live free of my medication, because trusting myself and my own power and potential is the only way to live properly and without a pill bottle.

By Blake Becker

Infographic by Michelle Zhuang

Our world has changed. When I was a kid I had three brothers who put substantial time toward torturing me. My brother Jack and his friend Thomas, whom I cleverly dubbed ‘Evil Jack and Evil Thomas,’ took great pleasure in teasing me; they were quite successful in causing misery, as we were close enough in age that I spent a great deal of time with them playing Roller Coaster Tycoon and Legos.

Oftentimes, however, their impertinence would grow too great, and I would run off with either a red face or a tear-streaked face or both.
Granted, I was six, so I wasn’t exactly emotionally stable.

During these times of trial when my parents were absent for whatever reason –– shopping or dining out or what have you –– I would turn to my neighbors for emotional support.

I remember one in particular. She was a wonderful old woman, a grandmother by any other name, and her name was Liz. Liz lived in a little white house with a dog that wasn’t quite a pug.
Age had granted her grace and patience and a certain amount of sympathy for the little boy across the street –– she was a youngest sibling, as well.

When I came knocking, which was not often, she would invite me in and show me collections of music boxes. Once she showed me her brother’s old lead soldiers from her childhood. I would often come red-faced and tear streaked from the teasing of my brothers and brothers’ friends but would leave smiling.

Then, like most of you and very suddenly, I grew up. Time had a large hand in it, and I began to have less and less contact with my neighbors. Some died, and some moved away, and I just stopped talking. I got to know other people, school friends and church friends and friends who lived pretty far away, and the house across the street no longer held the mysteries it did when I was knee high on a grasshopper.

Liz had a heart attack on one of the first cold nights of this new year, and that night I stood behind the window and thought long about who she was to me and how little I knew, watching the lights from the fire truck play off the windows on the houses. I was sad, but mostly I was in wonder, wondering how things changed in such a short time.

It’s been a while since I actually held a conversation with my neighbors –– unless the brief delivery of Girl Scouts cookies from a man and his daughter I don’t know counts –– and I begin to wonder what place they have in my life. If I could drop a relationship with a neighbor so easily, what overall relevance did they have? The geographic or inexperienced necessity –– that is, the ‘trial run’ of kids getting to know their neighbors –– has waned in the face of a tighter planet.

Liz is still around. The cat music box she gave me years ago still rests on my bookshelf. I’ve realized something, looking at it and thinking about how brief a contact it was for her to give that music box to me versus what stories surrounded it. Our neighbors lead wholly separate lives that we punctuate occasionally, not the other way around. They are relationships driven by ease of access, geographical closeness, ‘neighborly conduct.’ In all probability, I’m leaving this town in half a year or so –– my neighbors are set to change completely, for the first time in my life.

Our neighbors, like everything in life, are temporary, and they change more often than most things. Simply realizing this is valuable –– a value judgement, I think, is better left to a case-by-case basis.

According to an article I read one night on NPR’s website, the human brain only has room for 150 true ‘friendships,’ not acquaintances or in-laws but true friends whose birthdays we would remember. In the past, it would be hard to reach this limit but, thank the Lord, we live in an age where you could realistically meet 150 people in half an hour. This is a good thing. Relationships, like neighbors, are temporary and tangential but they, like many things in early life, teach us a lesson: how to let go. In real life friendships fade; they don’t flame out –– at least in my experience –– and that first contact is with neighbors.

By Adam Schoelz

Feature photo by Paige Kiehl

On day six, in the middle of an interview, I watched a tear slip out of my teacher’s eye, rolling off his face before he could reach to wipe it away, before he really knew to do so because of his skin’s numbness. Just weeks before, he had bounced into 7 p.m. Global Issues meetings, Great Dane in tow, with more energy than was fitting for an otherwise vacant building.

On day two, using his tray-on-wheels as a desk, he reviewed stoichiometry with me between sips of protein-milk and scoopfuls of pureed green beans, pausing to rest every few lines and grumbling about the new messiness of his scrawl.

On the fourth day, I’d met Gregory Kirchhofer’s mom and aunt and helped his youngest daughter put away groceries while former co-workers visited.

On the 16th day, I had a dozen hours of video footage and a score of audio already compiled. I felt the hardest interviews were complete, but my questions made another chemistry teacher’s voice crack and her tears fall at nine in the morning, in front of a class of students and under the buzz of fluorescent lighting. It felt uncomfortably inappropriate to witness — and record — that emotion.

For three weeks and one day, from my first visit to the publish date, I learned about every detail of Mr. Kirchhofer’s car accident and recovery.

In the beginning, it was awkward. Even though I’d visited patients as a volunteer at Boone Hospital, I’d always been better at conversing with the families or giving directions to visitors or chatting with the old ladies who worked in the gift shop. At the rehab center, Mr. Kirchhofer didn’t learn of his daily schedule until the morning of, so it was difficult to coordinate times to visit. At home, Mr. Kirchhofer had groups of friends, colleagues or students coming as others left, so there was never really time to sit quietly and answer questions.

I arranged my schedule with set times for set classes and after school or weekend activities, and his was ambiguous, vacillating between predetermined doctors appointments and surprise visitors. Past the struggle to coordinate times, though, there was the question of boundaries.

Even as my familiarity grew with him and his friends and family members, I wondered what was appropriate to ask and whether I should offer to help or just stand aside, cautious of overstepping or asking too much.

As time passed, I realized the issue of boundaries was entirely my own, that any discomfort was my own creation, that any awkwardness was essentially imagined.

So when he was busy, I sat and watched, observing the way he interacted with his nurses and hearing halves of phone conversations, taking pictures of his wall decorations and moving furniture with his daughters. When we interviewed, I asked an initial question and let him respond fully, without interruption, so that his answer twisted and morphed in whichever directions he chose; then, even when the response felt complete, I’d stay quiet until eventually he’d break the silence and ask for another question.

I learned the best positions in which to set up the Nikon for the video and the podcast recorder for the audio, and I learned to smile or nod rather than laugh or ‘mhm’ in agreement. I exchanged emails with the journalist at the Missourian who wrote the story the day after the accident, and

I spoke on the phone with the Highway Patrol trooper who was at the scene. Through weeks of investment, I learned about the timeline of the crash, shaped from the clear memories of strangers and those who know him best and the foggy recollections of the man in the driver’s seat himself.

In collecting the details of the accident, I also learned how to find his dad’s house in Switzerland using Google Earth. I now know his stance on gun control in schools. I’ve learned how to ask Zeus, his dog, if he needs to go out and how to velcro Mr. Kirchhofer’s boot back onto his left leg.

I have about 20 GB of information about Mr. Kirchhofer’s life, the greatest compilation, we agreed, of photos, video, audio and text about his accident, even more than hospital records and his personal collection. In terms of time commitment and sheer volume of material, this story was the biggest undertaking I’ve had in all three years of journalism at RBHS.

In telling this story, I have realized that the journalistic checklist –– getting the necessary quote or finding facts to provide meaningful transitions between those quotes or angling the camera just so –– those items are meant to be checked off after the fact, not in the act.

When the red light of a recorder blinks in front of you or you hide behind the camera, it’s easy to think of all the story’s components you still need to get, to reshape the article’s angle, to start composing eloquent ledes. But really, the best stories have hours of untold footage and unheard audio, unrecorded facts and afternoons spent just watching.

It has taken two and a half years to understand the point of chasing down interviewees and staying at school late into the evening, but now the lesson seems blatantly obvious: journalism provides an excuse, a premise, to learn about people’s lives, to build relationships and to tell their stories.

I believed everyone has a story, but this experience has reinforced the value of listening to and sharing those tales. From each anecdote, I gain perspective about the individual, but I also learn about the world and about myself.

Through interviewing, I learn that an ELL kid, whose phone is in Spanish, misses his grandma and younger sister back home but wants to work here and provide for them; that my substitute teacher in chemistry has a new fondness for Babies R Us; that my chemistry teacher and Global Issues sponsor has an incredible spirit; and that I have been astoundingly privileged for the opportunity to hear these stories and, even better, to share them.

By Nomin-Erdene Jagdagdorj

You can read Nomin’s story, A Long Journey Home, by clicking here.

Bradley Manning’s U.S. Army photograph. Image used under fair use doctrine

In past years, the Nobel Peace Prize has been awarded to influential individuals who are positively contributing to the cause of world peace. This can be done through anything from easing international relations to creating grassroots movements that advocate for the promotion of peace. Recent laureates include President Barack Obama for his “extraordinary efforts to strengthen international diplomacy,” Liu Xiaobo for his “struggle for fundamental human rights in China” and even the European Union for “contributing to the advancement of peace and reconciliation, democracy and human rights in Europe.”

Recently, the Nobel Committee nominated a rather controversial figure to join this illustrious group: Bradley Manning. Manning leaked a large amount of confidential military documents to the transparency-promoting organization WikiLeaks. There were 250,000 diplomatic cables and over 500,000 army reports based on actions undertaken by the military during their operations in both Afghanistan and Iraq. Also included within the leak were videos of the 2007 Baghdad airstrike and the 2009 Granai airstrike, both of which were allegedly covered-up because of the unarmed civilians killed in the attacks. In its entirety, the documents Manning revealed comprised the largest leak of documents in American history.

The United States prosecuted and arrested Manning afterward, charging him with 20 criminal charges ranging from “failure to obey a lawful order” to charges as severe as “aiding the enemy.” While Manning was awaiting his trial, his incarceration involved solitary confinement, a scarcity of food and water and some allege that he was subject to torture. He was finally moved from these conditions after concerned scholars, both abroad and at home, interceded on his behalf, claiming that his treatment was unconstitutionally cruel.

Whatever the reason, Manning is now located in Fort Leavenworth, Texas. He has pled guilty to ten of the twenty charges leveled against him, with the notable exception of aiding the enemy — it’s Manning’s express belief that none of his actions knowingly helped any enemy of the United States.

It is the opinion of the prosecution that Manning’s actions were irresponsible and needlessly endangered the lives of thousands of deployed Americans. Furthermore, the leaked documents posed a threat to the military plans of the U.S. government, which could have indirectly jeopardized the safety of the U.S. population as a whole.

I believe that Manning’s actions were a tad irresponsible — he never stopped to think about what the repercussions of his actions could be. That being said, the end results of the leak were to the benefit of the world in its entirety, if not so helpful to the U.S. government.

Take the released videos of the airstrikes as an example. Sure, it did reveal military actions, technically providing a source from which information could be garnered about the operating procedures of the U.S. armed forces. From a humanitarian standpoint, however, it merely shined a light upon the atrocities committed during the war. It made it so that no actions could be covered-up, ensuring the delivery of justice to those who deserve it. War calls for terrible things, and mistakes come with the territory. But a soldier is honor-bound to answer for whatever his or her actions in the field are — it’s the least that the victims deserve.

Manning’s leak also provided the public with an insight into the inner workings of our government. Abraham Lincoln said that our government is “of the people, by the people, for the people,” yet it seems as if we never really understand what is happening at the federal level. We see the important voter issues that affect domestic policies, but what does the average citizen know of the diplomatic relations between the United States and its various allies? If you’re anything like me, these leaks are the first inklings of exactly what the administration does.

But in the end, I don’t believe that either of those things would be good enough to qualify Manning for a Nobel Peace Prize. There are far more significant actions that occur on a more global, wide-reaching scale than his. And though Manning’s actions to promote transparency at the highest levels is an admirable thing, it was not his intent when he leaked the documents. The sullen private was dissatisfied with his command, dissatisfied with his orders and dissatisfied with his government in general. So he struck back in the only way that a private can: he leaked information that was never supposed to have been seen outside the military and governmental echelons which required them. It would be a travesty to award a prize which holds someone in the highest esteem for something so juvenile.

Bradley Manning’s decision to expose secret U.S. documents to the world was motivated by nothing more than a petty attempt to get back at his superiors. The principles advocated by his actions were positive, but the consequences could have caused immeasurable harm to both his country and his people. A prize as respected as the Nobel Peace Prize should go to someone who truly strove to make the world a better place, not one who did so accidentally.

By Rajesh Satpathy

My aunt, talking on the phone. Photo by Maria Kalaitzandonakes

Sometimes I forget that they’re gone.

This year I lost three important people in my life, and all in different ways. I expected sadness, I expected grief and anger. But the longest lasting, most frustrating emotion I am still wrestling with is the feeling they are still here.

It’s kind of like phantom limb syndrome, a condition where amputees still experience the limb as if it were still attached to their body. According to NYU Langone’s Medical Center, patients with this condition have this experience when the brain continues to receive messages from nerves that originally carried impulses from the missing limb.

This is like me. These people who have now been hacked off of my body, I still feel them.

The first person I lost this year was my childhood best friend. A petty argument took on a life of its own, cutting up ligaments and cartilage until all that remained was an open wound and the friendship was gone. Still, I have photos of us hanging up about my room. When the radio sings “Black Horse and a Cherry Tree,” I still know the lyrics. My brain hasn’t learned that she’s gone. Sometimes, when I get good news, I start to text her, and then I realize she won’t respond.

I lost the second person, not to a fight but to methamphetamine.  He was in and out of rehab places over the past few years, and we stayed in touch. I knew him before he got involved in drugs, before his daily goal was to get high; when he was just a kid, his eyes unaltered.

I still called him “hon,” like a diner waitress, even when he would call me a stream of awful names.

One day, when he relapsed again, I told him, “Drugs won’t love you back, but people will. Give them up, go back to being the real you.”

But it didn’t register. He wasn’t the same person anymore. I kept looking at this old photograph of the two of us, laughing, before he ever got hooked and I kept pleading to some cosmic being to let him be the same person. But just like an amputated limb, I look down and see he’s gone. I’ll always speak to him, I’ll cry when he relapses again, but I know now that my old friend is gone.

Cancer took the third, and by far most special person this year. My aunt fought for five years against Pheochromocytoma. She lost her hair, her energy, but she never lost her attitude. She would be laying on a hospital bed the family had put in the living room, and she’d be yellin’ at us for cursing, or not vacuuming that day. She was the family’s rock; everyone came for her for advice. And even though she died, I still feel like she’s here. I’ll start to get a crush and I’ll hear her in the back of my head saying, “Really, really Maria? Him?” Her daughter came out to visit for a week, and we told so many stories about her, and somehow, I kept thinking, she’s going to pop around the corner and laugh with us.

Loss is an impossible thing because even after sadness that they’re gone and anger that something took them and guilt that you had something to do with it all leave, you’re still left with this floating, phantom sensation. You lie to yourself over and over that maybe, just maybe, the whole thing was a fluke and they’re coming back.

By Maria Kalaitzandonakes

Art by Ian Gibbs and Jake Alden

Their very first year at RBHS, sophomores are given an obligatory class known as Advisory. This hour and a half serves the combined role of a high school orientation, study hall, emotional safety net and home-away-from-home. However, after their sophomore year, students are turned loose for their brand new AUT. Although they’ve certainly earned this new found freedom, juniors and seniors lose access to that smaller, close-knit support unit and academic aid that, till now, only Sophomore Advisory offered.

The proposed Bruin Block class provides a remedy to this.

The new period, if teachers and administrators vote it through, will be a 31-minute class opposite students’ lunch every day. During the class, teachers will provide various lessons tooled to the students’ grade level, like RBHS orientations for freshmen, ACT prep for sophomores and juniors, and, eventually, college application assistance for seniors. Initially, the block will only be provided for 9th and 10th graders, but if it’s a success, juniors and seniors will be phased into the system in 2015 and ’16.

That gradual integration will be one of many aspects dedicated to making this change a smooth transition, and it’ll help Bruin Block become a successful institution. The block’s teachers will also remain with one class for all four years, which helps provide students with an easily accessible mentor and support system during their entire time at Rock Bridge. The entire setup of Bruin Block helps encourage a sense of consistency alongside growth for students during their high school career.

One of the arguments recently brought against Bruin Block is the concern over the lost class time by removing a half-hour chunk from the school day. However, the plans for the block line out a means by which to restore other classes with time to fit in their whole curriculum. Whenever a week with an assembly or an event like Global Village comes around, Bruin Block will be temporarily cancelled for the week and the extra half-hour will be rolled back into other classes. With seven such weeks throughout the year, this can more than make up for lost time.

Ultimately, Bruin Block is an opportunity to make sure that every student at RBHS has their education supplemented with lessons that will help them succeed outside high school, whether it’s assistance with applying for scholarships or writing resumes. More than that, Bruin Block is a guarantee that RBHS’ citizens all have a community to belong to.

By Jake Alden

Art by Ian Gibbs and Jake Alden

Thirty-one minutes, every single day, will be devoted to supporting students in their time at RBHS, according to the suggestion for Bruin Block class periods. The idea sounds appealing enough, but the needless value can be discovered behind its thin veil of charm. Below the vague, general purpose Bruin Block presents, one may discover a shortening of valuable class time, overlapping repetition with the Academic Advisory period and an unnecessary use of time for students at RBHS.

 According to the Bruin Block proposal, class times will be changed to 86 minute blocks rather than 90 minutes, with 6 minute passing periods to allow room for the 31 minute Bruin Block every day. However, the proposal also offers an Academic Advisory, similar to the current Advisory, which would take 86 minutes every other day for freshman and sophomore students to focus on their studies. Both classes overlap significantly, in that they both provide students access to their teachers and guidance counselors. The Bruin Block proposal states that it “allows for true implementation across all four years of meaningful self/college/career exploration.”

 Though the purpose of Bruin Block provides increased academic focus and it allows students to establish better connections with their advisors, the time to do so does not need to take up such an excessive amount of time. Virtually the same ideas and topics are being stretched out over two classes, one of which meets every single day. The Bruin Block addition is an extra, unwarranted period of time that hopes to provide to students what Advisory has already effectively done in the past, and in fact can do in the future since the proposal is not choosing to get rid of Advisory. Though the intentions are good, the class seems a bit excessive, and one form of the block would suffice.

And rather than providing more time to engage in learning and in core classes themselves, Bruin Block detracts time away from schoolwork and the class curriculum. Though it seems like only four minutes every day, the time adds up, especially when referring to AP courses. In the summary of the Bruin Block feedback information, there is a concern referenced by the staff at RBHS that in  shortening class periods, teachers would lose a total of 9 instructional days from what is currently available. This notion presents a massive concern, especially for AP classes in particular, in which AP teachers have a set deadline for the test, and not a lot of wiggle room to cram all the information necessary for students to succeed on their AP exams.

Therefore, despite the fact that Bruin Block aims to provide an academic enrichment for students, the goal is looking to be achieved from the wrong perspective completely. Rather than allowing more time for students to be absorbing knowledge in their classrooms, Bruin Block presents a much less valuable alternative that greatly overlaps with the existing Advisory period.

In addition, the Bruin Block topics that will be presented to students to assist them in their studies is a largely open-ended discussion that is not exactly set in stone. Whether or not teachers will have to come up with the curriculum or not isn’t for certain, according the Bruin Block proposal outline. Therefore, the main part of the Bruin Block is still up in the air, and no one is aware of whether or not the topics discussed during the class will actually be effective. It is not clear whether this time will actually be utilized for structured enrichment or another pastime. With Bruin Block, there is no true plan in place that satisfies the question that every day, is there really enough to keep kids busy?

Accordingly, there is no real evidence that such a proposal, in its repetitive nature, detraction of classes, and unnecessary use of time will provide any benefit to students. On the contrary, Bruin Block and its undefined explanation are not beneficial to RBHS and create a source of distraction, and thus should not be implemented.

By Manal Salim

Feature photo by Maddy Jones

Even to this day, women remain trailing behind the leading men in significant parts of education and the workforce. According to a recent study at www.science.nbcnews.com, women make up a mere 21 percent of full science professors and contribute to only 5 percent of full engineering professors.

But if one source isn’t enough to bring light to the arising issue, in a 2006 survey, according to www.livescience.com, chemistry doctoral students in the UK illustrated a pattern in the lack of success of women in pursuing a scientific career. The research found that in the first year of their doctoral programs, 70 percent of the female students said they planned a career in research. By the third year in, the female students dropped to 37 percent. However, in a sharp contrast, 59 percent of male students in their third year still planned to pursue the path of a scientific researcher.

The numbers are clear, but the reasons as to why the gender difference is so great are unfortunately even more obvious. However, despite the clarity, the roots of this problem usually go unnoticed by society. In terms of pursuing a scientific career, even from a young, possibly high-school age, girls are often discriminated from men, and are even thought of as less worthy of success in the science or engineering field.

The bias is not always intentional, but rather ingrained in the minds of society. There is a method known by researchers as the Implicit Association Test to determine how unconsciously biased one may be. For example, in a study done about women and science, individuals taking the test would be asked to very quickly associate words like “woman” with terms like “physics.” According to a 2009 study published in the journal Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences, across 34 countries, 70 percent of people are quicker to associate male terms with science than female terms.

And in fact, though not always intended, the bias is still extremely detrimental to face of women in science. The prejudice has been ingrained into society for countless years, and has indeed suppressed the general expectations of women to pursue a scientific education. Because today’s culture doesn’t openly support of women in science, there is a lessening chance of women being hired in science-related careers, according to Stanford University neurobiologist Jennifer Raymond. It is not fair that women, due to mere standards set by society, are subconsciously unable to continue, pursue, and become successful in their career-related studies of sciences, just as male students have the ability of doing.

The detrimental impact of cultural prejudices is not only observed at the higher education level, but also even at the K-12 age groups of girls looking for an academic vision to pursue. The National Academy of Sciences discovered that the lower the gender equality and opportunities in a nation, the larger the math aptitude gap between boys and girls. This then suggests that society itself, not genetics, is to blame for the lack of encouragement for girls to be just as successful as their male counterparts in the science and math world.

In order to present a solution to this ever-growing, yet often unnoticed problem, even in their grade school years, girls should be enabled to succeed in equal comparison with boys, despite the societal bias present. At school, female engineering and science clubs should be introduced and encouraged in order to stimulate girls to observe an interest in the topics. Rather than classroom curriculums mainly focusing on teaching the great male scientists of history, equal light should be shed on the historic women who paved the way in scientific study.

Therefore, in order to ensure that girls will be confident if they choose to pursue science and math related careers in their futures, education curriculums in schools should strive to present women academically equal to men. Teachers should properly present information in a gender-balanced manner, and specifically provide encouragement to women who wish to pursue a career that society, though not openly, discriminates them from.

According to www.science.nbcnews.com, Brigitte Mühlenbruch, president of the European Platform of Women Scientists, and Maren Jochimsen of the University of Duisburg-Essen in Germany believe that the benefits of this positive encouragement will not only benefit women wanting a science and engineering education, but in fact society as a whole. They state, “Motivation and participation are the basis of high-quality results in research — not biased evaluation criteria, or job insecurity. An academic culture that is transparent, democratic and sensitive to gender and diversity will benefit all scientists.”

 By Manal Salim 

Art by Jennifer Stanley

Bill Gates. Mark Zuckerberg. Steve Jobs. Michael Dell. These incredibly successful entrepreneurs all dropped out of college.

Their unorthodox schooling embodies the fact that the business world now has a different face from the past. Fewer people are taking the traditional path of going to college for four to eight years, finding jobs and spending their lives working their way up. Of course, there are many who take the traditional path, but that was a trademark of the last generation.

The modern job market has become almost unrecognizable compared to that of the last generation. With the opportunity to just create a résumé and be set for life, many people find the college option less appealing. People are increasingly creating their own jobs because the old promise of “go to college, get a job” isn’t true anymore.

According to the Small Business Administration website, sba.gov, there are 23 million small businesses in the United States. Many of these business owners became successful without degrees. According to the Associated Press, in April 2012, 53 percent of college graduates were unemployed or working a job that didn’t require a bachelor’s degree. A college degree can’t guarantee a job anymore. The option of not going looks pretty nice from here, but seems to completely contradict everything I’ve been working for.

It seems like we spend our high school careers preparing for college. We try to keep up good GPAs, do extracurricular activities and take Advanced Placement classes for credit. We’re taught that college is the next step. In fact, 79 percent of the 2012 RBHS graduating class planned on attending a four-year college.

I know for many it’s pretty crazy to think about not going to college. I’ve never considered the other option. Thinking of it seems preposterous to me. I’ve never met anyone who hasn’t gone to college and been successful. But when I actually consider what comes with college, it doesn’t seem as preposterous.

Let’s stop and think about the cons of college. One of the deciding factors in choosing a college is always money. Currently, there is $1 trillion in outstanding student debt, with $117 billion added last year alone, according to calculations by the Consumer Financial Protection Bureau. College tuition levels quadrupled since the early 1980s, according to the Student Body Scholarship Association. All of this would be fine if I knew I was spending my money wisely, that when I graduated I could find a job. But there is no guarantee of that.

This is by no means saying, “Forget college! Just create a website and you’ll be famous!” Let’s be realistic. We can’t all create the next big thing and be the next Jack Dorsey and Evan Williams (Twitter) or David Karp (Tumblr).

But it’s not just the self-made entrepreneurs that create websites and applications who make it big. Groups offering college alternatives have become increasingly popular. UnCollege, which “shows you how to gain the passion, hustle and contrarianism requisite for success — all without setting foot inside a classroom,” Enstitute, which offers two-year apprenticeships with entrepreneurs in lieu of college and Zero Tuition College, an online support network for students looking for alternatives, are finding themselves with more university-age heretics pledging allegiance. People no longer want the cookie-cutter route. I think the number one misconception is that college equals success.

According to the National Center for Education Statistics, nces.ed.gov, in 2010, males with bachelor’s degrees earned an average of $17,000 more than those with only high school diplomas, and females with bachelor’s degrees earned an average of $15,000 more. Though it seems that college-graduated individuals earn more, males with only high school diplomas earn an average of $32,800 a year and females $25,000 a year. The world is changing. Post-high school training is becoming a viable route into well-paying jobs. 

We judge those who don’t follow conventional paths and who challenge the norm, and non-college-goers do just that. We need to stop putting so much stock in a college education. College is important, but it’s not everything. Judging people because they try to find success somewhere else is never justifiable. No matter what we choose, hard work is what matters, not whether we go to college.

By Trisha Chadury

Art by Paige Martin

I have a biology test Tuesday that I haven’t studied for. I need to read eight chapters in The Good Earth, and I’ve got four pages down. Also there’s that half-finished Spanish worksheet due Wednesday crammed in a folder somewhere, but I’ll find it later. Then comes my closest looming deadline: this commentary. I’ve got to get this written by midnight, which is about three hours away. This all wasn’t sprung on me last minute by sadistic, co-conspiring teachers, although I could use that as a great excuse for all my NHI’s. Instead, there’s a more believable cause.

I am a procrastinator. I like to take it slow, mulling over a project or paper for hours or days before acting. Countless excel spreadsheets outline detailed study plans that will ultimately be ignored for more rushed, spontaneous work. In fact, in writing the first two sentences of this paragraph, I checked Facebook and Twitter three times each. You know, just in case something happened.

This works out for me at a cost. My sleep patterns, if you can call them that, are somewhat inconsistent. Depending what is due immediately the next day, I either go to bed by 8:30 p.m. or not at all. When the former happens you’d presume I’d be well rested—and you’d be wrong.

When I sleep from 8:30 p.m. until 6:30 a.m., I find myself waking up several times during the night, and eventually, when I see the clock read 4:00 a.m., I lie in bed and stare out the window until it’s a respectable hour. By morning I feel more tired than if I had slept a measly six hours. The effects of no sleep are obvious. When I pull an all-nighter I’m a caffeinated mess until the second I hit my pillow the next night and sleep through my alarm the following morning.

There are mornings where I drift through class, barely hearing instruction as I finish up work I have failed to finish before I dozed off. Afternoon clubs I enjoy, but dread because they set me one more hour back from getting to my bed. The worst thing though, is when I can’t get up. There have been mornings when, having just gotten an hour of sleep, I wake up twenty minutes before I’m supposed to leave and lie in bed, stunned. It’s late. I’ve slept in. I stayed up too damn late working because I can’t buckle down in the day and get things done. I didn’t even get it all done. It’ll hurt my grade, I’ll look like a mess I – I should stay home and work.

And so I do. And I do not. I stay in bed, melancholic over my work ethic, not motivated to do anything but beat myself up let alone go through with the plan to do homework. Thankfully this has only happened during extreme times of stress; long hours at work coupled with PMS and a school planner full of assignments do a number on your nerves.

So it’s a strange thing, procrastination. It’s like an addiction in a sense – not that I cannot control my “procrastination urges” or have withdrawls when I am timely in my work ethic, but rather that I rationalize my behavior. Just as the cigarette smoker says he can quit anytime, nothing’s wrong, I treat my relaxed attitude towards work and late nights as a simple choice. The second I get home, I assure myself, I will get to my room and start working on French. Of course, in the language of underachievers, “the second I get home” can sometimes be translated as, “whenever I’m done screwing around on the internet.”

And the thing is, I’m not entirely certain that I’m going to change my ways anytime soon. I hope that I will one day. At the same time, though, I don’t know it’s realistic for me proclaim that right now, here in front of what I’m sure are millions of readers, I will reform my sleepless, slow-paced nights.

I’ve got a lot going on in my life, whether it be organizing an interscholastic organization or playing a little tennis, I prioritize. As the busy, aspiring wonder woman some think I am, the down time I have after school to think and plan and laze about is more important than my sleep. I know I’m wrong though. I know that when the morning comes I’ll be late to class, cursing late night projects and the behavior that put me in the position.

But if we do not necessarily act wisely in our decisions, at least we can recognize the pitfalls and be content in these choices. My erratic sleep cycle may damage me in a way I can’t predict now, but I’d rather make my own mistakes than have a bed time.

After all, I extended this deadline to four days later and I am happily, sleepily okay with that.

By Jilly Dos Santos

Photo by Daphne Yu

The other day in math class, I watched as my friend rummaged through her purse, grabbed what she had been searching for, glanced around to make sure no one was looking and slyly slid it up the sleeve of her jacket.As she headed for the bathroom, still cautious of potential watchers, one question consumed my mind. Why? I thought about what I would do, and I realized that I probably would have done the same. But it’s not right. My friend shouldn’t have to be stealthy about bringing a tampon with her to the bathroom. And she really shouldn’t have to ensconce the fact that she’s going to use a tampon or even that she’s on her menstrual cycle. None of this should be a big deal.

A woman having to be secretive about her period is a big deal, though. I’ve experienced the total embarrassment of having to ask someone else for a tampon when my period has come unexpectedly or the shame of a pad accidentally falling out of my backpack for all the world to see.

Once puberty hits, women learn what it’s like to have to use tampons; men, though, will never know the feeling. Women using tampons is similar to asking for toilet paper, a stressor fitting for both sexes: they go to the bathroom, look down and, in total distress, find a distinct lack of wiping parchment.

At this point, no one would want to ask a total stranger or even an acquaintance for the toilet paper, but it’s either that or nothing. In that terrible awkward situation, one would have to crouch over and ask the nearest passerby if he or she might go into the next stall and fetch a roll for them.
Asking for a tampon should be a breeze, though, because most of the time it’s a request one can make before going to the bathroom. But even if someone discovers they need one once they’re in the stall, it shouldn’t have to be as uncomfortable as it is. The needs for toilet paper and tampons alike are natural functions of our bodies, and the products we use are necessary for them. A girl’s first period can be a traumatic event. I first got mine when I was in middle school and freaked out. I thought my world was collapsing around me because I’d have to deal with the hassle of using pads and tampons, and I’d been raised getting the idea that menstruation was a unfathomably gross and horrid thing.

Instead of making it easy on young girls who are menstruating for the first time by showing them that it’s a normal part of every woman’s life, the media goes around disturbing the masses of people, especially men, causing girls to feel ashamed of their bodily functions. Society these days has made periods to be a private matter, but the truth is, it’s not.

According to huffingtonpost.com, a researcher from the University of Melbourne found more than 200 scenes from various movies since the 1970s all having to do with menstruation. These television shows and films ranged from “Mad Men” to “Annie Hall.” The researcher found that all the scenes put menstruation in a negative light.

One of the film scenes found in this study was from the horror novel “Carrie” and its movie adaptation. The famous menstruation scene is of a girl who is aghast about her period and is clueless about it. The scene depicts the girl’s period releasing her telekinetic powers and she turns maleficent. The scene portrays a woman’s menstruation to be the catalyst of all things bad and evil.
Women don’t always turn into the devil when they get their period or are going to get it in the near future. Sexualityandu.com said most women have premenstrual symptoms in some form during phase two of the menstrual cycle. The site said during this time, women may gain emotional symptoms, such as feeling angry, irritable, depressed or anxious.

Contrary to what actually happens, pop culture today delineates a woman’s period to be appalling and horrifying, and a woman on her period representing death and mourning.
I see the media taking hold of people — men especially — in my everyday life, and it gives periods a bad reputation. A few days ago, at lunch I started talking about my period openly, as usual, and I got the same response from my guy friends that I always do. Their cheeks flushed as they took turns telling me I was disgusting, gross and awkward and that they didn’t want to hear about “that… stuff.”

I don’t understand why it was such a big deal to them. A girl has a period about 10 percent of her life. We have to wear tampons or pads monthly. The fact that women are socially hushed for talking about the use of tampons or the heaviness of their menstrual flow is not right because that’s how women were made. It’s not like most women can change the fact that they will get their period, not to mention the fact that at some point in those boys’ lives, they might date a girl for a long period (no pun intended) of time or even get married to a woman, and they’re inevitably going to deal with said woman and her menstrual cycle.

Periods, tampons, cramps and anything else associated with a woman’s menstruation shouldn’t be a subject looked down upon in society. Any bodily function that happens to all people should be a topic in everyday life because it’s all a beautiful part of human biology.

So let’s be confident. I will no longer sneak tampons into my sleeve when I need to take it to the bathroom, and if you’re a woman, neither should you.

Men shouldn’t care if a girl is on her period because probably at least one woman they come in contact with throughout their day is. Open up the topic of menstruation if need be and make women feel comfortable with publicly discussing their cramping pains. Women should be proud of their bodies and embrace what goes on inside them, without being ashamed or discouraged.

Menstruation is a natural process. Period.

By Julia Schaller

Art by Jennifer Stanley depicts a gruesome nature in the process of donating organs. Art by Jennifer Stanley

Upon applying for a learner’s permit at 15 or a driver’s license at 16, every individual is faced with the unnerving question, the split second yes or no answer that determines whether or not you will be putting your body’s fate in the hands of medicine: allowing for the donation of your organs upon the time of your death.

It happens to every driver in the United States. As for what this stamp of fate signifies, it all depends on the country someone lives in. The time it takes to answer the question, to print the donation symbol on a card, to sign a consent form. The time it takes for money to exchange hands, and the time it takes for the incredible concept of literally giving from yourself to save someone else. It can either remain a pure and life-saving practice, or can turn into a cynical, defiled practice used to economically benefit the greedy and amoral. This subtle change — the buying and selling of organs — is the difference.

Through the past several years international scholars have been researching ways to better trade organs, which brought to question the general public’s stance on monetary compensation for the donation of organs, essentially legalizing the black market.

Recently, a poll conducted by Dr. Braden Manns of the Libin Cardiovascular Institute of Alberta and Institute for Public Health showed that public health workers and people affected with kidney disease seem to think it’s okay to buy and sell organs using a legal market. Although they discovered a general consensus that the current organ distribution system is generally fair and ethical, their surveying also revealed the public’s growing belief that the system doesn’t provide enough, and therefore deserves a review for some form of change.

The National Organ Transplant Act passed by Congress in 1984 strongly condemns and made illegal the buying and selling of human tissues and organs in the United States, and for good reason. This would give the wealthy an unfair advantage for “obtaining donated organs and tissues.” By creating a “rich survive, poor perish” situation, what should be life saving becomes an unbalanced and dirty practice that could potentially overthrow the whole medical system.

As if this isn’t enough of a reason to maintain a firm, deliberate stance on the banning of monetary trade for organs, there are a multitude of additonal reasons that this practice would not only be immoral, but also widely impractical. This seneseless trading could potentially lead to the selling of organs from those individuals who need the money, but don’t necessarily want to give up their organs. Giving the desperate the opportunity to sell a vital organ for cold cash not only puts their own health and wellbeing at risk, but also opens the doors to many potential lawsuits and danger for the patient.

This also brings up the questions — who will pay for the organs of the seller? Will there be unfair advantages for those with means? How could this potentially affect “murder for money” death rates?
Because every one of these questions has potentially detrimental answers, it would ultimately be morally reprehensible to condone the legalization of the trade of organs and tissues for monetary compensation.
The many reasons behind condoning the market of organs to be monetarily based are not without justification. According to www.donatelifeny.org, more than 114,000 men, women and children are waiting for organs for transplantation in the United States. Every 10 minutes, a new name is added to the national waiting list for organs. On average, 18 people die every day because of the lack of donated organs. That’s simply an unacceptable statistic.

Of course many want the process sped up; it will save people! And sure, it may save them in the clinical sense. But instead of looking for the quick and easy way to solve such a detrimental lack of resources, the public should consider saving modern and future society in the moral sense.
Scientists shouldn’t encouraging the public to auction off their body parts, but they should focus as much time and energy as possible searching for an alternate solution which does not involve a diminished sense of one’s consecrated organs.

Investing time and energy in enforcing this system as a safe and legal practice, which would doubtlessly fail, is a colossal mistake and a tremendous waste of resources. It would be far more beneficial to invest this time in bio-genetic research for the advancement of all manner of progressive scientific innovations, as opposed to investing in the deterioration of one of the only practices in the United States which has an obivious and clear moral compass.
The plethora of amazing research that could save lives and the practice of organ donation has been heavily reliant on those procedures using xenografts and xenotransplantation. These involve the transplantation of organs and tissues from different species, such as porcine heart valve transplants and studies on piscine-primate (fish to non-human primate) transplants. These incredible findings have made way to an endless amount of genetic research to better the practice of medicine.

Trying to solve a problem with an ultimately dirty and faulty solution of buying and selling only gives rise to religious and moral protests that would result in a cheap solution to a clean practice. By improving studies and shifting focus from these faults to a better and more medically rich future, society can avoid having to look this potential mistake in the eye, and avoid the ultimate downfall which would come with making this endlessly immoral decision. Instead of giving more advantages to the upper class, we need to level the playing field.

By Hagar Gov-Ari

A True/False structure stands in Missouri Theater. Photo by Blake Becker

As I stood anxiously outside of the Missouri Theater, awaiting the doors to open for the annual “reality bites” True/False Film event, I wasn’t quite sure what to expect. For someone who isn’t a fan of cold weather or large crowds, jittering in the 31 degree chill of a snowy midwest winter amongst masses of people isn’t exactly my idea of a fun afternoon. But despite my pessimism, when smile-laden volunteers pushed open the heavy doors of the historic theater at 5:30 p.m. sharp to welcome everyone to the event, I couldn’t deny the overwhelming positive energy.

The crowd spilled in; a tsunami of bodies in puffy coats and colorful scarves, flooding the toasty warm and richly decorated theater with Columbia dining enthusiasts. It was impossible to not go into sensory overload, given the startling array of sights, smells and sounds that were suddenly bombarding my senses.  he aroma around me changed with nearly every step I took, ranging from succulent roasted meats, to potent brewed coffee, to the classic scent of freshly baked cookies. An upbeat folk tune danced through the air, as a band known as Mountain Animation serenaded the hungry Columbia congregation.

In a perfectly-timed display of community, the first turn I took landed me face to face with my next door neighbors. The surprising encounter seemed to illustrate the true nature of the film festival, as everyone comes together as a tight-knit commonality to enjoy and take pride in local Columbia quirks. They directed me away from the line I was in, which unknowingly and embarrassingly turned out to be a line for beer tasting, and gave me advice on the tastiest trays and tables from which I should sample.

Nearly everything I tried immediately took a spot on the “best food I’ve ever tasted in my entire freaking life” list. This came as no surprise, considering the featured eateries included local favorites such as The Rome, Tellers, Yogoluv, Khaldis, and even food prepared by students at the Columbia Area Career Center. The various foods I sampled included huge, mouth-watering meatballs, drowning in flavorful marinara sauce, a flaky pastry filled with creamy goat cheese and artichokes, crispy buttermilk-fried chicken, sinfully sweet banana cream pie bites, and what was legitimately the most flawlessly delicious chocolate chip cookie I had the privilege of tasting.

Roughly several hundred plates of food later, once I was nearly dizzy from overconsumption and the fast-paced melody of a fiddle and banjo, I weaved through the crowd and exited once again into biting wind and snowy streets of Downtown Columbia. A mere step or two out the door, I encountered an exquisitely dressed man riding a bicycle that carried an enormous cooler labeled “Fresh Beets Artisan Popsicles”. As he stopped to offer me a bright orange frozen treat, extending the conventional summer snack amidst a flurry of snowflakes, I couldn’t help but laugh.  But in the spirit of local eateries, and Columbia’s eccentric personality, I accepted his offer and went on my way.

By Anna Wright

Photo by Urmila Kutikkad

T/F gives new meaning to “the show must go on.” This skill of combining innovative thinking and just plan common sense in the most frustrating of circumstances is how, somehow, they pull this festival off. These are my 8 favorite stories so far.

8- When a director couldn’t show up because of a family emergency, they took photos of the audience on the iPhones of volunteers and sent them to the missing director to see. Everyone waved and smiled. Click. They called her and let her hear all the applause at the end of the movie.

7- Coned off areas of the 5K True Life run were littered around the course to ensure runner safety (from icy areas), but instead of looking glum, T/F made a maze through snow for runners to jog, marked off by neon painted lines. The snow became not a hindrance, but a challenge.

6- With too much old “merch” from last year, and a lot of young college kids with shallow pockets, T/F sold old T-shirts from previous festivals for cheap at the box office.

5- After finishing the 5K run, in around 25 degree weather, runners rushed into the the Broadway Diner to  run their frozen hands under the warm water of the sink in the back of the restaurant. Then they reemerged to enjoy a complementary tamale for an after-run breakfast.

4- Using the since vacated Pasta Factory location as their box office, volunteers had no place to “use the facilities.” They took a one-room bathroom that had no door and taped a big black tarp with a slash in the middle. Privacy at a film festival is overrated. And how can one get closer to someone quicker than them walking in on them while their pants are down. This is after all TRUE/False.

3- Much too much trash accumulates at downtown businesses during T/F weekend. One, going with the theme of tree-houses, built a cardboard tree-house and stacked it on top of their dumpster, to hold more (and look prettier).

2- After spending thirty-eight minutes looking for a parking spot, and running later for her spot in the Q, a RBHS student parked in a permit parking only spot, yelling as she swirled into the parking space, “It’s only a 10 dollar ticket!” Unfortunately, it was 15.

1- I overheard an attendee ask a volunteer, “If it snows, will they cancel the March March?” And the volunteer, looking horrified, replied, “Even if there were snow daggers falling out of the sky we wouldn’t cancel March March!!”

By Maria Kalaitzandonakes 

For more information on the effects of sleep, read the article here.Photo By Mikaela Acton

For years, research has proven that a good nights sleep greatly affects many areas of our lives.  Mood, concentration, memory, and problem solving skills are just some of the areas that suffer when the amount and quality of sleep declines.  Unfortunately, many of us seem to struggle with achieving sufficient quality and the recommended hours.

The National Sleep Foundation (NSF) recommends around 8 hours of sleep per night for adults and 9 for adolescents.  But the average American adult only sleeps 6.7 hours  per night and teenager averaging around 6.5 hours.  This adds up to a loss of 1.3 hours per night for adults or 9.1 hours per week and 2.5 hours less per night for teens which means they are getting 17.5 hours per week than the recommended amount needed to function well.  Over time a continuous lack of sleep wears on the body and the mind and can greatly affect the quality of life.

Why are Americans so sleep deprived and what can be done about it?  There are many things to consider in regards to reasons for sleep deprivation.  Many of these are common sense and most adults and teens are aware of contributing factors like stress, schedule and sleep routines, the amount of caffeine, and busy social lives.  But one factor that may not be realized is how the use artificial lighting is one of the biggest contributors to sleep deprivation today.  Artificial lighting is the glow of lamps, ceiling lights, street lights and signs, cell phones, computers, televisions – any light that is produced artificially.

Humans once spent their nights in relative darkness, but not anymore. When the sun sets, TVs, computers, mobile devices, and artificial lighting burn on. The May issue of the Harvard Health Letter reports that this aspect of modern life may be great for efficiency, but definitely not for health. The artificial lighting throws the body’s biological clock, also called the circadian rhythm, out of whack. So sleep deprivation becomes even more present. The combination of poor sleep and exposure to artificial light exposure are one of the leading causes of sleep deprivation.

In order for high school students and adults to avoid sleep deprivation, they need to reduce the affect that artificial lights have on them and their families. According to the Harvard Health Letter, there are several ways to do so. They can use dim red lights for night lights (red light has the least power to shift circadian rhythm), avoid looking a brightly lit screens beginning two or three hours before bed, and expose themselves to lots of bright light during the day (this will boost your ability to sleep at light). All in all, artificial lights have become an increasing problem in causing major sleep deprivation in adults and high school students, especially in this century, but there are several ways that people can control the way that artificial light impacts their sleep. By changing decreasing the affect that artificial lighting has on our sleep, we can decrease the amount of unhappy, tired people and turn America into a happier, non-sleep deprived place.

A True/False light fixture sits in the Missouri Theater as one of the “new” things the film festival brings to Columbia every year. Photo by Brett Stover

Walking inside Cafe Berlin for the first time, I was immediately greeted by a volunteer. Her dyed black mullet and colorful tights alarmed me. I sat down in attempt to familiarize myself with my surroundings; I looked around the room from my table directly in the center of the room. I turned my head and I could see eyes of other attendants darting away from me, giving me a lingering feeling of dis-belonging that peppered itself throughout the night. As I looked around more and more, seeing the yellow T/F laminant badges everywhere I turned, I also noticed something else: for the most part, everyone in the Cafe was the exact same person. When I came to this realization, I chuckled at the idea of being surrounded by thin, brown haired men, almost all whom had beards and wore casual brown suede shoes.

As I began hearing awkward clanging noises from the dark room concealed by a curtain, another volunteer with a septum piercing ushered me in. The night progressed from there, bands coming and going from the stage, their music followed by polite applause and the occasional shriek of an especially enthused group of contemporarily dressed women in the back corner of the venue.

After a while the quirkiness of the acts became almost too much, but at least they were memorable. One of the bands, Flux Bikes, used only a series of pedals, a flute and, somehow, a bicycle wheel that had been hooked up to an amplifier. People came and went as the night rolled further on, giving me a chance to see just what type of people T/F attracts.

Needless to say I was taken aback by the wide spectrum of community members brought out by these granola college bands. I fully understand now that the people of Columbia are a diverse and somewhat skittish bunch — I add on the last part due to my  several failed attempts at conversation throughout the night with other attendees. I now also know that there is quite a fortune to be made in wool beanies, seeing as how nearly every 20-something female in the place was donning one.

Look, it’s not that I don’t like T/F. I do. It spreads understanding of art and documentaries throughout the city. But personally I felt out of place and a little bit judged. Maybe next time I’ll stick to just the movies. Less talking.

By George Sarifianos 

photo illustration by Paige Kiehl

As I sat in my first hour Spanish class, I listened, annoyed and disinterested, to the same shallow conversation I had overheard so many times before. The guy next to me was leaning forward in his seat toward the girl in front of him, blabbering far too loud about some party over the weekend where the cops showed up. The two were laughing about how “crazy” it all was, reminiscing on this grand and wholesome memory of irresponsible behavior and illegal underage drinking. Talk about how they made this sound glamorous, or nothing unusual

While I personally don’t drink, I’m not going to shame other teenagers for choosing to do so.  I think that as long as you’re being safe and responsible, and are willing to face the consequences of your actions- including legal ones- it’s ultimately your own business. So, though it was irritating to hear these two drone on about their alcoholic endeavors as if it made them cool or interesting, I really could have cared less.  However, it was the next thing the boy said, with a cocky smile on his face and a twinge of arrogance in his voice, that really sent me over the edge.

“Yeah, I made sure not to go on I-70 driving home. I wasn’t really drunk, but I was like halfway there.”

At this point, it was all I could do not to throw myself across my desk and punch him square in the throat.

I stared at him, baffled by what I could only perceive as a mix of selfishness, carelessness and sheer stupidity.  Underage drinking is one thing, but drunk driving is entirely different. The first is an activity which can be done safely; though it alcohol can lead to abuse and ruin one’s liver without risking the physical well-being of others, but the latter endangers every single life around you, including your own.

Everyone knows of the serious risks posed by driving under the influence, and this kid was no exception. Tipsy or not, he knew getting behind the wheel of his car that he could have easily killed someone that night. However, in some strange twist of morality and consciousness, he bypassed the options of calling a friend, staying where he was, or even, in the most desperate scenario possible, calling his parents. Any of these options would have been far wiser than stepping on the gas pedal and thoughtlessly running the risk of killing a five year old watching Dora in the backseat of her mom’s minivan, or a husband and father of three coming home from a late night business trip.

The horrific nature of his decision aside, he didn’t even seem to recognize the mistake he had made. There he was, boasting about the success of his tipsy trip home, as if his actions were completely justified, or impressive, even.

Maybe this all sounds harsh; I hope it does. Drunken driving should never be discussed in the manner which I overheard. It’s appalling.

Hearing this conversation made me realize that maybe high schoolers don’t yet understand the weight of their actions. It seems that all too often we possess that “invincible” mindset,  disregarding the likely consequences of our decisions. We want to be treated like adults and enjoy adult privileges, such as consuming alcohol.  But if you can’t handle the responsibility that comes with these activities, then put down your can of beer and allow me to welcome you to the real world.

By Anna Wright

Sam Mitten holds a sign to passing cars when he is in a bad mood. Photo by Daphne Yu

IIt’s been a rough day. I don’t particularly feel well, not to mention that I forgot to take my daily 20 mg dose of Prozac this morning and I’ve been a little bit down all day. As I step off of the bus I feel the heavy weight of my 49.2 lb. backpack sagging, it contains a Toshiba laptop, and its charger, both of which are responsible for a subsequent amount of weight. I specifically feel the jabbing of the corner of my AP World binder into the small of my back, which, on its own, holds an easy 5 lbs.

Each step is a burden, not only to carry my 6’2”, 140 lb. frame, not to mention my backpack, but I have a foot injury. I think I hurt it running this morning, after the bus I missed. I woke up late, that’s why I had to run. That’s also the reason that I missed my Prozac dose, tedious as it seemed at the time, it realistically would have only taken a few seconds and I know that the bus driver would have waited for an injured child running after the bus. The past is the past though, right?

I have just one thing on my mind right now, my sign. My beautiful sign, it has worn corners from the multiple times that is has been used, it had stains on it from age, the white foam board has slowly yellowed over the years and I have come to know it as a close friend. It had at one time stood on an easel in the corner of my room, beckoning me to wake in the morning, telling me every morning to, “HAVE A GOOD DAY”.  I now expose it to the sunlight every now and again, showing it to all of the passing drivers along Route K when I am having a bad day. It sounds cliché, and sickening, and cheesy, and stomach churning sappy, but it brings me happiness to make people smile.

Grabbing my sign off of the corner of my room’s floor, where it had been carelessly tossed I walk out of my bedroom. I suppose that it was tossed there when my mother cleaned my room. I do not understand why the state of my room’s cleanliness possibly affects anyone else in my house…  Though, with an OCD mother, slightly OCD brother, and supremely OCD father, I suppose I understand. It’s a wonder that I, myself, am not as much of a “neat-freak” as they are. Nevertheless, I snatched the sign and my coat and I began toward the door.

After hitting the button, my garage door opened revealing my “vintage” Peugeot bicycle that has 16 patches in the front tube and 4 in the back; it’s seen better days by many standards. It’s got rust all along the steel frame, but if I had steel wool and some Rustoleum it would be off in a heartbeat. I own the Rustoleum, but I don’t own any steel wool, so that project shall remain for another day. Its bolts need more WD-40, and the handles need new grips, the foam ones that are on it right now are holey, torn, and dry-rotted. It’s outfitted with new street tread tires though, the only new thing about it.

I ride down my street, listening to “Nobody Home”, by Pink Floyd. The words echo in my head. Perhaps such a somber song was not the best song to listen to with such sadness in my heart. The gravel of a newly laid road crunches under my wheels, my front tire has a new hole in its tube, I can feel it as I ride down the hill, there is not one specific sign, I can just tell. I hold my sign in both hands, call me special, but I do know how to ride my bicycle with no handlebars.

I take a left out of my driveway, riding past my old house to the end of the street. It caught fire this summer and hasn’t quite been rebuilt. I hang a right at the stop sign and begin down “dead man’s hill” as we called it as kids. I ride all the way down, catching strange glances from my neighbors but I don’t pay attention to them. I don’t do this for people who have no interest in allowing themselves to be happy by receiving a compliment. I do it to make people happy, that’s all that matters to me.

I get to the bottom of my hill and I look left and right down the street to make sure that there are not cars coming that I must flash the sign at, I see none. I take off my bike chain, which is nothing more than a dogs choke chain and a Master Lock brand padlock and I chain my bike to the stop sign. I then proceed to grab my Green Canteen. That’s my stainless steel water bottle which, as many times as it is dropped on the ground, and dented, refuses to break. I take a sip and hurriedly close the cap because I see the glare of a car driving down the road. I pick up my sign; the side that I flash them says “YOU’RE BEAUTIFUL!” They slow down, honk, and right as I see the “Rock Bridge High School” tag hanging off of their rearview mirror, the teenage boy sitting in the passenger seat rolls down his window, puts up his middle finger, and yells at me with a grotesque look on his face “F*GGOT! Hahahahaha!” Well… he’s only one person; there’s got to be a million more cars that will drive by who are much more positive than him.

IIt’s been about half an hour out here on this corner and the 35 degree weather has not been kind to my thin, now frail looking, fingers. My feet feel numb, but I don’t mind. Every other passing car garners a smile or a wave and it makes me feel good inside to know that I have genuinely made someone happy. One car that stands out amongst the rest is a black Mercedes-Benz. It has to be going 80 mph and I can’t imagine that they have the ability to read my sign.

I can hear it before I see it and the roar of the engine complimented by the trail of smoke that follows out of its muffler does not make the car any more attractive. It looks like it’s from maybe 2009 and the plates read “SMOKE”, ironic right? I think to myself, “Why on earth would you put that on your license plate? What a waste of money.” The brake lights come on, and they make an illegal U-turn in the middle of Route K, and the only thing I can think of is that “ohhhhhh sh*t.. Can they read minds?”

The car pulls up right next to the island on my left, and rolls down its nearly non-opaque window, revealing the face of an elderly woman, who looks to be in her mid-80s. She has wrinkles so deep that you would think she was born with them. She has a scar over her left eye, and now that I begin to look at her, I can see that there is a teenage girl in the passenger seat, possibly 15 years old. She seems thoroughly enjoying the situation that her, what I assume to be, grandma has created. That’s more than I can say for myself; honestly I’m almost afraid of what she has to say.

“What’s that on your sign?” she asks. What do you mean, ‘what’s on my sign?’? Can you not read? Its right in front of you, and you could read it when you sped past me doing 80 on a 55mph speed zone. I think you know what my sign says.

“Well, this side here says ‘YOU’RE BEAUTIFUL’ and the other side says ‘HAVE A NICE DAY’” is what I respond with instead of one of my many rude thoughts. I see tears forming in her eyes as hears this and she chokes out an, “Is that so?”

“Well yes, of course, everyone deserves a compliment, right? Because regardless of how you feel there is always a reason to have a good day, and there is always something about every single one of us that makes us beautiful.” I reply with a stupid, adolescent grin on my face that embodies the ‘innocent’ and kind nature that my actions were meant to be taken in.

She then goes on to say something so profound that I couldn’t create it in even the most fictitious section of my mind. Something that made me question ever worrying about anything again, because my life itself and my problems seem so minute that they just don’t compare, and just don’t stack up.

“I’m taking my granddaughter here to the doctor. She has leukemia, and she developed a malignant tumor in her brain last summer. She wears a wig because she lost her hair due to the chemotherapy, and she needs a bone marrow transplant.”

Tears are streaming down the woman’s face as she struggles to formulate the words that she wants to say, “she… she didn’t want to go without her wig this morning, because she lost it and made me go back and try to get it.” I look over at the teenage girl, whose face is in her palms, she’s sobbing uncontrollably and I notice for the first time that she is bald. “She couldn’t find it and the last thing she said to me when we left was that nobody would find her attractive and nobody would find her beautiful if she didn’t have the thing. I told her someone will always find her beautiful and right as I said that I glanced over and noticed your sign, and I just want to say that may god bless you over all of your travels, and may he deliver you from all of your demons and may you never encounter trouble for you, sir, are a saint.”

At that moment her daughter opens up her car door and races towards me, grasping onto me so hard that I almost fell over. So hard it felt like I couldn’t breathe, and with tears streaming down her face said, “Thank you…” in a weak voice that squeaked in between heaves of breath that sound like a child with asthma after running a mile in a P.E. class. I hugged her back and told her she was welcome. I told her that no matter what, hair or not, rain or shine, sleet or snow there would always be someone who thought she was beautiful. And if nobody told her, she should come see me and my sign and I would tell her. It was the least she deserved.

And right then, I felt something special. I haven’t ever felt more prideful and I haven’t felt like I was happier my entire life. I felt as though I had saved someone’s life, and my chest swelled and a tear fell down my face as I looked her in her eye and told her “I would tell you good luck, but that would imply there’s a chance you’ll be okay. And that’s not true, you will be, I know.” And she got back in her car mouthing the words “bless you” as she got back into her car and drove away.

I haven’t seen nor heard from her since. She didn’t send me a friend request on Facebook, nor did she follow me on Twitter. She didn’t send me letters and she hasn’t visited me, leaving me to believe that she made it and is okay and has no need to speak to me anymore. I do not know her name, nor do I know her grandmothers name. Though she will be forever in my mind when I have a bad day, I do not know her other than the one encounter on that one day that I saw as myself being so bad off. I didn’t even take into consideration how others are worse off than I am not, nor did I realize the severe impact that my humanistic, and kind actions can have on others, and that’s a lesson I won’t soon forget.

Photo by Patrick Smith

There’s a lady who lives by herself on the east side of town. She’s one of those women who only gets prettier with age; her hair is always perfectly curled and has an elegant white pigment, never grey. Her smile is soft and young, and her wrinkles, while there, never overwhelm her face. She’s nearing her 80th year on this planet, and she still gets mistaken for being in her late-50s.

Naturally, she was prom queen at her high school. That was years ago, of course, but sometimes I think she still carries that crown, invisibly mounted on the top of her head.

I’ve been her dear friend since the day I was born. That’s almost 18 years; 18 years to grow up by her side, to eat her brownies and listen to her stories.

And yet I never, ever think about her as much as I should.

I should think about her constantly. She’s the kind of woman whose personality is almost frustrating; you want to decipher all its bits and pieces. One moment, she’s sweet and maternal, making popcorn and pound cake in her bite-sized kitchen. The next, she’s rambunctious and argumentative, swearing she remembers something that didn’t, in fact, happen. But I try to be patient with her. She’s snappy and defensive, but she’s snappy and defensive for a reason.

After all, she’s had to fight all her life.

Her father was rarely around, and if he was, a bottle of alcohol was never far away. Her mother was cold and defiant on a good day. But my favorite old woman in the world kept her chin up anyway.

She raised her younger brothers by herself. She took them outside and taught them to play baseball and climb trees, like any good tomboy sister. That’s one thing she can’t understand about today’s teenagers – why they “never go outside.” She remembers many an afternoon playing in the sand and mud, rather like Scout and Jem from To Kill A Mockingbird. She absolutely adores that book.

Then, when she got a little older, she pretended to fall in love. I say “pretended” because she was only 18 when she married, and I don’t think she loved him yet. But she did eventually. Eventually, she fell head over heels.

It was when her husband taught her how to drive. They went out on a country road, with the dirt and gravel kicked up by the tires.  She was driving an old car, and she was never handy with machines. The two of them shouted at one another, back and forth, until she swerved, and they ended up in a ditch.

I don’t know how long they sat there, laughing themselves into a stupor, but it was a long time. They didn’t even care to examine the damage to the car. It was just too funny.

That’s when she really fell in love. For the first time, she was with a man who valued her — who loved her — even for her mistakes.

They had three kids and several dogs, and there was a long period of happiness. She doesn’t tell stories from this time period often, but when she does, I’m always pleased. She was a wife with a steady income and a wonderful family, and life was beautifully simple.

“When life is simple, you have to enjoy every single moment,” she’s taught me. “Because life never stays simple for long.”

I don’t know what happened after that. There are some topics the old woman avoids. But, one day, her husband left her. I don’t know how or why. Maybe he drove away in the depths of the night. Maybe there was shouting. Maybe the separation was loud and clear, with a few head-nods and a lot of divorce papers. I don’t know, and I’m not sure I want to know.

But I know the divorce crushed her. She’s never recovered. Once she fell in love, she never fell out of it. The old woman is nothing if not stubborn.

So, in her stubbornness, she refused to give up. She raised her three kids into well-mannered adults with college degrees. She continued to check on her brothers, who lived in another state. She went on dates now and again, but her boyfriends were never as nice as they were in high school. Maybe they sensed something different about her — something rugged and tired, something that didn’t exist when she was young and a prom queen. She never remarried.

She somehow wound up here, in little Columbia, Mo. She met me in Boone Hospital, where I was born, and I suppose we took to one another immediately. She became close friends with my mother and eventually with me.

But, when I drive through town, I pass by her place far too often. I forget that she lives just over the hill, on the east side of town. I don’t think about her as often as I should.

She stays at home by herself. She plants hydrangeas in her garden and watches Elvis Presley movies — she owns every single one of them, from Clambake and King Creole to Jailhouse Rock and Blue Hawaii. She tries to stay with “the times” by watching American Idol and trying to predict which Oscar nominations will win. She goes to the movies by herself when no one is available, and she volunteers at the homeless shelter. She bakes a lot of brownies.

She’s one of the most incredible women I know. Yet I forget about her constantly.

So when I went to HyVee the other afternoon, I almost breezed through the flower section without a second glance. After all, I have no need for roses and pink carnations. They’re too expensive and die too quickly.

But something — let’s call it Fate — made me stop. Then Fate tapped me on the shoulder and reminded me about the old woman. Fate told me about her large collection of Elvis movies but her non-existent date to the theaters.

So I bought her a rose because today is Valentine’s Day. This old woman hasn’t had a valentine in years. She hasn’t had someone to smile and tell her she’s beautiful. She’s been alone.

And maybe a rose is just a silly commercial token. Maybe it’s part of a holiday that’s turned chocolate and broken promises into idols on a diamond pedestal. Maybe it signifies the heat of romance that disappears all too quickly.

But a rose is supposed to mean love, and I know I love this woman.

I forget about her far too often. But, today, I want her to know I didn’t.

Today I remembered.

By Lauren Puckett

Alyssa Sykuta (left) and Maria Kalaitzandonakes (right) emote how they feel about the holiday. Photo by Patrick Smith

 Do you love or hate Valentines day? Here are some pros and cons…

I’m a single, teenage girl – I should hate Valentine’s Day, right? Wrong. I love it

5. It’s all about the ‘L’ word

It’s an excuse to be mushy, to tell your friends who are opposed to hugs or afraid of the L word that they mean a lot to you.

4. Let’s get crafty 

I never buy my valentines (shut up you “Valentine’s day is a corporate holiday” zombies.) One year I bought used books and wrote in the margins little notes to my friends about why I chose that book, underlining particularly meaningful quotes. Then the next year I captured the “thinking faces” of all of my friends, tongues out, eyebrows furrowed, in a black and white photograph and printed them out with the line – this is the face I love. This year I focused on the little things, making little lists of tiny things I loved about my friends. The way they laugh, or say a word, their catch phrases or a quality I couldn’t live without. I always try to make ‘em pretty too.

3. All you can eat

Muffins. Cupcakes. Chocolate. Necco Wafers. Chocolate covered strawberries. WHO DOESN’T LIKE THIS?!

2. Fashion takes a back seat

Perfect time to wear my pink pants. Boo-ya.

1. Being young again

I am a child still, and this is fun for me on this day. I like building forts. I like watching Charlie Brown. I like assuming that life is good. Valentine’s Day isn’t that shiny balloon and huge bear some girl gets. It’s a child’s holiday that adults have ruined. Go out and give your best friend a hug. Go up to your crush and tell them you think they’re neat. Go up to your mom and tell her you’re sorry you never clean your room and that you always leave dirty dishes downstairs but that you will always love her the most. Go be a kid. Stop sitting there thinking you can only be happy in a relationship or with a huge, way too pink bear. It’s time to be imaginative. MAKE your valentines. LOVE your friends harder. TELL your family that you are lucky to have them.

I love Valentine’s Day because when it’s used right; it’s a time of pure imagination. It’s a time of childlike awe and love.

By Maria Kalaitzandonakes

Some things about Feb. 14 just make me sick, and it’s not the overabundance of sugar. Valentine’s Day parties when I was younger were always fun, and I remember my mom making sugar cookies for each of my classmates, carefully crafted and decorated with their names in chocolate icing. But since the days of elementary school celebrations and passing out candy came to an unfortunate end and the years of boyfriends and girlfriends began,  I have slowly given into more pessimistic views. While most of the complaints heard around Feb. 14 are from single folks, I would like to note that it is possible to be in a relationship, like me, and still dislike the holiday. Therefore, I present to you the top five reasons I hate about Valentine’s Day.

5. Roses are red…

I am not the biggest fan of the color red or pink. While I don’t mind them, the colors certainly aren’t my favorite. After a month of pre-Valentine’s displays at every store in town, I have to say I’m a bit sick of the “color of love.”  And I most certainly will not wear a red shirt, red pants, red socks and a red hat to school. I wore blue today in defiance. Take that, world.

4. Bittersweet

I’m pretty sure I spend at least 50 percent of Valentine’s Day eating. At the end of the day, I feel like I have eaten my weight in chocolate and assorted candy, and I’ve probably gained at least five pounds since I woke up in the morning. For the last few hours before crashing from a sugar rush, all I want to do is throw up. Yes, it’s my own fault for consuming so much junk, but you have to admit, once you get that box of chocolate, you are not giving it up.

3. No way to win

If you’re single, there is this pressure to be dating someone, and all you see everywhere you look are happy couples. If you’re in a relationship, there’s this pressure to be all cutesy and adorable and perfect, and I know that I, for one, am not normally that person. Also, you tend to notice all the happy single people partying it up for “Singles Awareness Day.” YOU JUST CAN’T WIN.

2. Forever alone or forever in love?

I do my best every year to stray away from social media on Feb. 14. Why? Because my Twitter and Facebook feeds are always filled with obnoxious posts from both single AND taken people. And it’s pretty easy to categorize them, because you have two extremes of emotions. On the one hand, you have, “I am so lonely, nobody loves me, I guess I’ll just have to wait until next year, boohoo, woe is me.” on the other hand, you have, “Like OMG my boyfriend is the best and sweet and perfect and we are perfect together and we are so in love like OMG we were meant to be I love you baby let me use no punctuation so you run out of breath just reading this sentence.” All right, take a breath now.

With the latter of the two examples, may I also bring up the point that clearly, not all of you can have the best significant other? While I could easily argue that my boyfriend is better than yours, you will not see me taking it to that level of obnoxiousness on Facebook for Valentine’s Day, much less any other day, for that matter.

1. “Can’t buy me love…”

By far, the thing that ticks me off the most about Valentine’s Day is its materialistic nature. How early do stores begin advertising for chocolate and roses and such? Pretty much as soon as New Year’s is over. And now, it’s not only every grocery store in town; the advertisement is reaching our social media accounts. Every time in the past month I have gotten on Facebook, the first thing to pop up is, “Alyssa, add a $1 cookie to your list of Valentine’s gifts for __________.” Like, no, Facebook, I can take care of things myself, thank you very much. I know what I’m doing for him and I don’t need you enticing me to buy your $1 cookies.

What happened to homemade cards and things? Since when does money equate to love and friendship?  Though I sincerely appreciate the gifts I receive — yes, the roses are absolutely beautiful and the chocolate is delicious — their worth comes from who gave them to me. You don’t need to go out and spend the money you may or may not have just because of society’s idea that the more expensive the gift, the more you “love” the person. Seriously, a nice hug is never out of place.

By Alyssa Sykuta

Note: There is a poll embedded within this post, please visit the site to participate in this post’s poll.

Photo by Asa Lory

I remember in elementary school when every Valentine’s Day was an excuse to just have a party. I wrote out Valentine cards to everyone in the class because no one should feel excluded. And when I gave out your Valentine cards with candy attached, it instantly made me the best person in class for a day, along with everyone else. Valentine’s Day, back then, wasn’t about love, but about trying Sweethearts candy for the first time and realizing how truly bad they taste.

In high school, Valentine’s Day has such an opposite meaning.

Instead of Valentine cards for every kid in the class, you have to have one special person as your valentine. Instead of candy attached to valentine cards, you hope to get flowers or chocolate covered strawberries. And then comes the typical sappy movies that come out on Valentine’s Day.

How much more cliche can the day be?

Valentine’s Day is overrated. It is the same day every year. It is supposed to be a day to spread love and joy around, but instead, it has turned into a business venture and an excuse for people to spend money. And then, it’s another opportunity for people to become more greedy and expect gifts. I don’t understand what is so romantic about getting a huge teddy bear that cost $90 that will be special for that day and then sit in a closet for a few years.

The holiday’s purpose for love is also construed by the idea that without a ‘valentine’, a person should sit at home and mope, according to movies. The amount of tweets I have seen on my twitter feed about being ‘alone again on valentine’s day’ or ‘another year without a valentine’ just makes me angry. It’s like this day determines whether you will be single for the rest of your life or not.

The fact that greed is associated with love on this day is just another reason that the holiday’s true meaning is misconstrued. All stores have whole sections devoted to Valentine’s Day or jewelry stores have special Valentine’s Day sales, because they know that people will go all out to make sure their ‘valentine’ has an amazing gift to show off.

RBHS sells flowers and chocolate covered strawberries to students and parents, and some students expect year after year to get something. The misunderstanding on my part is why the holiday has to include all these monetary things. I mean, I wouldn’t turn down chocolate covered strawberries, but the point is that spending money on all these things to please someone’s wants or to show off what you got is not what Valentine’s Day is supposed to be about.

Valentine’s Day should have the same meaning that it did in elementary school. You weren’t spending all this money to please one person, but giving out cards and making someone smile. It should be about wanting to spread love to everyone and show everyone that you care for them. In elementary school, there wasn’t even a possibility of leaving anyone out of the Valentine’s Day festivities. And it should be the same in high school. No one should be left out. No one should sit in their room and mope about being single because it’s just another day and it’s just another stuffed animal that will sit in your closet and won’t love you back.

Valentine’s Day has the opportunity to be a way to spread love and make everyone smile for a day, but instead it’s just bouquets of flowers and chocolates in heart boxes. On the bright side, after Valentine’s Day is over, you can always go to the store and buy up the marked-down chocolates.

By Alyssa Piecko

feature photo by Aniqa Rahman

Finding inspiration isn’t usually something that we plan on doing. Most of the time it just happens, and it hits us. We are inspired.

This summer I decided I needed some good karma and something to spice up my college resume, so I decided it would benefit me to volunteer. The Boys and Girls Club of Columbia would be an easy place to show up, do the time and be done with it. I expected to walk in, play a few video games, eat a mediocre lunch with the kids and walk out feeling like I had done a good deed.

On my first day of volunteering, I went in determined to make the best of the experience. I sat down and started to make conversation with some of the kids, learning about their interests and hobbies and trying to connect. After an hour, I developed a sort of bond with an outgoing kid named Jayden.

Jayden, a 4 feet 6 inches tall 12-year-old kid from St. Louis, wore basketball shorts and a cutoff sleeve T-shirt. We discovered we shared similar interests, such as sports and music. Jayden was a little shy at first, but I was five years older than him. Who wouldn’t be a little intimidated?

As I kept making conversation and made jokes, he became much more comfortable and started to be himself. He started telling me about his personal situation at home and within a few minutes I had a good idea of what his life was like. He was an only child who lived with his single mother; she worked two jobs to make ends meet. I knew right away this kid had no easy life.

What amazed me about Jayden was his optimism and desire to make the best of everything he did. He made it his responsibility to talk to everyone and ensure everybody was getting along. Just about everyone seemed to like him. He was always laughing, cracking jokes and smiling, which for some reason, made me grin a little myself, as if I was proud of him. In a way, I looked up to him for being so charismatic and optimistic.

As soon as I left, I knew I would be coming back the next day and went home with a lot on my mind.

The positive energy and optimism coming from these little kids, despite the hardships moved me. If Jayden and these kids could have this much zest for life despite being put through physical and emotional struggles, I should do it with no problem.

Before I left that day, Jayden and I were doing the handshake we had been working on earlier. We were laughing and joking when Jayden told me he wished I could be his big brother. It suddenly hit me. I had been inspired to change my entire outlook on life.

Aside from having my own great time at the Boys and Girls Club that day, Jayden taught me lessons that I will never forget, the first one being: take everyone as they are, not as who they could be. Everybody has something to contribute that no one else can offer. The second one is: be determined to be positive. This is understanding that the greater part of your happiness depends not upon your circumstances, but by your attitude. He taught me to know that things will be different in the future.

We all have problems and hardships we have to deal with in life, but compared to the rest of life it is merely a moment. Knowing that bad times will get better and good times won’t always be good is a difficult thing to grasp, but doing so keeps us humble.

By Tyler Dunlap

photo illustration by Maddy Jones

It was 1:20 p.m. on a Friday. I was on AUT, and all I could think about was getting home. Exhausted, I was more than ready to change into sweatpants, collapse onto the couch with a bag of Gardettos and allow Netflix to lure me, once again, into a semi-conscious state of laziness.

Just as I was leaving the girls’ bathroom, moments before I planned on going home, I saw a former friend standing in front of the mirror with tears streaming down her face. She was trembling and visibly distressed, and her red, swollen eyes avoided mine as she tried to hide the anguish that she had clearly not intended for me to witness.

As I stood at the sink awkwardly washing my hands, a battle raged in my head while I tried to decide whether I should say something. On one hand, I wanted to be kind. I wanted to do the right thing and ask her if she was OK. After all, it was only two years earlier that we were close friends, hanging out and sharing secrets. Only two years ago, I would have been the one she was crying to, relaying her inner turmoils as I counseled her.

But we were no longer friends. Our relationship faded with age and separation, leaving us in that delicate state of never knowing whether or not to wave in the halls or acknowledge one another’s presence in a public encounter. If I said something, I might be overstepping boundaries. It might make things awkward and would certainly postpone my much-needed Netflix and snacking marathon. It would mean stepping out of my comfort zone and risking an uncomfortable situation for the sake of another human’s feelings.

In the end, I did nothing. I hastily dried my hands and hurried out the door, as if I didn’t notice her sobbing three feet away. Rushing to my car, I quickly began to rationalize my actions in my head, telling myself I had made the right decision and that it would have been weird and inappropriate to stick my nose into her life when I was no longer a part of it.

I figured that my saying something could have irritated her and portrayed me as being intrusive. But this rationalization didn’t keep the guilt from creeping in. I had put myself first in an extremely selfish manner by choosing to bypass an awkward encounter instead of sacrificing two minutes of my Netflix marathon in order to make sure this girl was OK.

Dozens of memories ran through my mind of instances when I was in a position similar to that of this girl.

Instances where someone could have reached out a hand and offered their help or support to me, but chose not to. Being kind to others is a philosophy which I wholeheartedly agree with and try my best to follow, so I couldn’t help but feel overwhelmingly guilty for surpassing an opportunity to do exactly that.

In high school, events such as this occur far too often. It seems that everyone is too concerned with others’ perception of them to always do the right thing. But the self-conscious nature of teenagers shouldn’t keep us from looking out for one another, even if it means putting ourselves out there and allowing the possibility of embarrassing ourselves. If any age group needs the occasional reminder that they aren’t alone or that someone cares, it is high schoolers.

We are emotionally insecure and could almost always use a little reassurance from our peers.

I wish I would have said something to her. I wish I would have at least offered up a smile of compassion and asked if there was anything I could do to help. The world would be an infinitely better place if we would put the feelings of others before our own petty comfort zones and choose to do what we know is ultimately the right thing to do.

So we need to swallow our pride, circumvent our fear of being perceived as nosy or overly bold and seize every opportunity we have to display a gesture of kindness towards another. These small but amicable expressions of humanity and kindness can often mean more than we realize.

By Anna Wright

Would you want a former friend to reach out to you if you were having a bad day?

Photo Illustration by Asa Lory

Following the shooting at Sandy Hook Elementary School in Newtown, Conn., defenders of the Second Amendment of the Constitution have been up in arms, fighting to maintain their rights as citizens to legally own guns. As of Jan. 19, members of the Missouri House of Representatives have been working to pass a bill that would allow teachers to bring firearms onto school grounds with a concealed carry permit.

While Missouri House representatives proposed this bill with safety in mind, the House will pass it with danger in hand. Aside from the obvious hazards that come with the legalization of firearms anywhere, especially on school premises, the concept of weapons in a school zone is far more dangerous. The arming of teachers has the potential not only to be physically hazardous, but also hazardous to the environment teachers and administrators have worked so hard to build for school systems. Teachers are role models of sorts and should display in their actions and morals the qualities they wish to instill in their students. By passing this bill, the Missouri legislatures are supporting the notion that violence should be one of these taught qualities.

There are also emotional predicaments teachers would have to contemplate. The obvious question: “If I deny my right to concealed carry in my classroom, am I denying my students their fundamental recourse for safety in the face of a tragedy?” If legislatures are so certain that this bill will be successful in providing teachers a chance to defend their students, they should at least address the potential safety imbalance that the bill allows for. Since it is the teacher’s choice as to whether or not there will be a gun present in the wake of tragedy, this means that some classes will be “more safe” than others. It is unjust to provide one classroom a “safe opportunity” that is not available in another classroom, and it is immoral to put teachers in the position of choosing between their legal right to exercise restraint at the expense of their students’ safety.

Civil rights activist Jesse James once stated that “a man who cannot be … intimidated by the threat of jail or death has two of the strongest weapons that anyone has to offer.” In a study done by the Chicago-Sun Times, they discovered the Secret Service of the United States even believed this was an emotional problem that required psychological attention, as opposed to physical. They had said that, “If every parent went away from this, not worrying that their boy is going to kill someone, but listening and paying attention to depression, we’d be better off.”

Equipping our teachers with the right to bear arms in schools is a weak strategy to a problematic reality that has unfortunately struck the innocent once again. While this bill is admirable in the fact that it is timely attempting to address the violent issue at hand, it is wrong in its approach. This, however, is not to say that the problem doesn’t still need a serious and immediate solution that does not involve ill-planned decisions and a touchy nation. Instead of reacting with the quickest solution that comes to mind, it would be safer and more practical to react with our minds, not our wounded and fearful consciences. If safety and protection are the priorities of this bill, it would be contradictory to arm scared citizens.

In situations where the violence at a school has the nation fired up, it is important to keep in mind the distinct contexts among the much too plentiful school mass murders. Linking them, trying to jump to quick conclusions and hurling blame will continue to prove ineffective and elusive. Every second-grade student is taught that an eye for an eye doesn’t make it even. Fighting back with weapons works under that same, simple logic. This is the time to band heads together and to fight a common enemy with logic and the law, as opposed to rash decisions and a strong potential for more violence and more pain.

Instead of spending time and resources trying to find teachers who will be willing to access their newfound right to bring lethal weapons into school buildings, it would be more beneficial, safe and realistic to double up on security measures on school grounds.
Better than arming relatively inexperienced and hesitant teachers, a more stable solution would involve an increased number of security guards and police officers on duty in a school district. The same study done by the Chicago Times showed that the shooters typically didn’t snap. Their acts of mass murder and destruction are premeditated. Just like any suicidal teen, these vulnerable yet sick individuals are crying out for help.

So arm teachers with knowledge: with the ability to distinguish between an attention-hog and the seriously troubled, with the sense to defend not only their victimized students after the fact, but their depressed and disturbed students before it. And in the case that the shooter is not a student, equip society and parents with this same weapon. The true weapon in defense of such tragic events is knowledge, not armory.

By Hagar Gov-Ari

Should teachers be allowed to carry guns at school if they have passed a training course?

Art by Michelle Zhuang

Every single citizen in the United States should be aware of our “inalienable rights.” The supreme law of the land, the Constitution, guarantees certain privileges to everybody in the United States, regardless of race, religion, gender or creed. Most will agree that we have to fight to protect these rights, but John Swartz of upstate New York did this in an extremely unusual manner: flipping off a police officer.

I guess sometimes, you just have to let go. Emotions run high. Your temper flares, and you just have to let that bird fly. It’s never the best idea, but, hey, eventually, it happens. That being said, depending on where you let loose, you might be facing some seriously unpleasant consequences.

Swartz discovered this seven years ago, when a cop arrested him for raising his middle finger towards the officer after realizing the cop was using his radar gun on Swartz’s car. On Jan. 3, the Federal Court of Appeals overturned Swartz’ arrest, freeing him of liabilities or guilt.
Officer Richard Insogna’s reason for arresting Swartz was he believed the man might pose a threat to his own wife, who was driving the car.
“I just wanted to ensure the safety of the passengers,” Insogna said. “I was concerned for the female driver, if there was a domestic dispute.”
That is an excuse that smacks of an abuse of power. The Court also believed so, as it ruled that it wasn’t legal for Insogna to arrest Swartz. It’s ludicrous that a simple middle finger could be legitimately construed as a threat of violence. The disrespect that Swartz exhibited towards Officer Insogna incensed the cop, but a simple reprimanding by the officer would have sufficed. If Insogna deemed that insufficient, then at the very most, he could issue a ticket for disturbing the peace, but even that would be a reach.

The middle finger is undeniably a rude gesture. But what Officer Insogna didn’t take into account was the highest law of the land: the Constitution.

The First Amendment guarantees free speech. Now, while “free speech” technically only applies to spoken word, the implied meaning of the First Amendment is a guaranteed “freedom of expression.”

In other words, we are free to say and do whatever we want within the realm of reason — nobody can infringe upon our right to do so.
Such a protection does not fold over everything one can do. There are some regulations, but as long as one is not infringing on anybody else’s rights, it’s usually in the clear. The law even protects hate speech, for the most part. That’s why organizations such as the Westboro Baptist Church can protest.

To test if something is not protected, the “clear and present danger” test can be used, established by Schenck v. U.S. in 1919. Does the speech incite panic or violence? If it doesn’t, and if it isn’t instigating rebellion in a threatening manner, then it’s in the clear.

Swartz’s flaunting of his middle finger at Office Insogna was distasteful, but the action violated no laws. In fact, it was the officer who was ultimately in the wrong. Though Swartz v. Insogna never made it to the Supreme Court, the Court of Appeals could have drawn upon several precedents set by the highest court in the country. Chief amongst them is Tinker v. Des Moines, a landmark case that highlighted the once tacit existence of freedom of expression. Texas v. Johnson further enumerated the right to express oneself as wanted without retribution. If the First Amendment protects flag burning, wouldn’t it protect a relatively simple gesture of defiance?

The entire situation was a waste of time, insofar as Swartz is concerned. However, it has given something to the nation as a whole: a reminder that our rights are inalienable, but that they are also ours to protect. It may be a vulgar right he protected, but Swartz has guaranteed us a greater modicum of liberty than we ever enjoyed before.

Swartz v. Insogna is only a symptom of the disease that envelopes the nation. We cannot sit back and expect all of our rights to be upheld. Though the system of “checks and balances” is meant to protect our rights, it is only a form of balance within government. Should the government attempt to infringe upon our rights, it is up to the people to ensure that no such thing happens.

In an ideal world, there would be no need to protect ourselves, but unfortunately, this isn’t one. Infringements upon our rights will happen. Just look at the Stop Online Piracy Act, or the indefinite detention clause in the National Defense Authorization Act — these are things that we need to fight back against. There has to be greater public education on our individual rights, and people need to stand up against any and all acts of injustice.

As President Abraham Lincoln said, this nation is “of the people, for the people, by the people.” It is our duty as citizens of these United States to involve ourselves. Whether that be through suing a police officer for arresting you or by running for public office or through something as simple as voting, we are obligated to keep this nation as we want it; as unfettered, beautiful and full of promise as a soaring bird.

By Raj Satpathy

Should offensive speech be protected under the First Amendment?

Art by Michelle Zhuang

It’s easy in the United States to watch the world around us and judge it. We look at conflicts such as the ongoing genocide in Syria and feel proud that we’re not like that, that our hands aren’t blood-stained, that we know the value of a human life.

And yet.

The deplorable institution called the “death penalty,” or “capital punishment” for those gentler souls who can’t handle the former term, exists within our borders. Our government, a body we trust to prevent those things we believe to be wrong, murders people. Why, that’s a crime punishable by the death penalty.

But instead of killing the death penalty like we kill all those criminals, we instead condone it, applaud it even. A staggering 1,321 executions occurred in the United States since 1976, according to deathpenaltyinfo.org.

People can’t murder, but our government, incidentally a body of people trusted to enforce the law, can. We shouldn’t be in the business of making drastic exceptions for the government.

The United States is not among the 141 countries around the world that have already abolished the death penalty. In fact, the United States holds a place in the top five nations responsible for death by capital punishment, only behind China, Iran, North Korea and Yemen, according to amnestyusa.org. Our nation holds fifth place with what I hope is deepest shame.

The issue at hand is one simply of morality. These are human lives we’re toying with, not some formulaic machines, and the murder of a human life is fundamentally wrong.

Killing someone who has done something very bad is no different from murdering someone who has done nothing wrong. Murder is murder, and there is no justification for it. It is no more complex than that, no messier. There are no shades of gray to be found here.

People often parrot Mohandas Gandhi’s famous quote, “An eye for an eye makes the whole world blind,” a concept that condemns revenge. Yet, according to a recent poll on gallup.com, American approval of capital punishment is at a strong 63 percent. This popular opinion on vengeful murder fundamentally contradicts Gandhi’s belief of turning the other cheek.

While murdering murderers may seem like a sort of justice, it is simply revenge by another name, and lowers our entire society to the level of criminals and corrupts our standards.

But if morality isn’t enough, there is a logical arsenal of arguments against the death penalty.

The cost of a death penalty case is exaggeratedly large when compared to that of a non-death-penalty case. A 2008 California study by the California Commission for the Fair Administration of Justice showed that the current system costs a whopping $137 million per year in California alone, whereas a non-death penalty system would cost only $11.5 million.

The money wasted on government-endorsed murder could instead go toward more valid measures of crime control such as rehabilitation and education, better and more comprehensive mental health treatment and more secure jails.
Mistakes are made unforgivably frequently when convicting people to death. Since 1973 in the United States, 140 people have been released from the death row because of wrongful conviction, and in that same time span, the government executed more than 1,200 individuals, according to amnestyusa.org.

There’s no room for error when we’re playing with human lives, and if there is some, we shouldn’t be playing. The courts released the 140 because the evidence proving their innocence was able to show up just in time to save them. There’s no way to know how many other cases there must have been where the evidence simply didn’t show up in time, how many times the United States government carelessly murdered innocent lives with utterly no repercussions.

It seems, at times, that we’re scared to deny those who were close to the victims of murder the justice they want. They’ve been through so much horror and pain, and what sort of monsters would we be to deny them the little relief they can get?

But the justice that the friends and families of murder victims want is murder in return. They want this horrific person who caused them so much pain to be gone, to understand a little of their suffering.

They want revenge, and that is OK.

But, what isn’t OK is the government satisfying that need for revenge. Murder is awful, but the government doesn’t exist to sate our most base desires. A lifetime of incarceration is no escape from justice, in any case, and anyone who says otherwise is simply succumbing to their own base desires, something that has no place in government.

We must abolish the death penalty. It is outdated, tragic and fundamentally flawed. Contact your representatives, and ensure that your voice is heard. We’ll never be able to bring back all those lives that we’ve taken, but killing the despicable institution that is the death penalty is the best apology we’ve got.

By Urmila Kutikkad

 What is your take on this controversial topic?

art by Paige Martin

In Mongolia’s countryside, dirt roads wind together and apart, splitting for two meters or 200, destined for waterless deserts or livestock-filled lake sides, limitless and unending. Mongolian nomads move their homes and herds along these paths without satellite GPS systems, maps or even compasses.

A true Mongolian can find his way with his intuition and inherent sense of direction, passed down from a lineage spanning over 800 years.

And yet, last summer, on June 11, at approximately 5:15 p.m. ULAT Time, or 4:15 a.m. US Central Standard Time, this supposed “true Mongolian” found herself lost in her own hometown.

To be fair, this was a hometown in which I’d spent just eight months of the last 13 years. We’d moved to the United States when I was five and had only returned for a few summers. And now, newly determined to cross intersections, pay bus fares and test my street skills in bustling Ulaanbaatar on my own, I had gotten myself completely lost.

So desperately lost, in fact, I couldn’t find my way back to the office in which I was working, the State Department Store in which I’d lunched, even the main road down which I’d walked that morning.

At a loss for what to do, I started walking and told myself not to panic. I walked across roads without crosswalks and sometimes even stood, terrified, in the middle of two passing lanes of traffic, all to decide I’d taken the wrong route and to trek back the way I’d come.

They say the journey is half of the destination, that one should experience life as a trip and not as an end goal.

But my apartment was definitely a place, an endpoint to the day. And perhaps we should live life as a journey, but I certainly wanted to get to my immediate destination. I didn’t care how it happened or which routes I took.

When the supposed-to-be-leisurely journey had tripled from its intended 20 minutes into an hour long panicked scramble, I put aside my pride, approached the first strangers I encountered and asked how to find the Information Technology Park, which I knew to be close to my apartment. They didn’t know, so I asked about another location in the same neighborhood: Sukhbaatar’s Square, UB’s most well known landmark and, therefore, undoubtedly the most embarrassing place I could admit to being incapable of finding. And so they laughed and told me I was headed the wrong way and pointed toward the southeast.

Another hour later, I saw, faintly, the Blue Sky monument, a building that resembled, a pregnant stomach to some and, to others, the edge of a sword, reaching up to represent Mongolia’s nickname, the Land of the Blue Sky. Through gaps in between large Soviet-style apartment buildings, I rushed towards my first familiar landmark.

But when the Blue Sky was in sight, its surroundings were unfamiliar.

By this point, I’d learned to follow behind focused businesswomen when crossing streets, gotten bearings on where the first post office was in relation to famed opera house and seen more of UB than I could remember experiencing in all my life. But all of this had no importance, because I still wasn’t where I wanted to be. I’m not going to find my way home, I admitted to myself. No way.
But finally, I decided to walk a tiny bit more, just a few blocks, just to prove to myself that I’d tried everything I could. I turned around, and there was the parliament building, at the head of the Square, facing right at me.

For some, the trip is more important than what it leads to. For me, the end goal has all the importance. My half-day flights to Mongolia were worthwhile only when I’d finally landed at Chinggis Khaan International airport, and my hardest efforts were monumental because of the rewards they allowed me to reap.

This is not to say I don’t enjoy the trip; I love working toward a goal — boarding and deplaning four different air crafts, discovering and focusing so much on the work in front of me that hours pass by like minutes — but for me, life’s arduous journeys just augment the satisfaction of reaching my destination. The annoyance of re-crossing streets I’d struggled to get across in the first place and the disappointment of, after all of that, still not knowing how to get home had not been in vain.

Elated, I ran across six lanes of traffic, crossed the Square and stood in front of Chinggis Khaan’s looming statue. Walking in my apartment’s front door would be worth this multi-hour panic, I thought. I envisioned crossing that threshold, putting down my bags, and sitting at the kitchen table to tell my aunt about my journey, all the more meaningful because it had finally gotten me home.

By Nomin-Erdene Jagdagdorj

Infographic by Jennifer Stanley

Strolling down a cobblestone path in downtown Istanbul, my family and I were enjoying the afternoon of our summer vacation with ice cream cones. Scarfing down our desserts as quickly as possible was no easy task in competition with the melting power of the blazing summer sun.

To my dismay, I watched a dollop of chocolate slide off my cone toward the ground below. My eyes couldn’t help but stray away from the mess I’d made to a lonely iPhone 4 amidst the green grass.

After I had drawn the attention of the rest of my family to the discovery I made, my “good American citizen” instincts kicked in. I’m not going to lie; I wanted to show off. I yearned to prove that being from America, I was ethical and had been raised properly enough to return a valuable item in a foreign country. Simply because the Turks were a different nation of people, I naïvely expected that they wouldn’t act as morally as I in this situation.

I picked up the phone and planned to return it to a nearby police officer coincidentally patrolling the area. Swelling with pride, I handed the officer the phone and explained the situation in the best Turkish-English combination I could muster. The officer’s face contorted to a sort of mocking state, then he grinned, and the next words he uttered left me without any.

“Just put the phone back where you found it,” the officer said. “No one takes anything that’s not theirs around here.”

I returned to my waiting family, incredibly stunned by the answer I had received. Istanbul is a large city and had a population of more than 13 million people in 2011. How could the officer be so calm and certain in trusting that the majority of these individuals would choose to do the righteous thing? Humans are humans. In my experience, even a police officer in the U.S. would confiscate the merchandise to ensure security.

I’ve always loved growing up in Columbia. But, even in such a lovely town, there are thefts, crimes and not-so-kind individuals. In fact, according to gocolumbiamo.com, 45 percent of all crimes in Columbia are a sort of theft. But I always looked past all that here. I usually expected that these crimes and evils are inclinations of some people in life that society is obligated to put up with.

That  said, I didn’t expect that I would find such honesty in a country separate from the life I was normally accustomed to. This was all just because Istanbul wasn’t Columbia, Mo., and just because the Turkish people spoke a different language and practiced a different culture. On top of that, the people were definitely nothing like most strangers I came across back home, but I should have realized that wasn’t necessarily such a bad thing.

The Turks displayed integrity not only with the iPhone incident, but also after our purchases in either shops or restaurants my family and I visited on our trip. We were never, not once, cheated or scammed of our money. Big cities are famous for their conartists and scammers, but every individual my family and I encountered treated us as equals. We weren’t alienated, and no one looked down on us for being the “typical American tourists.” I found thousands of long-lost family members in Istanbul — people I never knew existed – but treated my family and I with such exemplary compassion that we could have fit right in with everyone else.

The Turks engulfed us in their warm embrace, as they displayed hospitality and honesty to others that I never dreamed of finding somewhere foreign to my normal experiences.

However, my trip this past summer taught me several important things. One, flying on airplanes is just not my thing. Two, Turkish food is absolutely phenomenal. And three, I learned to not always expect the worst in people or places outside of my comfort zone. Sometimes, I just have to let my pride go a little, and accept that there are places and people in the world that are better than what I am used to.

A fresh experience somewhere different, with someone new, taught me that if what I am accustomed to is seemingly ‘perfect,’ it doesn’t mean that somewhere out there, I couldn’t uncover something so much better.

By Manal Salim

This opinion piece is labeled as such on the desktop version.

infographic by Yasmeen El-Jayyousi

A couple of days ago, as I watched The Help for the fourth time, I thought about how I would never have a friend like Hilly Holbrook. On the surface she is a respectable, polite woman who is involved in the community and looks out for her friends. In fact, she even sets her friend, Eugenia Phelan, also known as Skeeter, up on a date and constantly reassures her that he will like her. But Hilly can’t stand it when Skeeter doesn’t follow her agenda.

The moment Skeeter stops being one of her puppets, Hilly breaks their friendship. And I don’t believe what Hilly and Skeeter had was a real friendship. I would use my friends or disown them if things didn’t work in my favor. And I would hope a real friend wouldn’t do that to me either.

 There are different levels of friendship. And they’re not always obvious. Only when we find ourselves in need of support from our friends, as Skeeter did, do we realize who our true friends really are. I have had a number of friends throughout my life. I have my best friends, the five or so people that know me inside out and are probably closer than my family. I have other friends who hang out with me when their close friends aren’t available or they need something. And then I have acquaintances, people I don’t ever see outside of school but that I talk to occasionally.

Unfortunately, sometimes my best friends, the people I think will be there for me and will stick with me through high school and college, don’t. And I realized that they only kept me by their side as a fallback friend or as long as I was of use to them.

 But I didn’t simply want fair weather friends.Maybe I thought that girl was my friend, but looking back I know that I was the only one putting effort into our relationship. I was usually the first person to text or to start a conversation on Facebook. I learned from that “friendship” that we weren’t actually friends. We continued to talk in class and text occasionally. But we didn’t remain friends.

In ninth grade I had just begun to overcome my shyness and had started talking to people I would never have before. In that way, I made new friends and became close to one girl in particular. We texted a lot, ate lunch together, and yet, somehow, we never hung out outside of school. It didn’t seem odd to me then; in retrospect, I know that was an indicator that I didn’t mean as much to her as she did to me.

Our friendship began to crumble when she said she would be there for me when I needed her. She said she would always be a phone call or a text away and that I could always count on her for support in my time of need. Unfortunately, she didn’t hold true to that promise.

Back then I liked a guy in my social studies class. And we rarely talked. In fact, I’m sure we exchanged a couple of sentences throughout the school year. But of course, when I find out he liked someone else, my little ninth-grade-self was devastated. I knew I wasn’t in love with him of course, but I was pretty bummed, nonetheless. So my first instinct was to call her, and I did. After a couple of rings, I heard the click as she picked up the receiver. But she immediately said she was busy and would call me back. She hung up and didn’t call back.

The next day at school, as I told her what happened, she listened with her eyes locked on her cell phone screen. Expecting some consoling from her — a hug, or maybe some advice — I was surprised when all I got was a sympathetic nod. She then gossiped about how one ofher old friends from kindergarten had started dating a guy that she used to date. This upset me for many reasons. Firstly, she barely acknowledged what I had to say, and secondly, apart from the fact that she simply glazed over what I said, she didn’t seem to care at all.

Not being the response I expected or wanted, I turned to other people who I expected to have a similar reaction. Not knowing whom to turn to, I turned to people whom I considered friends but wasn’t that close to. Our interactions were limited to spending time together in school and occasionally hanging out in a group outside of school. But to my surprise, the people I hadn’t pegged down as very close friends listened to my pitiful tale and were understanding. I hadn’t expected them to show such consideration, and in doing so I misjudged them. I hadn’t given them the opportunity to be real friends.  And what made them such good friends was their willingness to open up to me when they didn’t have to.

 To this day, these people are my friends. They are the ones who remember my birthday and the ones I call if I need a ride. We eat lunch together every day and hang out every weekend. They’re the people that have made the transition from junior high to high school with me.

I became caught up with the idea of a certain person being my friend without realizing that we weren’t the best of friends. But the people who stuck with me until now were ones that I had overlooked in ninth grade. It wasn’t until my fallout with that girl that I realized I hadn’t given much thought to people who had always been there for me. I was too caught up in forcing a friendship that would only fall through. In doing so, I forgot that friendships shouldn’t be difficult.

A real friend would make the effort to text me and ask me to hang out just as much as I would. Friendships should be effortless. I shouldn’t have to try too much to please my friends or have to grovel for their attention. When it starts to feel like I wouldn’t really lose anything if I were to lose that person, I will know the thread of friendship has worn away. I’m not saying my friends and I don’t annoy each other or have our off days. But I have never felt like I couldn’t go to them for advice or just to talk. To me that is what constitutes a real friend.

By Ipsa Chaudhary

Photo by Patrick Smith

When I was in the third grade, we were taking a math test. I was never good at math, but I had studied and studied and studied and was confident. So that day, I walked into math as ready as could be and saw one of my classmates rifling through papers with a dismayed look on his face. He was even worse at math than I was, and knowing that he would have done the same for me, I told him that I’d let him look off my paper during the test.

Granted, this was cheating, but it was much more than that, I told myself. It was a friend helping another friend in need, something that is supposed to be a good thing. So during the test, we helped each other and all was going well. That is, until the teacher saw us.

She marched over with a stern look in her eye; she took our tests and ripped them up in front of the whole class, as was “customary” in her classroom. Although it came at the cost of humiliation and a poor grade, that day I made  a bond with my classmate that was far deeper than a test score. I had helped him out in his time of need, and although I had done so by cheating, I had aided somebody.

Repeatedly, parents, teachers and coaches have said to “play by the rules,” not stooping to the level of cheaters. Children are raised with ideologies implanted in their heads telling them that cheating is wrong, and it should never be resorted to, not even in the most dire situations.

But in light of the revelations from Lance Armstrong, I wonder if cheating itself really is for the worst.

Armstrong recently admitted to “doping”, or in layman’s terms, using performance enhancing drugs, throughout his career. The seven-time Tour de France Gold Medalist was stripped of his medals from 1998 to present. His performance referred to as “the greatest deception in all of sports history,” Armstrong appeared in an interview with Oprah Winfrey, discussing his admitted “doping.”

In the interview, which aired last week, Armstrong was said to have come surprisingly prepared, which in my mind would have been no less than the bare minimum for him to do, as he already had testified in front of a grand jury regarding the matter.  If Armstrong had even phrased a single sentence poorly, his case could have been subject to reevaluation, causing him to face years in prison for perjury. In the midst of all this, Armstrong is also currently occupied with potential lawsuits from his sponsors who have paid for his cycling team and his endorsements for years.

All for simply cheating.

This entire fiasco has been blown entirely out of proportion. Countless times, people have been made famous for “cheating”; in fact, we glorify it. Turn your television to Cartoon Network and you’ll find dozens of shows celebrating law-breaking vigilantes who disregard rules set forth by the government and take matters into their own hands: Batman, Iron Man, Spider-man — the list may very well be endless.

We project these two-dimensional, comic book icons as images of justice and goodwill, yet polls show we revile Armstrong, a human being with foibles and hubris, a professional cyclist whose Livestrong campaign raised more than $470 million, for doing  smack.

People thrive on hope, end of story. It builds businesses, campaigns, marriages … everything. In the end, it doesn’t matter what activates the hope or whether or not it was inspired unlawfully — what matters is that the hope was even there to begin with.

Yes, Lance Armstrong cheated throughout almost all of his cycling career. That may change the opinions of many regarding him as a person and what he has stood against, but what cannot be changed is the hope that he gave millions when he beat cancer and won the first of his Tour de France titles. Granted, he did this last part illegally, but that doesn’t change his comeback from cancer.

Imagine if tomorrow, NASA announced they had “cheated” in the Space Race. Would we run NASA through the dirt? Sue them? Maybe burn their headquarters down? Hopefully not, because their achievements gave us a feeling of accomplishment as Americans, a feeling of unity, and they still helped contribute to the greater good of our country, which in a way, is exactly what Lance Armstrong did. His is only one of the many cases where the ends justified the means.

By George Sarafianos

This opinion piece is labeled as such on the desktop version.

Do you agree? Does turning a blind eye to cheating really matter? I want to know your thoughts.

Shakir Hamoodi is currently incarcerated at the Federal Prison Camp in Fort Leavenworth, Kansas, pictured above.
Photo courtesy of Abdul-Rahman Abdul-Kafi

In front of our destination, I see big, hunchbacked brown buffalo roaming freely in the bare grassland between them and the outer road. We take the slightly curved exit and then make a right turn; I see a sign saying, “All persons entering this Federal property are subject to a search of their person and/or property.” We continue to drive down the short, one-way, gravel road because, sadly, we have a reason to be there.

After exiting the small, gravel road, we turn right near a red building, entering into a white, stone-like gravel parking lot. We start looking for a parking spot, and we find one near a big fence with holes in it. Behind it are the buffalo, lingering, minding their own business. Looming in the distance is a huge, marble dome-topped building with a vast backyard surrounded by a tall, red brick fence. Thank God that is not our destination.

We leave our red Toyota Camry and walk to our left, where we finally arrive at a small, one-story building with a flat roof. In the front, it has two doors, with a red octagon sign in-between them saying, “cell phones are contraband.” Below the sign is a blue mat that says, “United States Federal Prison.”

Taking short steps inside, we notice many pine wood tables surrounded by similarly cushioned chairs. We also hear lots of noise. It is coming from other enthusiastic families that are in a position similar to ours.  The noise is of happiness, some is of sadness, and here and there, some are crying. In an area labeled Kids Corner, pictures showing cartoon animals hang on the wall. Many children seem entertained, all playing with small toys and crayons lying around. None are paying attention to their surroundings and all appear to be successfully distracted by the toys.

As for us, we stand at long, beautiful mahogany counter near the doors where we came in. My mother picks up two sheets of ink-covered paper and hands one to my brother-in-law and keeps one for herself. They fill them out with all the required information regarding what we are carrying, who in our party is under 16 and who we are visiting. As for the first two, the answers are simple: we have nothing on us, and Abdul-Rahman is under 16. We hand the papers to the guard, and he calls to the other building, also located in the vicinity of the Federal Prison Camp in Fort Leavenworth, Kansas.

We wait for about five minutes and then see a man walking from the camp building, through the small courtyard and into the building we are in. We eagerly walk toward him and say hello, along with big hugs from him and from us. Then we sit for four hours and talk about the world without him. But who is he? The man we are visiting is called #21901-045. To the guard, that number is all he is.  To us, he is the center of our family: my father, my three brothers’ father, my sister’s father, my mother’s husband, my brother-in-law’s father-in-law. To them he is only a number. To us, he is the person who makes us smile. To them, he is just like all the other prisoners. To us, he is the man who saved hundreds of people from starving and from losing their education. To them, he is a criminal and a law breaker. To us, he is a savior. To us, he is Shakir Hamoodi.

My father has a complicated story. During the time between 1991 and 2002, there was a sanction, or a penalty on a country for the leader’s act of disobeying a certain law, on his home country, Iraq. This sanction was enforced to force Saddam Hussein to resign because he was the brutal dictator of Iraq. The whole idea of sanctions doesn’t make sense because they simply starve the people, which somehow is supposed to make the corrupt leader resign. In the past, this never worked. It didn’t work for Iraq, and it is not going to work for Iran either because the leaders are swimming so deep in their stolen money that they can’t see the poor man walking by who is begging for just one dollar.

In the case of Iraq, after about 11 years, the United States started to see that the sanction was not making Hussein give up power, so their troops invaded in 2003. The U.S. invasion ended up with the capture and killing of Saddam Hussein and the total replacement of the government by the United States. During the devastating sanctions, more than 500,000 children and hundreds of thousands of adults were starved to death because of the horrible living conditions. In reality, they did not just starve. They were killed when they could have grown up and become successful if there had not been any sanctions. But because of the U.S. sanction, there wasn’t enough food, and they were killed by hunger. I do not see any fairness in the idea of killing more than 500,000 innocent Iraqis because they have a corrupt leader.

Going back to my father’s case, he sent money to a relative in Jordan, whose company bought food in Jordan. It was sent across the Iraqi border and was sold in Iraq. The local Iraqi money received went to my father’s mother, who divided it up according to my father’s instructions, with every penny going to a starving relative in need. During these 11 years, many letters were sent between my father and his cousin, who worked in that food company on the Iraqi side. My father told him where each penny should go and that he should send an acknowledgement that the money went to those who were supposed to receive it.

In 2006, our house was raided by the FBI because my father was helping people survive in his home country. The agents took three trucks full of boxes from our house that day and among them were each of those letters in their original envelopes. The government saw these letters and started their investigation of my father. They sent people to Iraq and asked every single person mentioned in every single one of those letters. Everyone questioned replied with the same response, “Yes, I received the money, and I did not give it to the Iraqi government, but I gave it to my family so we could eat.” After a six-year investigation, and more than $5 million dollars spent, the prosecution date was set.

May 16, 2012 was the date that changed our family’s life forever. We went into the Jefferson City federal court with high hopes of probation and left with these words resounding in our ears: “Thirty-six months of prison and two years of probation afterwards.” The reason behind this sentence was that the letters, confirmed by the government to be 100 percent accurate, were described as “feathers in the wind” which could not be traced, and there was no way of telling what happened to the money.

Seven months later, I find myself, my mother and my brother-in-law sitting in that one-story building in the camp called Fort Leavenworth Prison Camp. I learn today that total justice in one single country can never exist, and I am hoping for some words from President Barack Obama to fix this unjust situation. In order for this case to come to his attention, you need to send a letter to the White House telling the government that this injustice must be fixed because we live in a country with “Liberty and Justice for All.”

By Abdul-Rahman Abdul-Kafi

This opinion piece is labeled as such on the desktop version.

Want to help? Sign the petition asking President Barack Obama to commute the 36-month sentence of Dr. Shakir Hamoodi.

Photo illustration by Anna Wright

Olmsted Falls, Ohio only has a population of 15,000 people and is the quintessential example of small-town suburbia. After moving there in eighth grade, I soon learned Olmsted Falls was everything about the suburbs that everyone hates; it was small, and it was boring.

And whoever created the movie Mean Girls must’ve lived there at one point in their life.

I had the same sense of astonishment that Cady Heron, played by Lindsey Lohan, had in Mean Girls, walking into the Olmsted Falls Middle School cafeteria for the first time, as she did during the lunch room scene in the movie. Each table held a stereotypical “clique” that one would only imagine to see in a film. There were band geeks, cheerleaders and football players, kids with skateboards, kids with piles of books, kids who would not stop singing and kids judging the outfits of students who would walk past their table.

I never considered myself to be part of a clique. I didn’t play a sport, I didn’t play a band instrument, and I didn’t think my jeans and Wal-Mart T-shirt would be considered very fashionable.

So, I took a deep breath and chose my poison.

I walked to a table of theater and choir kids and asked if I could sit with them for the lunch period; they replied, “Of course,” in sing-song voices.

Now, I have no idea why I chose to sit with the choir kids. The last time I sang in a choir was in the fifth grade, and their constant dancing and singing and acting was a little too energetic for me to reciprocate, but I did not want to be known as the new girl who sat by herself during lunch on the first day of school. They were nice people, but their singing conversations and over-dramatic tendencies were just not my cup of tea.

So, hoping to make my way into a new clique, I joined the high school dance team. Now, it may seem shallow of me to purposely join a sport just to distance myself from my then-current clique of drama folks, but I did dance for five years prior to that, and I believed being on the dance team was a good way to begin my high school career. And as I predicted, I slowly began to move away from my former clique, whom I was only friends with for a few months, and made friends with the girls on the dance team. I became known as a drill team girl, and I was often found with other drill team girls and the marching band. My clique went to dances together and hung-out at the football games, and we occasionally interacted with other cliques. But when I was by myself and without my clique, my true, more reserved nature came out. I didn’t know how to be myself; my identity suddenly became blurred.

Thus, on the first day of junior year, I stood in front of RBHS without my clique, and I didn’t know how to function. I walked the halls, desperately searching for some form of familiarity, searching for a clique that I could see myself being a part of. But I had no clue. I was so used to my old group of friends that I didn’t know who to identify myself with. I was lost.

Weeks passed and I managed to make friends from various groups, but none of them seemed to belong to just one. I still didn’t have that clique, or group of people, to call my own. I had no answer when people asked who my close friends were.

I wanted to define myself by the group of people I hung out with. I wasn’t satisfied with my friends hand-picked from other people’s groups of friends. I wanted to feel like I was a part of something. I felt like I was obligated to find a clique.

But I wasn’t.

After interacting with a large variety of people,  I realized I liked befriending different people from different backgrounds. I met and I talked to people I originally imagined I had nothing in common with. I interacted with people that I never would have had a chance to meet had I restricted myself to a clique.

Everyone has a need to belong in high school. Being a part of something or being able to associate one’s self with a larger identity seems to be the most important aspect of high school, but it’s not, and it shouldn’t be.

Maybe my choir group of friends from eighth grade could have taught me some awesome dance moves, and I could be preparing for my Broadway debut this second, but I’ll never know. I didn’t realize that just because I was in their group, I wasn’t obligated to hangout with them after school or not talk to other groups of people.

At the end of Mean Girls, Cady Heron eventually finds her clique, but she doesn’’t allow it to dictate her life. She becomes friends with whomever she comes into contact with and is much happier than when she was a part of the infamous “plastics.”

In high school, nobody completely knows where they’re going or has figured out who they are, but it is a bit easier when you expand your horizons.

Principal Mark Maus enjoys the atmosphere outside the main commons of RBHS during the annual hot choco-looza.
Photo by Anna Wright

Yesterday could not have been an easy day to be Mark Maus. After an email to RBHS teachers outlined the most recent proposal for start times, many were miffed, to say the least, that high school was scheduled to start at 7:20. By the time Bearing News published a story on the proposal, several teachers had queued to voice their displeasure with it, and while no one was steaming, it still could not have been easy for Maus to stand all that negativity without being brought down a little bit.

And yet his buoyant nature prevailed — despite the stress, the guy still showed up to the Show Choir premiere concert that night and even stopped in after to congratulate the singers.

Between the end of school and that concert, Maus and the other secondary principals convened in an emergency council of sorts to discuss the notably unpopular notion of high school starting at 7:20 and agreed upon a counter proposal that the start times would be changed to high school starting at 8:20. There are a number of things that deserve to be lauded in this action.

First of all, Maus is standing up for his school. It’s not easy to stand up to the fury machine that is elementary school parents, and even the fiercest supporter of any cause will surely be wilted by their unending dissatisfaction. To this end, Maus could have taken the easy route politically and simply caved to the original proposal. However, Maus listened to the complaints of teachers and students and did not back down.

Secondly, the principals of the middle schools that volunteered to take the odious 7:20 a.m. start time should be congratulated for taking the high road. Knowing that high schools taking the time would spear before-school activities and zero hour classes, the middle school principals took on the burden of the earliest start time, in the process fostering goodwill between the schools.

Really, with the exception of the proposal itself, the whole situation that could have easily dissolved into name calling was handled quite well by administration. It can’t be fun to make a decision that people will criticize regardless, but the administration has defended RBHS from a start time that would be ubiquitously despised and made a stand at the right time to secure an 8:20 a.m. start time in the latest proposal.

Now the secondary schools and superintendent Dr. Chris Belcher must convince the school board of the validity of this counter proposal over the transportation committee’s. While the opinion of the superintendent and the principals of many successful schools should carry some weight, when it comes to the board, a success for this counter proposal is still uncertain.

We can only hope.

By Adam Schoelz

This opinion piece is labeled as such on the desktop version.

This is part of the Preparing for Battle ongoing special report. For more information on the changes occurring, check Bearing News biweekly for a transition update.

What are your favorite stories of administrators who have helped you?

The Planned Parenthood for Kansas and Mid-Missouri is situated in Columbia. Photo by Paige Kiehl

A camera slung on my back, the scene in front me played out like a silent movie.

A few picketers parked outside of Planned Parenthood waved their signs up and down; their eyes bore holes in my back as I walked past. Their judgmental stares almost made me turn back, but knowing I had to get an interview, I continued toward the single, glass door.

For her story on teen pregnancy, my broadcast journalism producer, senior Laurel Critchfield, had asked me to go to Planned Parenthood with her and control the camera and other equipment while she got an interview, and I had agreed.

Suddenly, the harsh, demeaning shout of a man’s voice broke the silence as he drove past in his pick-up truck. No matter what he screamed, yelling out of his window at us wasn’t necessary. How could someone feel the need to scream nonsense at us?

The pressure to enter the building heightened. I felt if I stayed outside any longer, someone would attack with more than words. I was being insulted, bullied and hated for entering a place that I didn’t intend on entering that day. Upon being inside of the building, all the terror went away and exiting the building was simple as well. We departed without another scream at us, but the uncomfortable, horrifying experience made an imprint in my mind.

What if I actually were pregnant and chose to go to Planned Parenthood for help? The uncomfortable feeling would have been a thousand times worse. I would have felt ashamed for even trying to get assistance. The cruel looks and the yelling would make me want to hide from society and run away in embarrassment. I can’t even consider the amount of anxiety someone might feel entering that building for an appointment and then the shock of being harassed would just heighten that fear.

The Planned Parenthood institution‘s goal is to help any woman regarding pregnancy, whether it involves keeping the baby and learning to live life with a child or aborting that pregnancy when the woman has made a clear and educated decision. As stated on the website, the institution is in place to “provide comprehensive reproductive and complementary health care services in settings which preserve and protect the essential privacy and rights of each individual” and “provide educational programs which enhance understanding of individual and societal implications of human sexuality.”

The institution is not a bad corporation, and it should not be a scary place to enter for any pregnant woman. There should not be fear that you would be attacked for going into the building. The association should make this apparent as an area to assist women in working out their lives and to help them move on, with or without their baby.

The experience did not just frighten me, but it also changed my perception of peer pressure. Peer pressure is not just in high school; it’s everywhere. Any person or situation can make you change your mind based on what everybody else thinks. Like in high school, someone could pressure you into not doing what you think is right. The picketers outside could compel a woman to change her mind because she feels judged or embarrassed in her situation.

The peer pressure I experienced made me want to turn back and not get the interview because I was scared of what people thought of me. Peer pressure is intense and can affect anyone because it hits solely at a human’s weakest emotion: fear. Fear can affect immense decisions and make you change your mind in a moment. The uncomfortable feeling I got was fear of the unknown and fear of what people thought of me. This feeling is not just solely mine but others’ as well.

Before my experience, I would walk down the hallway, not noticing my constant nitpicking of people and my judgmental stares. I could move on, care-free, because my thoughts were contained in my head and no one else could hear my comments. Such stares, I now realize, are as powerful as any comment. The stares can make someone feel pressure to run and hide because of embarrassment. A stare can convey hate and harm in a way comments cannot. And leaving the experience in my past, I can say that it changed me as a person and negatively impacted my view of  society and the judgement that comes with living in it. I became wary and self-conscious of people’s opinions of me and I now have a lesser view of humanity because of my experience.

By Alyssa Piecko

This opinion piece is labeled as such on the desktop version.

When have you ever faced peer pressure, in school or in society?

Photo Illustration by Asa Lory

Recently, a myriad of tabloids exploded with juicy celebrity headlines splashed over scandalous black and white photos on the glossy covers of magazines, detailing the renewing of a romantic relationship between R&B star Chris Brown and his former girlfriend and domestic abuse victim Rihanna.

Hollywood whispers weave amongst the star-struck population of America, begging the jaw-dropping question of whether or not a famously portrayed strong and independent woman could really be once again entering into the black hole of abuse with Mister “forgiving all my haters (even though they really all have the right to hate me since I’m a raging self-indulgent woman-beater).”

Regardless of whether or not the rumors are true and the couple really did spend New Years canoodling beneath the black and white, polka-dotted comforter that they were both pictured with on Instagram, the hypothetical rekindling of this passionate and dangerous flame disgusts me to the core.

It’s not just sad in the sense that this beautiful, supposedly headstrong woman is submitting herself to the same man who, only three years earlier, told her “I’m going to beat the sh– out of you when we get home! You wait and see! … Now I’m really going to kill you!”, proceeding only then to begin “punching her in the face and arms. He then placed her in a head lock positioning the front of her throat between his bicep and forearm. Brown began applying pressure to [Rihanna’s] left and right carotid arteries, causing her to be unable to breathe and she began to lose consciousness,” according to the incident’s official police report.

This alone should be enough to stop anyone in their tracks, seeing as on a larger scale, Rihanna — a public figure with a vast realm of social and cultural influence in a variety of age groups — is relaying a clear message saying “Hey, if a guy beats the living h— out of you, leaving multiple gruesome contusions across your face and body, it’s probably okay to just forget about it and date him again in a few years.” Its just domestic violence, ya know. No big deal.

But it is a big deal. Physically abusive relationships are a serious matter and should be treated accordingly, especially by someone whose personal decisions have such massive potential to shape the societal stigma surrounding such a subject. Girls as young as 11 or 12, who jammed out in their moms’ minivans to Rihanna’s feel-good hits such as “Rockstar” and “Pon de Replay”, are now watching their idolized female figure jump right back into the arms of her abuser. This sends out a message to today’s youth that physical abuse in relationships is “normal,” socially-acceptable and easily forgivable. These wistful young girls may be unaware that girls and young women between the ages of 16 and 24 experience the highest rate of intimate partner violence — almost triple the national average, or that half of youth who have been victims of both dating violence and rape attempt suicide, according to loveisrespect.org.

Although the possibility of this relationship starting up again is mainly pertinent to Rihanna’s personal affairs, she is not the only one being affected.  Impressionable young girls who view Rihanna as a celebrity role model may be influenced by her decision to go back to the man who abused her, thus spreading the mindset that this sort of pattern is acceptable.

Unfortunately, the trend of women re-entering abusive relationships is not uncommon. According to domesticabuseshelter.org, a woman, on average,  will leave an abusive relationship seven times before she leaves for good. This is not acceptable. As members of society, our words and actions all contribute to the stigma surrounding relationship abuse.

It is because of public cases such as Brown and Rihanna that women are taught that it is okay to stay with someone who physically harms them, rather than realizing that the pattern will likely continue and that about 4,000 women die each year due to domestic violence (domesticabuseshelter.org). According to the site, 30 percent of Americans say they know a woman who has been physically abused by her husband in the past year. That means that, hypothetically, about one in three women knows someone who is undergoing the violence endured by Rihanna in 2009.

If we speak out against abuse and remind our loved ones that these kind of relationships are dangerous and unhealthy, maybe there will be one less woman crawling back into the fists of her abuser, loving the way he lies.

By Anna Wright

This opinion piece is labeled as such on the desktop version.

Is the possibility of Rihanna going back to Chris Brown sending the wrong message to society’s youth?  Should the couple call it quits for good?

Junior Karina Kitchen prepares for Show Choir’s premier concert. Show Choir is one of the activities that takes place before school and would be affected by earlier start times. Photo by Daphne Yu

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This is a satirical piece.

BREAKING NEWS:

Columbia Public Schools has released a new proposal regarding school start times that does not at all contradict everything the administration has previously released or hinted at.

This proposal is totally in line with the research regarding teenager sleeping habits and does not go against it whatsoever. Research suggests that teenagers naturally feel sleepy around 11 a.m., thus, CPS has taken the right step in ensuring their high school students will be alert and awake when they arrive at school after waking up at 6:30 a.m. to get ready for school. If teenage brains start to digest information at around 9 a.m., 7:20 a.m. ought to be close enough.

CPS shows just how much they want high school students to succeed by making this decision. Currently, eight percent of high school students get enough sleep on weekdays, and in starting earlier, Columbia Public Schools Administration will clearly raise that statistic among our high schools. Students will obviously fall asleep less often in class with the proposal, and because they get enough sleep when they wake up at 6:30 a.m., students will start to score better on all standardized tests. It isn’t like starting later would result in better grades and test scores, no, perish the thought!

High school should start earlier anyway. As a high school student, I assure you, high school is far, far less important than elementary school. If, for some odd reason, there is an extremely rare student who will be more tired as a result of this change, the student’s entire academic career will not suffer. Obviously, the SAT and ACT cover important material learned in middle school, not high school; if this anomaly of a student fell asleep in class, he/she would not miss classwork essential for high performance on these tests. AP classes are of no consequence either. If this student was tired, he/she could easily keep up with such a rigorous, college-level class. It isn’t like college classes are more difficult than high school classes, after all. And, most of all, if somehow, we accomplished world peace, and there was a general trend of lower standardized test scores among our students, it isn’t like our educational system uses test scores as a ruler for success. The school’s funding will not, in any shape or form, decrease because of these purely hypothetical, poor test scores.

Not to mention, colleges rarely look at the high school years. This proposal wouldn’t make students more tired or seriously endanger their chances of getting into certain universities. And colleges hate seeing extracurricular activities and job experience. There is no other reason for CPS to have proposed such a schedule. Some students will have to work after school and into the evening, long after their extracurricular activities. Working these jobs might make students go to bed late and wake up early, but thankfully, colleges don’t demand well-rounded students who have job experience. Students who want a competitive application won’t need to work late into the night, only to awaken before the sun decides to. In this, CPS administration shows they are dedicated to making sure high school students are successful in post-secondary education.

I mean, high school is far less important when it comes to preparing for a career than middle school or elementary school. High school doesn’t offer narrowed classes for specific jobs. High school classes aren’t further in-depth or necessary for being an informed global citizen. You don’t learn how to do the essential things in life, such as balancing check books or developing math skills. In the grand scheme of things, high school-level information isn’t the most important part of public education. No, finger-painting and story time in elementary school are far more essential to become a successful adult. Learning about evolutionary theory or the thoughts of Sigmund Freud? Why not ponder where Waldo is or what happens when you give a mouse a cookie? No, we shouldn’t put any focus on the more advanced topics that high school students learn about. It isn’t like this knowledge is the necessary foundation for inventing the iPhones we carry in our pockets or the latest gaming systems in our homes.

Most importantly, CPS has finally committed to showing how they care more about sports than band, show choir or other morning activities. By starting so early, CPS has eliminated the possibility of culturing a successful marching band program or a stellar show choir. Despite the plethora of students who will chomp on the bit to march and sing early in the morning, the programs will simply take place too early to be feasible. After all, we don’t want students to get too tired! Not to mention, by getting out earlier, sports will have more time for practice in the afternoon sunlight. Finally, Columbia Public Schools can stop pretending to care about the programs and classes that take place before school.

Already, students and parents have moved behind CPS to support their decisions. Parents who voted on a survey about the change are pleased to see that the district has taken their feedback seriously. In no way are parents upset with the administration. Students have organized Facebook groups to attend the first Board of Education meeting discussing this proposal and show their overwhelming support for the district. Students are not hoping to change minds or organize a movement against this proposal.

This proposal doesn’t just help high school students though. Elementary school students will mature as they stay home alone when their parents head to their work, starting before their kiddos go to school. Alternatively, parents will get the excellent opportunity to pay for two hours of daycare each morning.

It is evident that CPS administration has put lots of thought into their decision and evaluated the possible outcomes. In this proposal, we can see just how much the administration cares about their high school students and their now brighter futures. We should all take time to attend the school board meeting next Monday and share how much we appreciate their proposal.

Further information is available here.

This is a satirical piece.

This opinion piece is labeled as such on the desktop version.

By Atreyo Ghosh

This is part of the Preparing for Battle ongoing special report. For more information on the changes occurring, check Bearing News biweekly for a transition update.

Art by Yasmeen El-Jayoussi

According to collegeboard.org, the College Board’s ”membership of educators” created the SAT in 1926 to “democratize access to college for all students.” Each academic year, nearly three million students around the world take the SAT, according to the site. And since 2009, the SAT has allowed students to use “Score Choice” to report scores from individual testing dates to colleges rather than their whole histories.

The College Board even gives you four free score reports. Four. It’s a savings of $44, as each report outside of the registration period costs $11.

The catch, though, is you pick the schools to which you’d like to send your scores before you see your actual scores. In other words, you throw away a savings of $44 or you send your scores blindly. The worst part, however, is the College Board sends your score after they come out, meaning, for a small period of time, you can see that your scores will be sent but lack the ability to even cancel those reports.

The SAT, for a mere $50, can demonstrate to universities your academic ability. For another $15, you can register for your next test over the phone. For an additional $26, you can change when you test or where you test or even which specific subject tests you take. If you miss the regular deadline, you can register late by coughing up another $27. And for nearly twice the price of the original test, you can just show up at the test center, and space-allowing, pay a whopping $94 to test. All fees are nonrefundable.

But these fees are arguably fair — they reward the well-prepared and reprimand the procrastinators, the uninformed and the inexperienced. The cost of four blindly sent score reports, however, is completely unfair — it punishes those hoping to capitalize on the College Boards seemingly gracious gift.

The College Board says it is “a mission-driven, not-for-profit” organization that aims to connect “students to college success and opportunity.” If the organization truly works in the best interest of the student, it should allow us to send four free score reports with less strings attached — we should be able to send them after we see our scores or at least cancel the reports before the College Board sends them.

Until the College Board allows students to send their free score reports after seeing their scores, or at least until it allows students to cancel these reports, $44 is a small price to make sure you’re happy with the scores you’re sending to colleges.

By Nomin-Erdene Jagdagdorj

This opinion piece is labeled as such on the desktop version.

Infographic by Paige Martin

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This past summer, America lit up her national spirit and celebrated her historic revolutionary success; I spent it drowning in the darkness of fear. Unlike every other year, when I let the glow of the July 4th festivities surround me, my family and I decided to spend it in the calm quiet of my home.

As fireworks, the highlight of the evening, drew near, we collectively opted to avoid the scalding summer heat and the massive crowd gathered downtown and settled for televised fireworks instead. After all, what is there that you can’t get from the internet and television these days?

However, as the sun slowly slid down the sky and our anticipation of the Macy’s fireworks rose to a peak, our plans for the night came to an abrupt end. A little after 8 p.m., the television automatically zapped off; the restless air conditioning was suddenly silent, and the only electricity left around us was from the tension.

For the first few moments, I didn’t panic. Power outages happen a few times a year for a couple minutes at a time. No big deal. I would have passed it off as “just a power outage.” But as the battery-charged clock ticked on and the sun dipped even lower and threatened to disappear any second, my mind immediately jumped to the commercials of a new series that had plagued the television: “Revolution,” a look at a world where all electronics no longer worked after a blackout.

I was petrified. In those thousands of seconds and tens of minutes, I couldn’t help but replay the recurring theme presented in “Revolution”: What if the lights never came back on?

I was sitting in the dark with an iPod and phone on low battery. No television. No computer. No internet. I was helpless. In those few seconds, the thought occurred to me that without electricity, there was no future I could see; the present held no meaning since there was nothing to do and the past would lose all importance. If the electricity never came back on, the thousands of photos, videos and other media I had halfheartedly chronicled, telling the story of my life, would be gone.

Eventually, after more than an hour of darkness, the air conditioner hummed back to life, the lights flickered back on, and I sat in the chilled comfort of my home with my life surrounding me. I caught the very last seconds of the fireworks, and while I bemoaned missing nearly all of the fireworks, it never occurred to me I was so close to losing everything else.

I had passed through life, electronically snapshotting moments I told myself I could revisit anytime I wanted to, and the same theory applied to experiences.

This way of thinking has led me to devalue everything else in life. What did I eat for lunch, listen to on the radio on the way home from school? It’s OK, as long as I have my phone or my computer, Facebook or iPod. Things pass by and when I try to grasp the reality, I only see the mirage technology institutes.

Technology gives the impression that everything is always accessible and at the touch of our fingertips. Cell phones, computers, iPads claim to be the bank of all important things and I have given in to letting them slowly take control of the things I hold close. But when in the few seconds technology’s power dims down, the true value of everything else comes to life.

By Daphne Yu

This opinion piece is labeled as such on the desktop version.

Infographic by Paige Martin

Little white lies. They’re innocent enough. Lying to people about how good their cooking is can’t really hurt them. And when you’re late, it’s much easier to blame the traffic than yourself. In fact, on more than one occasion, I’ve caught myself with a fib on the tip of my tongue.

One such time was when I was preparing to go out on a Friday night with a friend. We were getting ready to meet with a group of people. We spent the next hour applying our makeup and doing our hair at an extremely glacial pace.

As she put the finishing touches on her face, she turned around and looked at me expectantly.

“What do you think? Is it too much?” she asked. “More eyeliner?”

It took all I had not to word vomit on her. Truth be told, she looked like a raccoon with a rash on her cheeks. But what could I say? I couldn’t bring myself to tell her what I actually thought, especially with that look of hopeful excitement plastered on her face.

So I lied.

“It looks great.”

I blurted out the words carelessly. Not only did I lie, but I told her the makeup was “great.” I could have gone with a simple “good.” But no. I had to say “great.” She beamed, and I managed a smile back.

I would like to say nothing happened after that and we had a good time with our friends. But there comes a time when the little white lies become muddy. And there are consequences.

Not long into dinner with our friends, someone made a callous remark directed at the “great” makeup, something to the effect of her looking like a prostitute. And although it was just a poorly thought out joke, not only did my lie ruin dinner for her, but it took awhile to patch up things between us because she blamed me for letting her go out in public looking “like a bimbo,” as she put it.

When we think of little white lies, we mostly think of our own lives. While my personal white lies may be seen as minimal, my emotions were affected in one way or another. And while these white lies began as harmless non-truths, these non-truths have the potential to escalate into something greater, affecting more people than just one.

Last year David Petraeus, then director of the Central Intelligence Agency, began an affair with Paula Broadwell, principal author of his biography. But when Broadwell sent threatening messages to a friend of Petraeus, he ended their affair. Broadwell was called in for questioning by the FBI, and the affair was exposed. When the FBI wrapped up the case in November, Petraeus acted with decorum and resigned.

Petraeus didn’t lie about his affair, and he didn’t disclose any information that could threaten national security. Because of his honesty, many people still have faith in him.
Petraeus had a hard decision to make. Lying is often easier than owning up to the truth, and I couldn’t truly empathize with how my friend felt when I lied to her until I found myself in a similar situation.

On a Friday night last summer, I asked a friend to hang out. She said she couldn’t because of “family stuff,” so I stayed home.

But as I sat in bed with my laptop propped on my knees Facebook stalking people, a picture of my friend and a group of other people I vaguely knew from school popped up on my news feed. As I realized my friend had shouldered me aside, I became more upset. If she didn’t want to hang out with me, she could have just said.

I decided not to say anything to her because I didn’t want to come off as catty and immature. Confronting my friend was too difficult; instead, I gave her the cold shoulder.

She asked what was wrong, and I asked her if she had fun Friday night. Her expression fell like leaves from an autumn tree, realizing she was caught, and that her one attempt at a lie now caused a rift in our relationship. She explained that she’d previously made plans and was trying to spare my feelings by saying she was busy. She lied, but I might have done the same if I was in her position.

Although in both situations everything turned out all right, was there really a point to lying? No matter how harmless the lie, it just created trouble and unnecessary tension. I thought I was sparing my friend’s feelings, but it was just an easy way out for me. I didn’t understand the implications of my lie, and the effect it had on other people. It wasn’t until I was in a similar situation that I truly understood why she had been upset with me in the first place.

Whether lying about someone’s cooking or getting my homework in on time, I’m doing it to relieve my own guilt and sense of responsibility rather than actually having my friends’ best interests at heart. It just took me being at the receiving end of the lie for me to realize that what’s best is actually the truth.

By Ipsa Chaudhary

This opinion piece is labeled as such on the desktop version.

Art by Hyelee Won.

Most days,  my life with a Greek father is normal. Occasionally conversations switch between English and Greek, and we do cook with a lot of olive oil, but generally, my house is pretty similar to my friends’ houses. Around the holidays, though, my life gets a little wonky.
Instead of eating delicious cookies and fruitcake, leading up to the big day, Eastern Orthodox Christians have 40 days of fasting. That means a diet with no meat, no fish, no eggs, no dairy, no alcohol and no oil. It limits my eating habits to mostly fruits, veggies and some grains.
People have been fasting for religious purposes for centuries, so I never feel alone in the struggle. We believe learning self-discipline and freeing one’s mind of material distractions pushes you to be more focused on the spirit, not the body. For Orthodox Christians, days leading up to Christmas are supposed to be solemn and focused on preparation.
Greeks do have a fun December though.
I remember as a kid every year I went caroling, singing to all the older Greek ladies around town. In Greece, children go door-to-door playing the triangle and violin, singing happily, and when the song finishes, the business owner or neighbor drops coins or bills into their basket. Some historical accounts claim that caroling started in feudal societies where down and out citizens would go door to door singing in exchange for food and drink.
Nowadays, these little groups of jolly kids still collect money. Sometimes, I would end the night with upwards of $50.

While carolers here would blanch at asking for compensation for their happy babble, Greek kids use this as a way to collect enough money to pay for presents for their parents and siblings. That way, when Christmas day arrives, drowsy parents don’t open the gift and say, “Yay, a drawing. Just what I wanted. How did you know?”
Their voices become edgy, close to the verge of sarcasm.
But possibly the strangest part of Greek Christmas is my family’s Christmas boat, as opposed to a tree. Using small candles to light up the Christmas tree dates back to at least the middle of the 17th century, but this was mostly in Germanic countries.
The Greek tradition of using a boat instead is not some oblique rule about sacred trees, but a practical solution to a problem.
Greece is a rocky country and mostly dry, and trees to not grow easily. Cutting them down for one month of decoration may be OK in countries where they grow everywhere and easily, but this is not Greece.
As the tradition of lighting up trees spread through the Balkans to Greece, Greeks decided they wanted in on the fun. They adopted the traditions of lighting up festive displays with candles, but instead of tall Christmas trees, they decorated their fishing boats.  Today they are decorated with sparkling colored bulbs, and I remember going to Greece one year and watching the boats all docked in the harbor, bobbing to the tune of the waves and chants.

Then as more of the population moved to the cities, they took to decorating smaller, sometimes model, boats inside their homes. My house is one of them, and the strands of white twinkle lights that wrap around the masts light up my living room.
Traditional Greek Christmas is all about lessons — fasting, caroling, the boats — they all tie into teaching the larger story of the birth of Christ.
Fasting taught me to prepare for the ultimate guest, caroling taught me about joy and community and my Christmas boat taught me about the importance of tradition. Overall, they’ve taught me that holidays are about more than celebration and our brains have to be engaged to accept the lessons that they teach.
My Christmas is different; I’ve learned it is not about how you celebrate, but why.
Yes, I open small presents on Dec. 5th, when St. Nicholas comes. I bake melamakarona, not gingerbread men. And in my living room a decorated boat stands. Behind each moment, each tradition, comes a history and meaning, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

By Maria Kalaitzandonakes

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The flag in front of RBHS hangs at half mast Dec. 21. Flags hung at half mast throughout the week to remember those who passed away in the Newtown shooting last Friday. Photo by Daphne Yu

One week ago, Adam Lanza apparently walked into Sandy Hook Elementary School and gunned down 20 children and six adults. He had shot his mother in the head before arriving at school.

The weapons he used to commit this heinous act were a 10mm Glock and a 9mm Sig Sauer, according to the New York Times. In addition to the pistols, Lanza used a semi-automatic .223 caliber Bushmaster rifle.

In July, James Holmes walked into a movie theater in Aurora, Colo. Witnesses say he killed 12 and injured 58 with two Glock handguns, a Remington 870 Express tactical shotgun and a semi-automatic Smith & Wesson M&P15, very similar to the gun Lanza used in Connecticut, according to the New York Times.

These two assault rifles would have been illegal from 1994 to 2004 under the assault weapons ban signed by President Clinton on Sept. 13, 1994. This ban should have never expired, and since 2004, no attempt to renew the ban has even reached the floor of the House of Representatives for debate.

Opponents of such a ban say it violates the rights under the second amendment. The amendment states that “a well regulated militia being necessary to the security of a free state, the right of the people to keep and bear arms shall not be infringed.”

Now, the point of this amendment is to prevent the people from an attack, to form a militia. I don’t think that more than 88 weapons per 100 people in our country is “necessary to the security of a free state.”

An outright ban on firearms is not necessary. People with gun licenses, though, should still be allowed to own hunting rifles, shotguns and non-automatic pistols.  

However, semi-automatic firearms — like the .223 Bushmaster, which fires more than 600* rounds per minute — are not necessary for civilians.

Companies like Freedom Group International, which manufactures Bushmasters, designed semi-automatics for one purpose: to kill humans. They were not designed to hunt, nor to defend. They were designed for soldiers to kill as many enemy combatants as possible. There is no reason for a civilian in our country to own one.

We do not live in Syria. Our government doesn’t murder innocent citizens. We do not need to defend our liberties against a tyrannical dictatorship. There is no way, in our country founded on the principles of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness, that a president — any president — would attempt to violently repress the people.

So, in light of the recent events — according to the Washington Post there were 13 mass shootings in 2012, causing 81 innocent deaths plus the deaths of  nine shooters — we must look again at an assault weapons ban. America has about 3.2 gun deaths per 100,000 people, higher than the second-most by a developed country (Chile), which has around 2.2. It’s not a category we as a nation should pride ourselves as being a world leader in.

The National Rifle Association released a statement Dec. 18, four days after the shooting, saying how they feel “saddened” for the victims. Sorrow will not prevent the victims of the next massacre. Their “meaningful contributions” won’t stop another shooting.

While politicians like President Obama and Sen. Joe Manchin say they will propose a ban in the next legislative session, it’s hard to believe them. They are, after all, politicians. But we live in a republic, a representative democracy, where our congressmen follow the will of the people. So if we want a ban on semi-automatic weapons, then we should make sure our representatives give one to us.

Call your national representatives; email them; write letters; tweet at them; post to their Facebook page — make sure your voice is heard.

*The article original said the Bushmaster .223 fires 800 rpm. Only the fully automatic version fires that fast. The semi-automatic fires 600 rpm, still incredibly fast.

By Brett Stover

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Gun control has been a touchy topic for decades. What is your opinion?

Courtesy of Stazi Prost

When my mom told me that we were going to Paris last spring, you could say I was ecstatic. How could I not be? I had heard about the city my whole life. I can remember watching countless movies with Paris as their setting, seeing numerous shirts with “Paris” plastered upon them and listening to many family friends talk about their honeymoons in Paris. Paris was the place to go for amazing sites, for wondrous food, for sweet romance. It was the place you had to see before you died.

Because of these moments, the city had been built up so long in my mind. Now, I would finally have the chance to experience the “City of Light” myself. And even after traveling to several other countries before — Egypt, Panama, Czech Republic – this vacation was supposed to top all. It was a city of perfection, and so my trip would be too.

Yet, March 23-27, 2012 were five days in h—. My high hopes slid slowly down the drain. It probably was the daydreams about their infamous buttery food (an obsession of mine) that made me forget to consider one important aspect of the trip: the French people.

Don’t think I’m stupid. I had heard multiple times before that French people are rude. If you don’t speak their language, you might run into some trouble. I have to admit, I did not take this comment as seriously as I should have. Come on, people go to Paris all the time. There are always people who don’t speak the language. Parisians should be used to this by now. Why learn French if someone is only going to be there for a week or two, or even less than that?

But then again, don’t think I had “clueless tourist” all over my clothes. I did some reading beforehand, enough to last me five days (or so I thought). Like for instance, I always made sure to say “Bonjour” or “Merci” whenever I walked in or out of a store because French people are a little obsessive about manners. Other useful words and phrases were “Excusez-moi” (Excuse me), Désolé (Sorry) and my favorite, “Parlez-vous anglais” (Do you speak English?)” Again, it was five days. I was leaning on these phrases, especially the last one, to get me through the trip. They had failed me terribly.

Just anywhere my mom and I went, we were greeted with scorn. Whether asking for a directions to a museum or a place where we could buy metro tickets, once I said my first English word, their gazes turned sour.

I just couldn’t understand it. We were not being disgraceful in any way. We said “Bonjour/Merci” whenever necessary, kept conversation quiet and dressed nicely all the time. We weren’t rocking the Crocs with socks, an American trademark to some people. We did not at all behave like the typical Americans French people viewed us to be – loud and obnoxious. Was it really such a big deal that we didn’t speak French? To be honest, when I think about it, my favorite part of the trip was probably spending several hours in the Tuileries Gardens just sitting, soaking up the warm sun, because there was absolutely no French interaction at all.

Don’t get me wrong. Even though this was a trip through Hades, that doesn’t mean Parisians aren’t going to see me again. While it is would be easy to just label this trip as horrible and be done with it, the French people were really just one aspect of it. One wrong thing should not keep me away from France entirely, especially if there still were many perks to the trip. The food was definitely mouth-watering, and the scenery was to die for — I would do anything to lay in the Tuileries Gardens once more. So it would be stupid to not experience these things again simply because I refused to learn more French, even if I still believe it is inappropriate. Coming back from this trip, I realized that you should not let one little thing be the face of your whole experience.

 By Stazi Prost

This opinion piece is labeled as such on the desktop version.

Art by Richard Sapp

Quick Details:

What – Lighting of Columbia College 

When - Friday, Nov. 30 at 4:45 p.m.

Where – Columbia College main campus

When we are kids, the holiday time was a fast paced whirl of magic. Come December, Santa Claus’ squeaky black boots and big rumbling belly occupied my daydreams. At nighttime, I would fall asleep to the sound of the rapid tapping of reindeer hooves. I used to count down the days on my calendar with a big fat black marker, waiting in unbridled anticipation until the number would read Dec. 24 – Christmas eve, possibly the most magical day of them all.

Slipping and sliding over the wood floor in my footie pajamas, I fell to a stop in front of the toweringly tall tree and closed my eyes tight. I squished my fists at my sides and thought as hard as I could, “Cabbage Patch Kid. Cabbage Patch Kid. Cabbage Patch Kid,” or whatever my dream gift for that year was, over and over – praying that a jolly man living at the North Pole would hear me.

This magic seems to fade as we grow older. Maybe it gets squashed by the now repeating thought of, “Finals. Finals. Finals.” Maybe when we finally find out the white bearded man is really our well-intentioned, white-lying parents, it simply flies away. I guess it could just be the cycle of Christmas; we lose our magic until we have children of our own to pass it on to.

But, there are times when I am unwilling to give up this feeling: the toe-tingling and the broad smile stretching across your face that comes when you have an overwhelming belief in something enchanting. And there is one place in Columbia that will give it back to you.

Columbia College during Christmastime is perfect. It has white lights strung up on every possible surface. The roofs make little glowing triangles, and the sides of the buildings line the dark night. Here, stretching across frost-covered ground, is my Columbian castle. The turrets are majestic and seem to point to the sky, putting in a good word for the countless spoon-under-pillow-wielding children across the city. Get this: there are over 4,500 white lights in Columbia College’s display.

And as every royal place should, they have a beginning ceremony. Slowly, families cross the moat. The straight, yellow-lined “draw bridge” is very inviting. The lighting ceremony begins with the speaking of a few hushed words and a serenade of wintertime carols. The voices ring out into the cold night air, and one lucky elf hits the switch. In a single moment, the entire place lights up and every single person believes in magic once more.

Luckily for you, you have not missed this moment yet. It is this Friday! You can participate in this amazing community event.

Go. And for a few moments, ignore your pressing finals. Ignore the college applications. Ignore the scholarship deadlines. And all of the other things hanging over our heads, ignore them too. Look up at the lights as they click on, and look down at the faces of the kids who are still living in the magical moments of childhood. Enjoy the stinging on your cheeks from the cold. Bring a mug of hot cocoa and some friends along. Sing the carols at the top of your voice. This is something you won’t want to miss.

By Maria Kalaitzandonakes

This opinion piece is labeled as such on the desktop version.

Photo illustration by Asa Lory

There’s one rite of passage only seniors have the privilege to taste. It’s their 15 minutes of fame, their one glimpse of stardom: their senior photo session.  For those few, fleeting minutes, we’re the model, the Jennifer Lopez, the Channing Tatum. We’re the center of attention, the focal point in the camera. Senior pictures are all about seniors.

Or, at least, they used to be.

There was a time when senior pictures were meant to describe a senior’s story, show off how he/she has grown, depict his/her personality and the monumental achievement of graduation. There was a time when it didn’t matter so much if a lock of hair was astray. The senior was smiling; she was enjoying herself, and, therefore, she was beautiful. Pictures were real.

But our culture has embraced the “Age of Editing.” No longer is it acceptable for girls and boys to have flaws; Photoshop has made sure of that. A pimple is a disaster, and normal irises are a disgrace. Eyes must be edited to pop off the screen, exploding with color. Skin must be porcelain. Fat must be invisible. Natural backgrounds are ridiculous; instead, lights must be shifted; hues must be changed, and everything must scream intensity.

A senior’s face — the face seen and beloved by friends and family, each and every day — is lost in what is, quite plainly, fake.

There’s no longer any story behind the photo, no message to praise a hard-working graduate. Instead, we have something no better than a heavily-edited supermodel on the cover of Cosmopolitan.

It’s not a message that should be sent to teens. We are bombarded with images of sex, beauty and power, emphasized by stunning skin and impossibly luscious hair. Reality just isn’t like that, and the edited picture only makes self-consciousness and insecurity skyrocket.

Seniors should feel comfortable in their own skin, should walk happily into a photo shoot without having to worry if the photographer will “make them look good.” A senior picture should be the student, not his/her airbrushed double.

This is not a bashing of certain photography companies or people who like the artistic side of photo-editing. It’s instead a warning for those who fear they’re too ugly, too big or too plain to be a model. Senior pictures aren’t about impressing the crowd. They aren’t about getting a date. They aren’t about sex or clothing, perfect complexion or curled hair.

They’re about the grinning graduate in the cap and gown, with the lingering effects of senioritis strewn about their room. They’re about the last few months with lifetime friends, before diverging paths cause separation. They’re about symbolizing the last days of childhood, the last days spent cheering at assemblies, gorging on bake sales and shouting “Go Bruins!”

Plain and simply, they’re about you.

By Lauren Puckett

This opinion piece is labeled as such on the desktop version.

During my high school career, I’ve put myself through a lot of harmful things. Sophomore year, it was varsity cheerleading. As a flyer, I found myself falling out of mid-air, maybe into the arms of my bases, maybe onto the fuzzy, blue, not-so-soft mats on the ground.

Junior year, it was a common lack of sleep. “Junior year is what colleges look at the most,” everyone tells you. The academic pressure drove me crazy, and I often found myself up at hours of the night (or morning) no one should have to face, especially when those hours involve Pre-Calc and Advanced Placement U.S. History.

This year, it’s been band; a relatively small, non-muscular girl, waving my arms for an hour every morning as a drum major definitely took it’s toll, as in I’ve just recently stopped feeling the big bulging knots in my shoulders and neck.

But maybe what has really been harming my body the most this whole time is what I seem to consistently bring upon myself: breakups. No, I’m not the sappy, “Oh, my boyfriend broke up with me, boohoo, I’m so sad,” girl. I’m the girl my friends and family lovingly refer to as “The Heartbreaker.”

I’ll admit, the nickname is pretty well-deserved. Of my five relationships, I have been responsible for ending four. And the one where he broke up with me? That was probably going to end shortly anyway. So I am no stranger to the phrases, “It’s not you; it’s me,” “This just isn’t working out.” and “You deserve better.”

But looking back on all of the failed pieces of my love life, I have come to realize that what has caused me by far the most amount of stress in my high school career is this whole breakup pattern. I’m a girl, and although I can’t speak for every female in the world, I know I get very worked up over breakups, even if I am on the instigating end of things. I broke up with him for a reason, but I really don’t want that friendship to end. I don’t want to just go off and pretend like that past however many months of my life didn’t happen; is that a realistic way to live? And the line between trying to maintain a friendship but trying not to stay too attached is a difficult line to walk. It’s a downright stressful line to walk.

Do I talk to you a week later and try to see how you’re doing or do I leave you to deal with your own emotional catastrophe by yourself? Am I allowed to ask how you’re doing and try to have a conversation or is it too cruel for me to talk to you ever again after I (according to your friends) hurt you oh-so deeply? How am I, The Heartbreaker, supposed to deal with this situation? It’s hard on me too, not just you.

According to an article in “Women’s Health” magazine, the stress handled on either end of a breakup is not a fun thing for your body to deal with physically, as well as emotionally. If you have ever experienced a breakup, you can probably relate to the lethargy, lack of appetite and eventual desire to stalk the other person to see if they are faring any better than you are. But what you may not have connected to your severed love life is a sudden appearance of acne, high blood pressure, cold sores (because your ex essentially broke your immune system as well as your heart), and what’s more, your hair starting to fall out. It’s as if life decides, “Hey, way to go, on top of your boyfriend/girlfriend breaking up with you, the longer you keep caring, the more likely you are going to go bald!”

Having “been there, done that,” I can clearly see these breakup side effects in the history of my own love life. So the next time you are flipping the coin as to whether to end it or push through, or the next time you are indulging yourself on a tub of ice cream to fill the void in your chest, consider what exactly you are putting your body through. I’m not saying to stick with a terrible relationship, because God knows sometimes things just don’t work out the way we want. And I’m not saying a little chocolate sauce here and there is an awful recovery plan. But no matter how smooth and seamless the fall out seems, your body is still taking a toll.

Even the healthiest break up still hurts.

By Alyssa Sykuta

This opinion piece is labeled as such on the desktop version.

Entrance to the Alamo. Photo by Patrick Smith

As a child, I used to live in San Antonio. Even though my family and I had already moved to Columbia, MO by the time elementary school rolled around, we still went back and visited a few times before my senior year this year. Rio Rio, the best Mexican restaurant – where the waiting staff makes the guacamole fresh in front of you – an all-wood playgrounds right by the Harry B. Gonzalez Convention Center, along with bits and pieces of the Rivercenter Mall, represent the landmarks of San Antonio for me. Of all the places I visited once upon a time, perhaps the most mundane was the Alamo.

The first time I laid eyes upon the Alamo in San Antonio my freshman year, I found it hard to understand why I was supposed to “remember it.” The small, squat mission-turned-fort doesn’t make for a particularly impressive national landmark; if it weren’t for the long line of eager tourists waiting outside and the massive sign proclaiming its identity, it’d be all too easy to mistake the Alamo for an old, neglected and unremarkable Catholic church.

It was all too easy for me to brush the experience aside as a thoroughly uninteresting venture into an over-hyped and out-played chunk of American history. My immediate inclination was to look down my self-righteous nose at the crumbling bricks of the Alamo and its worn-out purpose as a gimmicky way of making money off of gullible tourists.

Four extra years of wisdom and an AP U.S. class later, however, I had the chance to visit the Alamo again when my journalism staff traveled 15 hours to San Antonio for the semi-annual National Scholastic Press Association high school journalism convention. And upon walking through the streets I once knew, the purpose and power of the Alamo really hit me with the full force of a runaway train.

People died at the Alamo. More importantly than that, people died for the Alamo.

It’s not something any of us usually think about: the long-gone lives connected to the architecture and landscape around us, the questions about why anyone did what they did; and the fact that we’ll almost certainly never know the answers. For most teens, there isn’t any reason for us in our day-to-day lives to take stock in the lingering traces of our ancestors’ actions that exist all around us. That knowledge is both acknowledged and feared at a subconscious level.

But for me, when I visited a collapsing, tiny compound whose true significance had been lost to time, it woke me into awareness. In the middle of a thriving city, I was stunned at how when I was younger, I was able to oversee the long-forgotten loss of life when I visited the final resting place of the once living, breathing men and women like you and me who seemed to have died for absolutely nothing.

Although at the time, according to my past U.S. history textbook by George Brown Tindall, people in the Alamo knew they were fighting for an almost hopeless case, on Feb. 23, 1836, they made their final stand against the Mexican army. After a 13 day siege, all 150 inhabitants were dead. In order to protect what they held dear – the territory Texas – people were willing to sacrifice their lives. And as a child, I had disdainfully looked upon that sacrifice without fully understanding the meaning of a life.

But there’s a reason that the Alamo is preserved today; because, by random chance, U.S. citizens remember the desperate, scattered hopes and dreams of its last inhabitants. The fact that the outcome of the battle at the Alamo immortalizes the inhabitants’ deaths isn’t what makes the venerable mission significant. What’s significant is the fact that regardless of how well they understood all the history and politics roiling around them, the people who fought at the Alamo cared enough about their cause to die for it horribly, holed up in the ruins of a church with no hope of escape.

And on a simple, breezy, fall day, taking a trip along the streets I once bounded through as a kid eager for only the visible entertainment, I realized the power of education, knowledge, understanding and, above all, caring. In one afternoon, I realized the life I am living does not necessarily belong to me, but the actions and sacrifices of those who came before us.

So after almost 200 years, the Alamo still stands. It’s a reminder, I suppose, of how much more we can make of life by caring. Perhaps that’s why we ought to remember the Alamo.

By Jake Alden

This opinion piece is labeled as such on the desktop version.

photo illustration by Jake Alden

Let me start off by saying, freedom of religious expression has been a debated topic in America for quite some time through arguments over actions justified by the first amendment of the Constitution. The government can’t seem to decide whether they want their people to have the freedom to practice religion how they please, or, if it is best to keep religion private in order to avoid conflicting views.

However, 15 of the cheerleaders and their parents bravely took a stand in Texas against oppression. They sued the Kountze Independent School District and superintendent Kevin Weldon because they considered their rights to be violated.

In my opinion, it’s simple. Just read the first amendment:

“Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the government for a redress of grievances.”

I think it’s pretty clearly stated; the government must respect and tolerate all religions whether they agree with their viewpoints or not. It is not the job of the government to control our religious views. However, it’s cases like this one in Texas that cause questioning of  how true our government is holding to this Constitutional amendment.

According to nytimes.com, Kountze, Texas is a small, largely conservative Christian town with a population of about 2,100. It seems odd that the Freedom From Religion Foundation (which was founded in Wisconsin) would pursue such a seemingly unimportant town such as this. The purpose of FFRF is to promote the separation of church and state, but if the majority of Kountze believes the same thing shouldn’t they be allowed to proclaim it?

The messages on these targeted banners weren’t meant to be at all harmful; from my viewpoint I think they were a way of encouraging and supporting the football players. One of the signs reads the verse Hebrews 12:1, “And let us run with endurance the race God has set before us.” For me, being a Christian, it is motivating to hear these constant reminders that God is always with us. I know people of different religions may not see eye to eyewith me, and I do see the argument that if you weren’t Christian this banner wouldn’t be of much importance to you. But I don’t see how it would be offensive unless it blatantly disgraced other religions.

The banners aren’t hurting anyone, they aren’t disturbing the peace, and they are just simple a way for cheerleaders to incorporate their religious views with their love for cheer. The girls are using their own money to buy the supplies for the banners and are using time outside of school to create them. The cheerleaders are simply expressing their creativity, not trying to convince onlookers to convert.

Rebekah Richardson, an 11th grade cheerleader on the squad appeared in court on Oct. 4, 2012. She stated to The New York Times that people of different faiths “can be offended, because that’s their right. But so far there hasn’t been any opposition to what we’re doing. Nothing but support.” The only negative response has come from the Freedom From Religion Foundation and the school district officials who are trying to avoid a separation of church and state lawsuit.

The school board should be proud of their students for standing up for themselves as they have. Cheerleaders of this small town school didn’t let opposition stand in their way. They knew what was right, and they are doing all they can to enforce it.

Here at RBHS, however, I think we have a great sense of religious tolerance. Posters line our hallways promoting groups such as, “The Light Bible Club”, “Muslim Student Union” and “Fellowship of Christian Athletes”. Though these are not school-sponsored groups, they are allowed to meet in the school and are open to anyone. Students are able to speak freely about their religions without having their faith or speech restricted.

When students are allowed to express themselves unchallenged by laws or regulations, I feel like they are more willing to be at school. Schools should allow students to express themselves religiously, artistically and vocally to allow kids to portray their individuality.

I commend the cheerleaders of Kountze, Texas greatly for their firm standing in their cause. I wish all students, as well as myself, were as driven as these select few students. It shows character.

As a school, however, it is very difficult to sensor the verbal hatred where the issue of separation of church and state is considered. We can establish groups to make those of other religions feel more accepted in a secular school, but I think it’s extremely difficult to prevent these groups from being hated on.

For example, RBHS’s “Gay-Straight Alliance” has become a popular club with mud-slinging from the student body. I’ve noticed students who tear down promotion posters and make fun of the club every time they pass by the advertisements in the hallways. As a school we’ve done a great job at accepting all views acquired by our students, but we need to start standing up more firmly for their causes.

I’m not saying I’m an advocate of gay marriage, but I do think that it is our right as Americans to have the freedom to believe as we choose. The students at RBHS need to stand up behind those proclaiming their beliefs and be proud of them for standing up against great opposition, even if they themselves are the opposition. We, as a school, need to make it our goal to insure that every individual who steps onto our grounds feels welcome and appreciated. The mud-slinging must stop, and pride should be more evident in the individuality of students here.

By Brittany Cornelison

This opinion piece is labeled as such on the desktop version.

I used to go with my mom to the polls early in the morning and beg the lady at the desk to give me an “I Voted” sticker. I would stick it on my chest and pretend with all of my elementary school teachers that I had somehow snuck in. In middle school I stayed after class to make posters and pins for our mock elections. Even in junior high I religiously watched the news and read the paper. I wanted so terribly to turn 18.

My 16^th birthday came and went and I didn’t get my drivers license — that didn’t excite me. My seventeenth birthday arrived, too, and although I could legally see R-rated movies, and was considered an adult in the wizarding world, I just wanted the next year to fly by.

Late this summer I turned 18. I registered to vote almost the same day. My excitement was uncontrollable. Every piece of confusing mail I received from the government added fuel to my fire.

But then this week came. Judgment week. The time when undecided voters, like myself, have to pick. And as I sat hunched over my too-yellow official sample ballot and my glowing computer screen I felt myself getting upset.

Local politicians weren’t too hard for me, although a few came down to some nitty gritty policies. But I got to the doozy, who to choose for President of the United States.

The ballot says there are four options. Barack Obama. Mitt Romney. Gary Johnson. Virgil Goode.

I sat, pencil poised to choose, scare tactic-ads playing on my computer, polls pulled up in another window, information that both parties had sent me laid out all over the kitchen table.

I got angry. I felt tears welling up and my fists clenching. This wasn’t what I had waited 18 years for. This couldn’t be. I wanted to be excited, to be overwhelmed by the sincerity of a speech, to think that one of the candidates could better the nation. I want to feel like the candidate that I fill in my oval for will make a difference. But I just didn’t believe it.

Voting used to seem so easy to me. Go into the p

Senior Emily Thomas laughs with soon to be registered voters in the main commons this morning. Photo by Asa Lory

oll, check, check, check, you’re done. But it weighs so heavily on me now.

I am worried. I am worried where the country – no, the world, –  will be in four years. Or ten years. Or fifty years. I am worried about the mounting debt crisis. I am saddened by the fact that many kids who spend their whole life trying to get out of overwhelming college debt. I am frustrated that wars are being fought on every front, often for the wrong reasons. I feel hopeless about supporting Medicare in the future. I feel wronged by social liberties being taken away. Natural resources are being depleted. Costs for a business to compete in today’s market are rising. Medical research is strapped for cash. Banks are closing. The world seems like such a scary and terrible place.

I feel a heavy burden. My vote is not the lighthearted gift I thought it would be but a heavy yoke of adulthood. I guess adulthood is like that, a grey world, none of the options are fantastic, but you’ve got to buckle down and make a judgment call.

I will never take voting lightly. My voice, even though it is only one in oh-so-many, holds weight.

It was hard for me to choose. And who knows, maybe tomorrow, in the booth, I’ll change my mind. Tomorrow, I won’t tell anyone who I voted for, but I will wear my badge of honor. Because to me that little sticker declares not just that I voted, but that I grew up. That I held back my childish enthusiasm, my naiveté, and swallowed that hard pill called government.

Maybe this wasn’t what I thought 18 years of life would look like, but I’m glad I made it.

By Maria Kalaitzandonakes

This opinion piece is labeled as such on the desktop version.

I encourage all eligible voters to go and cast your votes. Also, if you haven’t registered yet, although you can’t vote today  you can in the future. Please register.

RBHS students take part in defacing Hickman property. Photo by Riley Johnson

RBHS faced crosstown rival Hickman High School in football on Friday for the second time this year. During district play the Bruins traveled north on Providence Road to face the Kewpies on their turf, in hopes of proving themselves superior after a heartbreaking loss at the Providence Bowl.

The BruCrew, hundreds of fans and parents from both schools showed up at HHS as early as three hours before the game to ensure their seats and support their team at this thrilling rematch.

But this game, resulting in a win for the Kewpies, marked not only a loss for the football team, but also a loss in dignity for RBHS students. The truly shameful Bruin behavior outweighed the actual loss of the game when our cheering fans turned into a mob, displaying poor sportsmanship and downright cruelty.

About 20 minutes before kick-off, RBHS students were completely united, metaphorically and physically, as the old stands on the visitor side of the HHS field were swaying like waves at the slightest movements. Cheering and clapping accompanied RBHS football players as they stormed onto the field; this game environment replicated that of any game.

But as the HHS players made their run through their huge purple helmet, the profane attitude of RBHS fans began to show. Booing and stomping, though seemingly normal for a rival football game, soon turned into middle fingers and spitting.

The dazzling lights and the cold of the night only seemed to spark a larger reaction from both schools’ fans until half-time began when the HHS dance team took the field. The girls began their performance just as the Bruin Girls do at RBHS home games. The difference in this event, however, was not the dance routines. It was crowd reactions and the utterly shameful behavior which RBHS fans displayed that set this moment apart. BruCrew members instructed Bruin fans to turn their backs on the dancers to show disrespect.

As if these early moments weren’t rude enough, students  shoved their middle fingers into the air, and a blatantly vulgar mob chant began: “RATC—!” “RATC—!” The crowd screeched politically incorrect terms and hurled derogatory slang at the Hickman cheerleading squad as well. Not only did fans shout vulgarisms at the girls at large, but they also gathered people in a loud chant in an effort to verbally eviscerate a particular member of the squad.

The aftermath of a student’s urination on the bleachers. Photo by Hagar Gov-Ari

From this point on, any normally playful football fan banter crescendoed, becoming increasingly more profane and ultimately even more repugnant. After RBHS scored the first touchdown of the night in the opening drive of the fourth quarter, fans yelled and threw fists in the air, full of pride for their team.

During the fourth quarter, however, when the Kewpies scored a TD, which would tie the game and send it into overtime, a male RBHS student urinated on the Hickman stands. Though shocked and confused, no Bruin fan openly condemned his shameful depravity.

But this wasn’t even the end of the Bruin’s boorish behavior.

As the buzzer for the beginning of overtime sounded with fans from both sides on their feet, the HHS cheerleaders took the field. Another “ratc—” chant sounded from our bleachers, and a crude “Twerk it b—-!” echoed through the crowd. Backs turned once again, and RBHS fans began to break off pieces of the old Hickman bleachers, passing them around the crowd.

We tore apart and destroyed bleacher railings and paraded them through the stands. We beat on trashcans in a primordial rhythm to accompany our roar.

Once the game ended in a 10-7 defeat, RBHS fans’ cheering turned into crude screaming. The words turned into profane nonsense, and the chanting turned into downright savagery.

According to the Missouri State High School Activity Association handbook, the No. 1 objective under Article II is to promote “the value of participation, sportsmanship, team play, and personal excellence to develop citizens who make positive contributions to their community and support the democratic principles of our state and nation.”

RBHS fans did none of the above.

According to the MSHSAA handbook, any student or fan who takes part in misconduct can result in punishment ranging from a warning to appearing before the board of education. Said offenders would then have the possibility of being prohibited from attending future games, and violent acts may result in charges against an individual under Missouri law.

No Hickman officials at the game filed charges as of Monday; nonetheless, fans and supporters of RBHS should be ashamed and humiliated, not for our dignified loss as a team but for our distasteful and obscene attitude and misconduct as a school.

If RBHS students cannot control themselves in rivalry games, we should be banned from any future Hickman-Rock Bridge competition.

By Hagar Gov-Ari

This opinion piece is labeled as such on the desktop version.

Were you at the game? How did you react to the fans?

Art by Richard Sapp

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With so many people vying for attention in the blogosphere, 1 billion posting on Facebook and more than 100 million tweeting, I don’t think my voice can be heard enough to make a difference. People talk at the world rather than with it.

People blog about what they eat, whom they’re annoyed at and whom they’ve been in a relationship with for two weeks. They tweet song lyrics, blog about feeling sorry for themselves and post on Facebook fishing for complements to the extent it can be difficult to pay attention to anyone.

While I like reading the occasional blog about someone’s life, the sole purpose of those rants is to entertain, not inform. I have nothing against blogs; they are fun to read, but in the grand scheme of things, most ramblings on the Internet are insignificant and unimportant.

I’m not going to leave an important mark by blogging about the daily bits of my life: barely waking up in the morning, desperately sprinting to a late calculus class or sleepily doing homework into the wee hours of the morning.

But I don’t want my life to be insignificant. When I die, I want to know I made the world a better place, whether through an invention or a view, but how could I, one person, affect the entire world if I can’t even get the world’s attention?

Even if I got the attention, I still have a bit of a problem. Whenever I get down to work, I think rationally and logically, with regards only for people I am directly working with. As a result, I can come across as judgmental and cold when I’m just working something out. I tend to turn people away with my style of thinking.

With the dawn of the Internet, this problem only grew, as I talked to people largely over the web, not face-to-face. The ease of communication that comes with the Internet has eroded the quality of face-to-face communication; people just aren’t as used to it. When I compliment someone via text, they may see it as an insult without my facial expressions. This perceived negativity hurts my ability to talk to a global audience, even if I manage to capture the world’s attention.

However, recently, people have protested over a video on YouTube that is almost completely negative. When Nakoula Basseley Nakoula first posted the film, “The Innocence of Muslims,” on YouTube, I paid little attention. After all, what do the musings of an intolerant man have to teach besides hatred?

I sympathized with the protesters across the world, all of whom had good intentions though they chose violent protestations over peaceful grievance.

In my short, 17-year-old life, I had never come across a more morally gray situation. The protestors had all reason to object. They saw their religion mocked and derided, but they should not have killed innocent Americans. Though I understand the reason behind their protest, what I do not understand is why they resorted to brutality.

This video offended masses, caused the death of U.S. officials and destroyed the property of several governments. Protesters blamed the West for the video, instead of the video’s actual publisher, because of how their governments work. But in the midst of this chaos and destruction, I had a revelation.

Although Nakoula had made an awful choice in publishing that video, he affected people across the globe. When he spoke, people listened.

This man and his vile attitude showed me it is possible to affect a wide-reaching audience. People worldwide saw his video and responded to what he had to say. I hadn’t seen one person in modern times have that effect on the world before unless he or she was a state official or the leader of a significant cause, such as Mohandas Gandhi, John F. Kennedy and Winston Churchill.

Before Nakoula, I didn’t think it was possible for an average Joe to significantly affect a multinational audience, even in the Internet era. Unfortunately, effects can be both positive and negative. But I have renewed hope that I can achieve my desire to leave a mark on the world.

I just need to distinguish myself from the daily-life bloggers. Last year in Advanced Placement Language and Composition class, I learned people respond best to emotional appeals, such as the horrible ones conveyed in Nakoula’s film. I would stray as far from Nakoula’s example as possible in terms of the appeal. Kindness and justice trump over hatred and prejudice.

People don’t like being talked at. They listen and respond when there’s a conversation or when they feel offended. If I want to make a difference in this world, I need to feel for its citizens. I have a problem if people can’t tell that I care about what I talk about. Emotions drive all human actions; unless people can tell I’m emotionally driven, there’s no way they’ll listen.  Reaching an audience goes hand in hand with conviction and emotion.

Distinguishing oneself from the chatter of others is today’s challenge. I need to blend my logical thinking style with my personal emotion behind it. While the Internet has hurt face-to-face conversation, that is the only way for me to make a difference in our world.

By Atreyo Ghosh

This opinion piece is labeled as such on the desktop version.

What do you think? Is it possible for one average person to affect the world? I would love to learn what you think.

infographic by Richard Sapp

Click here to listen to Nomin-Erdene Jagdagdorj read her commentary.

My youngest sister dresses in skinny pink corduroys and Monster High studded sunglasses, owns a horse on howrse.com who apparently needs to be fed and prepares an iced chai masterfully.

She’s eight years old, 10 years my junior.

Her bedtime is eight o’clock on weeknights, so sometimes she’s asleep before I get home; she’s still asleep when I leave in the morning. So I get glimpses of her third grade life at the dinner table or on lazy Saturday mornings, on the drive to ballet or the walk through the Farmer’s Market, looking for honey ice cream and breakfast burritos.

The time I spend with my sister this year is often short in duration or plagued with distractions. Sophomore year, every time my mom picked me up from school, we’d pick her up right away on our ride home, and I’d hear about her day. But this year, since I had not made the trip, I knew little about the daily activities of her third grade life.

Finally, a few weeks ago, I made the trek down Providence Road and arrived in the third row of the North Lot at Columbia Independent School promptly at 3:30 p.m.

When we got home, we did not hurry to attend to our own activities. Rather, in the next hour and a half of conversation, I learned she had an open-note Mandarin test that was “hard even with notes,” that she thought her second generation iPod was “a little scary” because she couldn’t change the all-black background and that she didn’t like recesses when her friends weren’t getting along.

Her problems seemed so simple yet simultaneously so significant.

This reminder of my own worries at that age put into perspective my stressors now. One day, she’ll have 18-year-old worries, too, and by then, I’ll again be able to tell her how insignificant they become.

My youngest sister is a lot like me. She wants to take violin, even though piano, ballet and swimming already occupy her evenings; I want to go to that extra club meeting even though I probably shouldn’t. It’s just as hard for her to memorize the U.S. Constitution’s Preamble as it is for me to remember the integrals of trig functions. We both really enjoy “Full House” and our middle sister’s Nutella cookies.

But even with all these similarities, she has that little kid curiosity I seem to have lost. When she learns a new song, she plays it over and over again, bathing in the majesty of the piano’s harmonious melodies. When her book is funny, she walks around the house, reading the passage to anyone she can find. She has this genuineness about everything she does.

It’s a characteristic I hope she never loses. It’s one I hope I can restore.

Being around a little kid reminds me of how exhilarating it is to try or learn or accomplish something for the first time. Her new favorite color is lavender because it is pretty or maybe mauve because it sounds neat. And she wants to write Rick Riordan, of the Percy Jackson series, but she’ll only send a handwritten letter, not an email, she says. She’s considering becoming an author herself because she’s already written the first three chapters of her first book, “Pirates of Dusk,” although she admits her tendency to introduce new characters without really introducing them at all.

I’ve known all along how much my youngest sister enhances my life, but this sudden confirmation of it also reminds me not everyone can have the same experience.

Some can only learn a young child’s lessons from brief episodes of baby-sitting. Perhaps some will have to wait to have their own kids. Maybe some will never experience it at all.

But I can, so I will, especially in this last year of high school, possibly the last year we’ll be permanently situated under the same roof.

Next year, though we can Facetime and use the texting Application on her iPod, I might see her in person just on long weekends or even only on extended holidays.

Even so, I know our lives will be intertwined long after I graduate, long after she graduates herself, long after our kids’ kids follow suit.

She’ll be teaching me all my life, and I can’t wait for all I’ll learn from the perspective of someone a decade younger than me, someone who rode her first airplane at 10 months rather than five years old, someone who makes faces at Romney rather than joining the live chat of the debate, someone who will face the same things I have except in a world that is a little more grown up.

In the face of a 28-year-old, I feel I have little to teach. It’s interesting, then, that looking down at an eight-year-old, I think of all I can learn about the world. Reminiscing a full decade into the past is a reminder of how insignificant some stressors end up, how valuable friends can remain and how meaningful perspective can be.

By Nomin-Erdene Jagdagdorj

This opinion piece is labeled as such on the desktop version.

photo illustration by Patrick Smith

Click here to listen to Lauren Puckett read her commentary.

Lauren. You’re not Supergirl!”

I immediately froze in mid-stride, halfway down the stairs. It was a chilly February day and all I wanted was to go home.
Forcing a deep breath, I faced my smiling friend, who gazed down at me with a combination of amusement and pity. His caring flattered one part of me; the other part wanted to slap that stupid smirk off his face.

It was a bad day. Though my bad days are few and far between, this was one of them.

My body slumped. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d slept a full night. My mind raced. Between homework, extracurriculars and hanging out with my friends, an idle thought seemed absurd.

Worst of all, writing seemed impossible. I would curl up for five minutes in an arm chair, but I couldn’t squeeze a single decent sentence onto paper.

It was infuriating.

I just couldn’t seem to handle everything going on in my life. The phrase was becoming more and more commonplace among my friends: Lauren, you’re acting like Supergirl. Lauren, stop trying to be Supergirl. Let loose every once in a while. There’s only so much a chick can handle.

They always meant well. People were tired of seeing me beating my head against the wall, stressed to my wit’s end. But the cute little pet name didn’t help anything. My friends didn’t understand; I wanted to be Supergirl — I wanted to do it all — and no one was going to tell me I couldn’t. I wanted to seize every opportunity, pluck success out of thin air. I wanted a 4.0 GPA and a ticket to All-State choir. I wanted scholarships and my stories submitted in prestigious magazines. I wanted to make my friends, my family and myself proud.

That was my philosophy until one day in mid-April when I completely lost it.

I did absolutely everything I could to maintain a pleasant exterior. I didn’t want anyone knowing that, inside, I was going a bit nuts. I smiled politely to whomever I met, and I kept praying for a positive outlook.

But when I collapsed on my bed in the evening, I fell into neurotic bouts of sobbing. My voice was swollen, so I couldn’t sing. My head was fuzzy, so I couldn’t write. My homework sat in unfinished piles upon my desk. My ironically blank calendar glared at me from the wall; it wasn’t blank because I had nothing going on. It was blank because I simply didn’t have time to fill it out.

I really couldn’t do it all. Gee, who would have thought?

But when I lessened my workload, I felt guilty. I felt lazy. I felt disregarded.

Yet I was strangely, almost deliriously, happy. I was sleeping for once in my life. Fresh ideas began to pour onto paper with the ease of breathing. I stopped fighting so much with my family, and we had time to share our lives and lessons.

Finally, I found a chance to reflect. I realized the problem with our society views buis that “business” is viewed as an honor. Workaholics may be crazy, but they’re respected crazies. One of the first things colleges look at is how “involved” you are. Being busy translates simply to: You’re important. You’ve got it all figured out.

I discovered when you act invincible, people start believing that, maybe, just maybe, you are.

But humans aren’t invincible. We don’t have it all figured out.

We can’t live every day on cookies and caffeine, forcing our bodies to function, squeezing thoughts out of our brains. Life can’t work like that or we’ll lose ourselves in the rush.

So for the first time in a long time, I filled out my calendar. I arranged specific days for writing, for resting, for visiting friends and for family. I erased anything that added extra stress, anything that wasn’t absolutely necessary. I made long-term goals instead of stressful checkpoints. I stopped glorifying that infamous word: “busy.”

Maybe it’s time society did the same. I found life so much more enjoyable when I took everything in moderation.

So try spending an evening out on the porch. Make a few impulsive decisions. Stop judging other people for creating a little “me” time. Have structure without insanity.
You aren’t less important just because you have enough time for eight hours of sleep.

After all, even Supergirl needs her beauty rest.

By Lauren Puckett

This opinion piece is labeled as such on the desktop version.

art by Hyelee Won

India is starkly beautiful. The conventional hills and fields and rivers stud the countryside. But what makes India so gorgeous is the perilously tall hills wrapped in a patchwork blanket of red earth and a million hues of green plants, the way its sun-painted fields make a point of kissing the horizon, the way its darkly emerald rivers have nowhere to go.

But India’s beauty masks an acute pain, a pain so aching and subtle you have to breathe it to understand.

My family goes to India every other summer, and maybe it was just because I was younger, but the struggle saturating India’s air never registered with me until we took our routine trip there this past July.

Usually our month-long visits to India pass in a happy blur, and why wouldn’t they? We spend our days picking over-ripe mangos and papayas, trying to catch tadpoles in lotus-crowded ponds and wandering dirt roads overcrowded with people and stores: we’re living the good life.

But an excess of visits to temples (mandated by my parents) fill our trips. These visits usually mean long drives and, once we get there, walking barefoot over scorching stone or sharp rocks.

Needless to say, I am not a fan.

This time, not only did our visits to the temples fail to sit right with my aching feet, but they jarred with my conscience as well.

One of the temples we visited is famous in India and rightly so; with the main temple largely open to the gorgeously, wild outdoors, a massive wall of glittering, fire-lit lamps adorning the interior and breathtakingly intricate carvings etched in the dark, worn stone, the temple is stunning.

My mom told me that almost the entirety of the temple was made of gold. I think she meant for me to be impressed, but instead, my face heated in fury.

The temple was massive. Near where we stood when she told me, there was a pillar of solid gold the size of an oak tree that stretched past the cavernous ceiling and into the open sky.

What made this awful wasn’t just the gold temple, it was what we had seen before we went inside.

Getting into the temple meant hours of standing in the heat, and this throng of yet-to-be-solicited people meant beggars everywhere.

As we walked to the entrance of the temple, at least 15 beggars approached us, pressing, pleading with us to show them kindness.

In my mind, they weren’t asking for much, but when I tugged on my dad’s sleeve, murmuring in his ear, asking him to give them something, both he and my mom tightened their lips, shook their heads and pressed forward.

At one point a child beggar came up to us, his mother nearby. With grimy smooth skin and dark hair caked and powdered with dirt, I watched as the boy’s chapped lips formed an incessant stream of pleas, then I looked on, astounded, heart-broken, as my parents pushed past his wide eyes.

The few beggars my parents did choose to pull out money for were blatantly disfigured.

All I could think of was the awful juxtaposition of the solid gold temple with the pleading beggars outside; how in America, compassion doesn’t have to be given based on whether your limbs are tangled; how in America, you never have to worry about the number of children you can’t quite look in the eye as you leave their emaciated palms empty.

Once we were inside the temple, I demanded of my parents what they’d been thinking. My parents are compassionate people. In my mind it was utterly wrong to pick and choose who you gave your compassion to.

And when my parents told me that in beggar-riddled India, it would be impossible to give money to every beggar, that children were often used to manipulate people into giving money to perfectly healthy beggars, that no matter how awful it felt, you had to give money only to those who truly couldn’t do anything for themselves, it was little solace to my now-battered moral compass.

In that moment, I felt nauseatingly selfish. Things like volunteering –– whether it’s RBRO or NHS –– that so many of us do to fluff up our college applications felt fake and grossly insensitive.
I hate that I’m not always passionate about giving back, that the moment I stopped breathing the pain clogging India’s air, I forgot it.

Somewhere in the 21 hours it took for me to get from India to back home, India’s grief drifted with a sigh  from my veins.

It was altogether too easy for me to get used to the comfort of America when I got back, and it shouldn’t have been.

Maybe society overstates the message. We’re told we have to be grateful for everything we have in our country, that we have to give back passionately. But maybe, because the message is overdone, we’ve stopped listening.

An overdone message isn’t necessarily a worthless one, though. We owe it to every cupped, begging and nevertheless empty palm to heed this message to the best of our ability.

By Urmila Kutikkad

This opinion piece is labeled as such on the desktop version.

Photo illustration by Asa Lory

The pressure to be in a relationship manifests at such a young age. At first, it’s so subtle we don’t even notice the pressure. We mistake the feeling for disgust toward the opposite sex, which in turn plagues a few years of our childhood with the panic-inducing worry of contracting cooties.

That part is harmless.

Before long, though, the feeling grows more insistent. Giggly chats about crushes during recess, determining self-worth based on the number of valentines in your box on Valentine’s Day and the absurd elementary-school marriages so many of us have nostalgic memories about fill the last few years of grade school.

Our mothers are still cutting the crusts off of neat triangles of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches; teachers are still pushing our swings higher for us; we’re still wearing light-up shoes, yet we still find in ourselves the maturity to get married at eight years old.

It’s an odd desire we have at eight years old, to be grown-up and married and in love, but it’s not a surprising one given the influence of the media.

The pressure began to swell the first time I rifled, wide-eyed, through the pages of Seventeen magazine; as I realized with dawning horror that Fred and Daphne in “Scooby Doo” had a ‘thing,’ while I listened to The Beatles crooning “All You Need is Love” through the dusty speakers in our living room.

In middle school and junior high, these pressures began to bear results as boys and girls at school began to shyly profess their ‘like’ for each other and (among other things) hold hands.

My parents, strict and foreign, were adamant: I wasn’t allowed to be in a relationship. I always wished I could say, “But little did they know…” and launch into a story about young, illicit love, but as the close of each year found me single, I told myself I was too young to be in a relationship anyway, that no relationships at my age worked out in the long run. I decided it was better to avoid the inevitable heartbreak and nights spent gorging on ice cream and sniffling to my impressively extensive collection of sad songs.

But then I came to RBHS last year, and couples were everywhere, suffocating the hallways with their hand-holding and eye-gazing and lip-locking. It felt like they were forcing me to look at their overly-advertised affection, like they were deliberately trying to make me feel bad about myself.

I resisted the urge to pantomime retching behind their backs. You could say I was bitter.

But it was when the guy who I’d liked for a while started dating someone else that the pressure swelled in earnest and finally blew me over.

The situation is not uncommon, but something about the savage sting of freshly unrequited love mashed into the burn of perpetually unrequited love ensured the swift crumbling of my “pumped-to-be-single” attitude.

Something had soured in the way the ever-mounting pressure to be in a relationship affected me. So many people were in genuine, non-childish relationships now that I couldn’t rationalize with my lack of a relationship any longer.

All of a sudden, whenever I thought about being in a relationship, it seemed embarrassingly clear that if I were any good, a guy, any guy, would have shown some interest in me by now. To my knowledge, no guy had ever even had a crush on me, so it was clear what that meant.

A stash of thoughts sat hidden in the back of my mind; I worried over them so often that they were like my guilty pleasure, except they never made me feel good.

At first the thoughts were vicious and resentful toward my physical attractiveness. Maybe if I were actually pretty? Maybe if I attempted to lose weight? Or if I weren’t so awkward-looking all the time?

Then the thoughts lashed out at my attractiveness as a person. Maybe if I weren’t so boring? Maybe if I weren’t so incredibly introverted? Or if I tried to have a personality for once?

I never turned to extreme measures to try and change myself, but in a way, these thoughts that weighed bitter and heavy in my mind like an obesity of malice were just as self-destructive. I was clawing at my self-esteem from the inside, and all for what?

I was able to stop, breathe and take a much-needed break from myself during the summer, and even though that wasn’t enough to cut out the tumor of malicious thoughts festering in my mind, the break at least gave me some direly-needed perspective.

Wanting a relationship isn’t the problem. Believing yourself to be flawed if you’re not in one is. Being in a relationship validates neither your appearance nor your personality; it has no bearing on the quality of your character.

Too often, it seems, we forget we have an inconceivably long expanse of time ahead of us to be in a relationship, and instead try to live our present and our future all at once.

By Urmila Kutikkad

Listen to Urmila read it aloud here

This opinion piece is labeled as such on the desktop version.

feature photo by Erin Kleekamp

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NFL fans breathed a sigh of relief that their 2011 NFL season was no longer in any danger of not existing July 25.  Avid fans would be able to enjoy their Sundays with their favorite teams and players as opposed to watching ‘scabs’, or back up players, like during the 1987 season when NFL players went on strike.

So, naturally when the National Football League Referee Association began a lockout this summer prior to the 2012 NFL season fans overlooked the situation.  For many people, referees are just accessory officials who blow games with outrageous, outlandish calls and are easy to blame for a rough loss.

And then fans learned of the replacement referees.

Maybe it was just the fact that people needed an explanation to the combined two- to seven-week three record among the elite New England Patriots, Green Bay Packers and New Orleans Saints after just three weeks, or the fact that football is just not the same when a flag is thrown on the field essentially every other play. But the replacement referees were harshly and publicly scrutinized— for a good reason.

They simply did not know how to do their job.

Now it is understandable that having essentially ultimate power over one of the most watched sports in America, as well as having to fill the shoes of notable referees like Ed Hochuli and Walt Coleman, may be somewhat intimidating. But that provides no excuse for the jobs done by the replacement referees.

During Week three’s highly anticipated Sunday Night Football Game’s rematch of last year’s AFC Conference Championship game between the New England Patriots and Baltimore Ravens, the replacement referees called 24 combined penalties for 218 yards — double the combined average of penalties called on both teams a game during the 2011 season.

Not only were these frequent penalties a constant nuisance to the teams and fans, but only a mere 12 of those 24 penalties were deemed correct by NFL analysts for the The Bleacher Report, and at least two of the Raven’s touchdowns resulted from invalid, bad calls by the referees, including a controversial holding call on New England’s linebacker, Brandon Spikes, in the fourth quarter.  According to the NFL Digest Rulebook, a defender’s hands cannot be thrust forward above the frame to contact an opponent on the neck, face or head. And yet, according to the instant replay, it was apparent the Raven’s player was holding Spikes.

Yet, the questionable calls during the Ravens and Patriots game and over the past three weeks were not enough to call attention to the significance of the poor job done by the replacement referees. The pattern of poor officiating spilled over into the next day during the Monday night game between the Green Bay Packers and the Seattle Seahawks.  Bad play calling and adjudication by the referees graced the entire game; however, it was not until Seattle attempted a last effort, possible game-winning Hail Mary pass to the end-zone  that the replacement referees fully caught America’s attention.

Receiver Golden Tate and defender M.D. Jennings both made leaping grabs in the air for it and appeared to have both caught the ball.  One referee called the play finished and signaled for stoppage of the clock; another called the catch a touchdown.

While at first it may have seemed like both Jennings and Tate caught the ball simultaneously, which results in an offensive player catch, according to the NFL rulebook, instant replay and America would disagree.  After a long discussion, the referees called the catch as touchdown and Seattle won 14-12.  However, not only did the replacement officials not call one of the most blatant offensive pass interference calls on Tate right before the catch, but it was clearly obvious that Jennings intercepted and came down with the ball as opposed to Tate.

How is it possible that the replacement referees, a group whose job it is to closely watch the game for infringements, not only made the wrong call but also did not see an obvious game changing penalty when they are standing a mere five feet away?

The answer was beyond America and apparently the NFL.

Immediately following the Monday Night Football debacle, the NFL and the NFLRA worked to reach an agreement, eventually ending the lockout last week.

However, it was no mere coincidence that after three weeks of bad officiating and still no sign of agreement until America highly criticized the NFL that they suddenly worked to resolve the conflict.  The NFL’s reputation as a class act was in danger.

It may seem that the fault of three weeks of bad football and constant, poorly explained officiating calls can be placed on the shoulders of the replacement referees, it shouldn’t be entirely.  The NFL carelessly hired under-qualified referees to do the job.

And even though the conflict is now ‘resolved’, it really isn’t.

What’s troubling about the NFLRA lockout is that it will eventually happen again.  And while it may not happen with NFL referees since they have reached an eight-year agreement, it is bound to happen with another group of people, such as the current ongoing NHL player lockout.

Fans shouldn’t have to be affected by these types of problems.  Whether it is the NFL, the NHL, or simply another union group, it should not be a long drawn out process.  These groups should not carelessly watch these problems substantially grow, but instead immediately work toward an agreed solution.

It was not fair that the players, teams and fans had to endure the bad calls made by the replacement officials, and wonder if it possibly would have made a difference in the outcome of the game because the NFL did not make a great effort to come to an agreement and provide a solution.  The next time an issue like this rolls around, those who care need to make their voice heard, by sharing their opinion and contacting an appropriate person dealing with the issue.

By Jacqueline LeBlanc

http://www.bearingnews.org/2012/10/22/teen-feels-pressure-to-be-in-a-relationship/img_8617-2/

The Rock Bridge College and Career Village will be held throughout the school Oct. 5, 2012. Photo by Asa Lory

By the time we make it to the doors of RBHS, we’ve been coddled enough.  Our moms walked us through kindergarten; our homeroom teachers dragged us by our ears through elementary classes. It continued in junior high.

RBHS, I am begging you, let it stop here.

Even in high school, over involvement will not die. Our guidance counselors call home if an interim progress report’s grade is below passing level;  home access allows our parents to stalk our every homework assignment’s location. There are constant announcements, caloric intake caps on our school lunches and, possibly the most annoying of all, mandated meetings.

It has become too much.

This Friday, Oct. 5, RBHS is adding yet another mandated activity to the list. The latest offender: the College and Career Village. Its plan is to have an open college and career fair in the gymnasium and have panels for specific job types giving lectures on their fields. The program will be from 9:15 – 11:40 a.m.

Now, I am not opposed to discussing college and career options with students. Just the opposite, in fact. I encourage — as does almost every teacher at RBHS — kids to go to the almost daily meetings held in the RBHS guidance office. The meetings allow students one-on-one time with a representative of the college there to visit that day. What I can’t stand is when these types of meetings have enforced attendance.

For seniors like me, who have already chosen the college they will attend, it is a colossal waste of class time.

For students who have narrowed their school choices down to a handful, it is ineffective. The reps will be bombarded with questions from the whole school and unable to form a relationship with the interested individuals.

If those students signed up for the one-on-one meetings available through the guidance office, they could get advice specific to their needs and circumstances.  The kids who adamantly don’t care about it will skip out anyways. For young sophomores, who only dream about college now, the time will consist of aimless walking around the gym, asking things like, “Does your school have a cool campus?”

I will admit, for some juniors who are really just unsure what college they want to attend, and some kids who don’t know what specific type of career they want to go into, that the discussions could be positive.

By high school kids should be able to advocate on their own. We know our way around Google, and we have sat through countless meetings to learn about the Missouri Connections program so we would be able to find colleges and scholarships on our own. The Missouri Connections website alone, which all RBHS kids have been taught to use, gives us unlimited access to career exploration and profiles of jobs, information and a simulation on learning to cope with the costs of college and careers, college search engines and an almost unlimited supply of scholarship information.

Isn’t it time to take our motto, “Freedom with Responsibility,” seriously?

RBHS uses programs like AUT to teach time management. Students work as teachers’ assistants and run clubs to help them learn leadership skills. By mandating kids attend an all-morning meeting, which for some will be ineffective and a general waste of time, the school goes against these values, and the values of the students.

This year is a wash, but next year I hope meetings like these are not required. Set them up, allow kids to come and go as they please, even provide students with passes from class to attend the college fair. But enough babying; students know when programs will helpful to them. There is no need for this mommy-like force.

By Maria Kalaitzandonakes

This is labeled as opinion on the desktop version.

Photo illustration by Maddy Jones

Home football games are social events that showcase school spirit and student unity. After the hype of a win or the letdown of a loss, the school-sponsored night comes to a close and exhausted fans make their way out of the stands.

The inviting atmosphere will change this year, from sweaty RBHS gear to ties and high heels for the homecoming football game. On Friday, Oct. 12, Student Council will host the homecoming dance right after the game, as opposed to Saturday night. Instead of having a comfortable, leisurely post-game environment, students who wish to attend the homecoming dance will walk immediately to the school, where the dance will be held from 9-11:30 p.m.

Despite student protests, Athletics Director Jennifer Mast and Assistant Principal David Bones persisted with their decision to change the date from its original Saturday night to the Friday night of the game. This is because the Saturday night University of Missouri-Columbia home football game against Alabama State could cause safety hazards such as alcohol abuse, traffic predicaments and overcrowding.

Student Council had absolutely no say in the decision to change the date of the dance. Instead of coming to a student-represented conclusion, the athletics director and the assistant principal decided the matter for the whole student body.

The members of Student Council were elected to resolve student related problems. To have the decision concerning the dance made by the school and not by its representative body is a manipulation of the school’s promise of ‘freedom with responsibility’.

Attempting to keep the dance as normal as possible, the Student Council fortunately did have the power to choose the BruCrew theme, as this wasn’t a major decision involving the safety of students. Student Council elected to make the theme for this game formal attire. Students attending the dance will thus have the opportunity to conveniently transition from the game directly to the dance, which is still a formal event.

Although Student Council did decide the BruCrew theme and the theme of the Homecoming dance, the date of the events is just as important and the school should have left the decision up to the students.

If Student Council is supposed to be the voice of the student body, and that voice is vetoing moving the dance date, then this decision should be up to Student Council, since they are supposed to represent the opinions of the student body.

On top of the date change, the school administration bumped homecoming itself to the end of the season, so as to allow Hickman High School and RBHS to host the games on the same weekend of the parade. If the parade traffic isn’t considered hazardous, there should be no concern with the MU game; students will be no more nor no less responsible with their safety in parade traffic than college game traffic.

High school students should be given the benefit of the doubt. They can make sound decisions regarding traffic, transportation and safety without administrative babying. Moving the dance to the same night of the game only makes for a less eventful Homecoming and a less heard student body.

If the student council creates a scheduling committee, this problem could easily be avoided. This committee, just like all of the other planning committees, will be responsible for making scheduling decisions, because ultimately, this should be completely up to Student Council. After all, this is what these students were elected for–to make sound decisions that represent the opinions of the student body.

By denying the student council the opportunity to come up with a solution to school scheduling predicaments, the students at RBHS are being denied and ripped off of a chance to voice their preference. Student Council was created to represent students. ‘Freedom with responsibility’ is not really a privilege if there is only limited freedom.

By Hagar Gov-Ari

This is labeled as opinion on the desktop version.

A busy day in the RBHS library. Photo by Carleigh Thrower

Intense trains of thought chug from my head to my hands as my fingers click at the keyboard to let those thoughts free. It’s first hour, and while other kids on Alternating Unassigned Time are at home wrapped up in warm, cozy bedsheets, I’m in the media center working to the wire on a paper due second hour. The night before was long and stressful, and this is really my only chance to get this paper done. The students on the computers around me are all in the same sad situation I find myself in.

A teacher marches in to the media center, followed by a class, and that’s when my heart drops. I know what’s coming from experiencing it numerous times before.

Shouting with fake authority the teacher said, “All students off the computers. My class needs them. Again, if you are not in my class, you need to get off the computers now.”

Forced to obey the teacher’s demand, we dutifully log off, unable to finish our projects.

Teachers abuse their influence in the school by believing they have any control over the process in which students ‘dibs’ computers. The students only remained on the computer for a limited amount of time, yet the second a teacher enters and kicks them off, they must leave the vicinity, cursed to turn in late homework or beg a teacher to lend them their classroom computers.

The media center is a public area for students and teachers from anywhere in the building to use the computers as they need. When school work overloads students, and they want to finish something during AUT or need to use the printers in the media center, students should have that access.

For a teacher to claim the grounds of the public media center computers when labs are open and available is unjust. Teachers should not be allowed to reserve computers in the media center. The computers should be on a first come first serve basis. A teacher’s “because I said so” attitude has no place in the public space. They can plan weeks in advance when they will need computer use. Using their lesson plans, they can follow the rules and sign up for the use of one of the many computer labs RBHS offers.

Even when it’s a last minute change, they can check out laptops from the media center and take them to their classroom. The media center now carries the student portal, which allows students to connect to the wireless internet at
school and get work off the server. It enables them to work, just like they were connected on the server. The new portal system was a necessary investment for RBHS. Now students can get any work they’ve saved on the server of a school computer, on a laptop or any other computer. When it comes down to it, no one can stop a teacher and his or her class from using the media center computers if there is absolutely nothing else accessible.

The solution? More technology. Media Specialist Dennis Murphy said the media center has 30 laptops on the laptop cart, and RBHS is getting two more carts. The media center specialists hope for a one to one ratio of students and electronic devices in the next few years. Sadly, the goal probably won’t be achieved this year, leaving us to suffer.

Media center specialists recognize the problem, but unless RBHS gets more computer access in the form of laptops or other kinds of portable devices, the problem will still exist. Until RBHS gets enough new computers, teachers should only be able to kick off students for half the period.

By Julia Schaller

This is labeled as opinion on the desktop version.

Where is your special hide out to use a computer at school? Do you just bring your own? We want to hear how you deal with getting on a computer.

The view from Salim’s Grandmother’s balcony overlooks the gorgeous Bosnian countryside, overgrown with luscious greenery and scattered with small farmhouses. Photo by Manal Salim

Bosnia, a small country nestled within the heart of Europe, is filled with bustling cities and sights galore. Tourists and citizens alike visit the diverse markets, where the smells of spices engage with the musk of cultural cloths for sale. Bright scarves seem to wave a lingering gesture in the wind at the shoppers as they stroll past, as if luring the customers to buy them. All that can be heard is the usual bickering as customers bargain for an item of interest.

This can all be a fascinating experience in another country beyond what many have ever been exposed to. However, when I visited Bosnia with my family, the urban life didn’t snag my interest and attention. I longed to visit the simplicity of the lush countryside, where the air was fresh, crisp and soothing to the soul. For this was where my beloved grandmother lived, and where ironically, everlasting and adventurous memories were made.

I happened to find that on my visit to Bosnia, the tourism and crowded cities were not what I seem to remember most. Although cliché, I realized that good things come in small and simple packages. I would tag along with my grandmother whenever she would head outside to do some gardening. Following in her every step, I trailed behind my grandmother like a loyal puppy, my heart skipping like the manner in which I was walking and my eyes yearning for the experience I was about to endure.

She would lead me into the orderly and organized little garden where she had put forth excessive amounts of effort. Her chest swelled with pride as she presented to me where her afternoons of toil where spent. Together we would lean over plant after plant as the midday sun scorched our necks and aching pain would jolt the muscles in our back from being bent over for so long. Despite the diligence we were exerting, we would harvest each and every vegetable, and as each reward was plucked, we would bond with one another all the more. Sharing stories, jokes, and feelings with each other was simply our way of passing the time. My grandmother thought that she was merely providing me with an interesting experience when she was actually enriching the lovely memories I have of her and my trip to Bosnia in the simplest of manners.
Behind my grandmother’s coral pink villa, there lay rolling hills that seemed to extend forever off into the distance. These alluring hills and the mystery that lay within them caught the curiosity of my brother and I, and we soon found ourselves venturing off into the quiet hills in search of a serene area to call our very own. Nestled between the flourishing trees lay a vast field where we were free to do as we pleased. Wildflowers of every variety and color imaginable dotted the meadow like a vibrant canvas and were at my fingertips to craft into an exquisite bouquet.

Being eight years old, I was thrilled at having a place like this, where I could imagine being anything I could possibly dream of. I was a princess who called the field her kingdom. I was a fairy who hid within the floral grassland. I was Little Red Riding Hood lost in the forest scavenging the way to my grandmother’s home while avoiding the wolf. Far from the distractions of daily life, I made memories of my own. Although they were the simplest of activities that took place, letting my imagination run wild is a memory that will never perish from my heart.

I didn’t regret excusing myself from partaking in city shopping, visiting the historical ruins alongside a droning tour guide, or throwing myself onto stomach-wrenching amusement park rides. I found my ultimate contentment spending time with the ones I love. Many people believe everything must be extravagant in order for it to be enjoyable, but this is most certainly not true. Making memories of your own and taking the time to notice the little things are what truly matters.

I will never forget that once a long day of gardening and exploring eventually came to an end, never was my evening complete without relaxing on my grandmother’s second-story white-washed balcony decorated with engraved columns and intricate designs of curves and arches. Off into the distance lay a bountiful cherry tree, plump with ripe cherries upon it just yearning to be picked. Beyond the tree was the boasting city of Sarajevo, where the aged, stone buildings sat as they had for countless years, withstanding the pounding storms and baking in the inconsiderate heat.

Finally, there were the snow-capped mountains, tinted with an orange hue from the golden glow of the setting sun. As I sat there watching the evening unfold, my mind was whipping with all the things I could do before my glorious trip was to come to an end. I promised myself that once I returned to the states, I wouldn’t beg to be entertained in an extravagant manner for I was aware that the events that would take place wouldn’t mean all that much to me. Rather, I learned to be appreciative and enjoy what I have and what I should value most. Now I know, the next time I am presented two packages, one enormous and great and the other small and unassuming, I will be picking the latter, aware of all the cherished memories and experiences I will endure.

By Manal Salim

This is labeled as opinion on the desktop version.

At a closed fundraiser earlier this year, Republican presidential candidate Mitt Romney shared some of his personal opinions-opinions that he himself thinks will alienate voters.

In a video leaked earlier this week by the investigative website Mother Jones, who didn’t release date of the fundraiser nor the filmer of the video, Romney said 47 percent of the people will vote for the president no matter what. (According to Mother Jones, the recording device was inadvertently turned off between these two segments.)

He says that these are people who “believe the government has a responsibility to care for them, who believe that they are entitled to health care, to food, to housing, to you-name-it.”

According to him, these people also “pay no income tax.”

Let me point out now that while his percentage is true, the real amount of Americans who dodge taxes is much smaller. According to the Tax Policy Center, about two-thirds (28.3 percent) paid federal payroll taxes in 2011, taxes similar to income taxes. Also, 10.3 percent were elderly, and 6.9 percent were non-elderly but had an annual income of less than $20,000. This leaves less than 1 percent of Americans dodging taxes.

And here’s the kicker.

Romney said, “My job is is not to worry about those people. I’ll never convince them they should take personal responsibility and care for their lives.”

Really? I know he was talking to a bunch of millionaires who probably don’t care all that much about the poor and disenfranchised, but he couldn’t even pretend to care about his fellow citizens. These people account for almost half of the the population of the country he wants to rule for four years, and he says his job “is not to worry about those people”?

If Romney is elected, and I hope to the contrary, let us hope that he doesn’t leave 47 percent of Americans behind to suffer on their own.

So let’s not let this happen. For the sake of you and your fellow Americans vote for Obama this November. And if you aren’t yet 18, make sure your parents, relatives and friends know who will help lead all Americans to a better tomorrow.

Feature photo by Jacqueline LeBlanc

When I was 5 years old and in kindergarten, I had my first ever crush.

His name was Colin, and he was the epitome of dreamy. At 3 foot 9 inches, sporting sandy brown hair and the desirable 64 pack of crayons – with the built in sharpener- Colin sent a whirlwind of butterflies fluttering through my stomach.

I didn’t like Colin because he was nice, smart or sensible, for he was none of the above; instead, my adoration of him found its roots in the rude names by which he called me during recess, the way he once pushed me off of the jungle gym and his ongoing insistence that cooties plagued me with “grossness.” The meaner Colin was, the more enchanting he became, and the more hours I spent fantasizing about the next time he might trip me on the wood chips.

My infatuation only grew stronger as he began to rebel by using awful curse words such as “stupid” or by sticking his tongue out at our teacher behind her back. And when he punched my best friend Rachel in her stomach after she told him about how I longed to kiss him in the treehouse, he officially captivated my heart.

You see, my affection for Colin stemmed from a part of myself that- even at the ripe age of 5- was already in clear control of my love life: my bad-boy complex. It’s the little voice that exists inside of every girl, screaming, “If he’s a reckless jerk, then YOU WANT HIM!”

In an ideal world, girls would go for the sweet, smart, respectable men who would always treat them right and stray away from wrongdoing. I should have been repulsed by Colin’s bad-boy persona and instead become enamored with the nice, nerdy guy who always shared his goldfish with me during snack time.

Unfortunately, this is not the way women think and the phrase “nice guys finish last” has proven true time and time again. In the second grade, it was Trenton, who used far too much hair gel and cheated off of my math homework nearly every day.  In the fourth grade, it was Jackson, who was rumored to have once used the s-word in the presence of a teacher.

And come high school, every guy that drew my attention was practically the poster child for “the boy that your mother warned you about”. It’s not because we girls enjoy being made to feel inferior or are enchanted by delinquents of the law – I certainly don’t. But every girl is subconsciously attracted to the challenges being posed by a rule-breaker with an “I don’t give an F” attitude. Without even realizing it, we begin to crave their validation and appreciation, longing to untangle the intriguing mystery beneath that fraying leather jacket.

So, is the bad-boy complex a voluntary choice of attraction? No. But is it present in every single girl, regardless of whether or not she wants to admit it? Absolutely.

Although this may come as devastating news to the dorkier, four-eyed fellows of the world, guys lacking this “bad-boy” appeal should cease to panic. If anything, they should be glad that they aren’t, at heart, as morally repugnant as those who have such sexy rebellion in their nature. Any guy who wants to can possess the allure of a bad-boy simply by toning down their overwhelming nice-guy facade and leaving a little room for a girl to become enticed.

I don’t mean you should turn into a complete jerk overnight, but embracing your charmingly brazen side once in awhile can definitely help your case. After all, Mr. Right and Mr. Always-does-what’s-right are two very different people.

By Anna Wright

This is labeled as opinion on the desktop version.

Today in Greece, millions struggle to find employment, argue over entitlement reform and stabilize the future of the country and their families.

I spent the summer observing these conflicts firsthand, and although I have hope for Greece my summer there cemented my worries about its future.

Photos and words by Maria Kalaitzandonakes

Additional Reporting by Adam Schoelz

The financial crisis is not isolated to Greece, we have seen impacts in Columbia as well. Tell us your story in the comments below.

[Show as slideshow]

Toby Keith is just one country artist Jake can’t stand. Image used under fair right

I do not like modern country music. Not at all. I listen to a pretty diverse range of music genres but I’ve never been able to enjoy the likes of Toby Keith, Kenny Chesney or Miranda Lambert, and I have to wonder why that is.

But it’s only recent country music that I can’t seem to enjoy. Johnny Cash, a country classic dating back to the ‘50s, is one of my favorite artists of all time. I also love a multitude of bluegrass and folk bands, two genres that share their roots with the country music of today. At first glance what’s the difference? Has country music really changed all that much?

As a matter of fact, it’s changed quite a lot. For one thing, most modern country bands tend to eschew the instruments often associated with rural American music, shutting the door on the soulful sound of a wailing harmonica, the piercing cry of a well-tuned fiddle or the familiar twang of a banjo. For the most part, modern country music relies heavily on lead vocalists such as Toby Keith or Kenny Chesney in order to carry its songs.

Lyrics are probably one of the most aggravating things about modern day country music. At first glance, these lyrics seem to be an extremely positive portrayal of country music’s homeland. If you’ve listened to almost any modern day country music, you’ll see that its songs support a very traditional image of the rural Midwest and South, painting a classic picture of good ol’ fashioned blue collar men leading a simple life. Isn’t that the image of our region that we want to espouse?

No, it’s not. You see, in truth, country music has always been about the rural man’s present and what’s going on in the here-and-now of the Midwest and South, while bluegrass and folk have been about preserving our past and honoring our heritage. The problem with country music’s message about the present day situation in rural America is that it’s idealized, uninformed and ignorant.

The ideal that modern country music promotes is an over-idealized image of the rural United States. It shows all the positives of rural culture while at the same time showcasing none of the negatives. It almost never takes a look at the larger picture of what’s going on in the U.S. and the world at large, instead it advocates retaining our strictly rural heritage in the modern age.

A recent example is the song “Fly Over States” by Jason Aldean. While espousing the virtues of Midwestern and Southern life, it conveniently overlooks issues such as under-education, social intolerance and the meth trade, much like all of Aldean’s music and all of modern country music as a whole.

The main social ill of the Midwestern and Southern United States is a lack of acceptance for those who are different — liberals, blacks, gays, Muslims. The idea a traditional rural lifestyle is the only one our region can tolerate isn’t an idea we can afford to enforce.

To be perfectly clear, this by no means suggests we shouldn’t honor or respect our heritage, and I have to confess that the occasion has all too often arisen when I’ve perhaps become a bit too disenfranchised with rural American culture. There are a lot of great things about the region of the world in which we live, but there are a lot of terrible things about it, too.

I honestly believe acceptance is one of the most important things we can offer to our neighbors, but I suppose that ultimately, my dislike of country music stems from one group I really have trouble accepting: white rural Americans opposed to change and the rocognition of the faults of the Midwest.

But that’s my problem to fix, and I suppose that the same goes for modern country music.

I hope that the genre evolves into an accurate reflection of the current state of its homeland and begins to promote a more accepting viewpoint, but it falls to me, in the meantime, to try and tolerate it and accept it for what it is.

by Jake Alden

This is labeled as opinion on the desktop version.

They had enough money to buy everything they desired and going to work must have been better than going to school. I wanted to be just like them. I wanted to be an adult, and I didn’t want to spend 18 years being a kid.

I was four years old when I first believed I should be treated like an adult. After sitting in my playroom contemplating life, I walked to the living room and asked my father a question. I looked him straight in the eye and requested his permission to run away. His smile immediately faded and he quickly ushered my mother to his side. I guess my four-year-old mind did not understand that running away was not something you ask your parent’s permission for, nor was it the same thing as moving out.

So while I sulked back to my playroom and continued to watch “Arthur,” I concluded that maybe another day I would finally be old enough to “run away.”

As I grew older and exchanged friendship bracelets with my best friends, plastered posters of Dylan and Cole Sprouse on my wall and discussed the upcoming episode of “That’s So Raven” on my telephone in the living room, I decided that even though I was only 11 years old, I was pretty much already grown up.

I tried to convince my parents I was old enough to go to the mall and watch PG-13 movies by myself and left in a huff when they said I was not, in fact, old enough and they would be accompanying me.

I wanted to straighten my hair, and wear makeup and shop in the junior’s department at the mall. I craved to hang out with the bigger kids and hated when I was brushed off as a mere child. I hated when I was seated at the kid’s table during Thanksgiving, as the adults told jokes and discussed scholarly issues. I was chagrined when I had to wait for my parents to pick me up because they didn’t think I was ready to drive by myself.

All I wanted was to be older and feel grown up. Life would be more exciting and lavish if I was older. I would be able to do as I pleased and not have to worry about anything. And somehow, maybe if I were older, it would make me feel more important.

My parents always told me not to wish my childhood away — that being grown up is not all it’s cracked up to be and someday when I’m grown up I’m going to wish I was a kid again. However, after every warning, I simply smiled and nodded my head in agreement but deep down I was still unsure.

Yet as I sit at my desk, staring at a multitude of thick SAT workbooks and piles of homework while seeking an ounce of motivation to do my work, I wish I took my parent’s advice to heart. For years all I wanted was to be grown up and now that I’ve almost reached that time, I wish I could be a kid for a little bit longer. I wish that I could spend my whole weekend brushing my Barbie’s hair and playing games with my sisters. I wish I could ride my bike during the summer, and not have to worry about any type of responsibility whatesoever.

It seemed like I was a little kid forever and a teenager for the shortest amount of time. Childhood has passed in a flash and even though I spent an entire 17 years of my life having fun and gaining wonderful memories and experiences, I wish that it could last just a little bit longer.

by Jacqueline LeBlanc

This is labeled as opinion on the desktop version.

Vacant eyes sat sunken in translucent skin, holding back tears whose release was long delayed. 57 pounds fat. I thought to myself, disgusted by the number being read on the scale below. All I want is to be beautiful.

This night was no different from the rest. I was only 11 years of age, and weighing myself had already become a part of my nightly routine. Locked in my mother’s cold tile bathroom, I would stare at the scale’s pixilated number and review all that I had eaten over the last several days. One half cup of dry bran flakes, 90 calories. A wheat tortilla, 120 calories. An apple which I had barbarically devoured down to half of the core, 80 calories.

Every bite I took made me a failure. Each moved me one swallow further from perfection. Barely emerging into the rocky years of adolescence, my eating disorder had already sent my life spinning out of control. I was physically and emotionally depleted and subjected myself daily to five miles on the treadmill and a diet of only low-calorie, low-fat food.

Growing up I never expected I would wind up as an anorexic pre-teen. I was a carefree young girl who enjoyed anything laden with sugar and was convinced that ‘calorie’ was simply the adult word for some unit of money.

Entering middle school, however, I began to see food as the enemy. Flipping through Teen Vogue magazine, I would compare myself to the slender elegant models whose bodies appeared so beautiful compared to my own 4 foot, 9 inch mass of gangly limbs and baby fat. I began to take note of the calories in the food I consume, swapping out potato chips for fruit and ice cream for low fat yogurt. Each day after school, I would jog around my neighborhood, reminding myself that no amount of physical pain compared to the value of physical perfection.

When the weight began to come off, I remember feeling elated with joy. Three pounds thinner and that much closer to looking like the airbrushed celebrities who pranced around half-naked during television commercials.

Soon, however, I had lost 33 pounds and was slipping into a dark abyss of hopelessness and depression. The nutrition facts label had practically become the logo for my everyday life and no amount of physical activity or food deprivation was able to bestow me with a much-desired sense of control. I was falling fast. The girl who once loved brownie batter and barbecue chips had morphed into a limp, 60 pound pile of bones and scaly skin.

By this time, my eating disorder had hit rock bottom and my family had left me with no choice but to receive the help I needed. I remember the nights of family strain through a blur of dizziness and tears. The sound of my mother’s muffled sobs and the desperate yelling of my father, as he insisted that I eat the food remaining on my dinner plate. Before long, I found myself wallowing in the office of an adolescent specialist, the protruding vertebrae of my spine driving into the back of the plastic chair on which I sat. I felt a lump forming in my throat as the doctor spoke gently of an eating plan, of 4 meals per day and regular high-calorie snacks. I heard something said about the prohibiting of exercise and the dam holding back my tears snapped. Bawling and desperate I trembled with fear, pleading to go home, imploring to return to my quest for beauty and perfection.

Over time, with counseling and support from my parents, sister and team of doctors, I was able to heal not only my body, but my mind as well. I learned to accept that my previous behavior and mindset was not healthy or rational, and that I could never obtain control over my life by starving my body of nourishment.

More than anything, I will forever possess gratitude for realizing that the illusive concept of perfection does not exist. No matter how often we are exposed to its standards, it is vital that we remind one another that beauty does not lie in the number of inches around your waist. Beauty is the ability to stay strong through times of desperation and to hold a middle finger up to society’s ideals, telling the world that you are magnificent just the way you are.

By Anna Wright

This is labeled as opinion on the desktop version.

The words were nothing spectacular; in fact, they’re often said. But the attitude they rang with and the kindness of a friend were enough to make me realize that a person’s character can make things happen.

While high school threatened to swallow me whole in homework, stress and unexpected disappointment, the nice words of a friend helped me see the good and light of life again.

Over the years, the days I see the effects of kindness first-hand are the moments that have revealed to me the value of being kind. Kindness revealed itself to be more than just an action, just something people were expected to have.

Being nice transformed itself into a valuable piece of potential, one with the strength to draw happiness.

People are the only ones with the power to evoke change. This power is easy and disposable. They can ruin a day or make a day. Break a heart or build a future. Ruin self-esteem with one sour remark or set someone’s confidence on fire for days.

People are the only creatures on earth who hold the power to knowingly affect an outcome.

Why then, does it seem, we are not taking our roles as “people” seriously enough?

They who bring us both joy and pain are the key to transforming oneself from an ambiguous figure sketched on life’s face to something deserving of self-fulfillment.

People enjoy and relate to others who are considerate and understanding. Be a person who others want to be with.

People are meant to have a fair chance to carry out their personal goals, dreams, to love what’s attainable, to be a person who helps. People care.

The world consists of roughly 6,995,884,902 people as of now, according to the U.S. Census Bureau. About 313,059,085 of these people live in America, a place where the simple lives we have should be forced to reveal themselves as the opportunity they are.

Each person in this country, every single one, holds an amazing power and potential; each one is unique.

On Saturdays when I get up early to help with a team of Special Olympics bowlers, I force myself to think of this personal purpose and all it does.

Of course it would be lovely to get more sleep and seclude myself from the rest of the world on a Saturday morning, but the satisfaction that comes from seeing a group of less-abled people’s joy overrides my own selfish wishes.

My small act of service is a tiny contribution to an organization that makes it possible for these bowlers to look forward to and immensely enjoy each and every Saturday morning.

It may be difficult, confusing, scary to sort through this power once one realizes it’s there, but the goals and values found beneath the weight of decisions put worth into lives.

Life gives people what they need to become who they are. As I age, I hope not to let down the strengths life has graced me with. I can only hope and try my best to do them justice.

I intend to use the power I have to the world’s greatest advantage.

This is one of the only times a person has the ability to be in complete control of life.

Actions, words, thoughts, emotions — people are who they choose to be. You are who you choose to be.

This enlightening realization has given me the spark I need, a spark everyone needs, to push forward and to live with a happy, satisfying purpose.

So you fulfill whatever you choose. Everyone has the potential to be a kind person. To be a person who will make life better for others. To be a person who makes happiness.

By Abbie Powers

This is labeled as opinion on the desktop version.

Art by Theresa Whang

“Rock Bridge high! Rock Bridge low! Rock Bridge rocks wherever they go!” It tailors to the status quo that high school sport teams get high praise when it comes to student enthusiasm. Students file into the bleachers on game day and the players cover everyone in their game-induced sweat.

They give up their evenings for perfecting repetitive cheers and rooting on their numbered men in jerseys, out of excitement for the accomplishments of a select group of RBHS students with athletic abilities.

And, sure, while athletes receive scholarships and backers, there are so many other underrated activities at the school, from school plays and show choir to robotics and debate showcases.

High-fives and “man-hugs” are exchanged by the football players in congratulations for the latest game, but no one takes even a second to think about how the robotics team did in their latest competition.

According to members of the football team they spend 17 hours practicing per week, and show choir practices nine. However, show choir has a year-long competitive season while the football playing season is only a couple months long.

Just like those who participate in a sports team, members of the show choir must go weekends away from their home. They drive several hours, without a school sponsored fan bus  just to participate in these competitions. They spend countless hours perfecting their singing, choreographing their dances and timing their costume changes. They have to give up much of their own time toward the performance and practices.

The robotics team, too, is an unsung hero here at RBHS. The team works all year for an average of 30 hours a week after school.

During their six-week build season the robotics team were required to program and create a semi-autonomous robot. Members said they ended up spending 40 hours a week working on this project, just to get the thing in working condition.

Because of this immense amount of work and success, all RBHS activities should get the equal amount of respect and recognition from their fellow students. For all of the hard-working hours they put into these “hobbies,” they deserve more recognition from the school as well as the student body.

It is the duty for RBHS students to give respect, admiration and appreciation to those  who work so hard and give their absolute all to make the school great.

It would be unreasonable to ask students to drive out of town to attend something like a 12-hour show choir competition; the performers understand that. But students should want to show their school’s pride just a little more. Rock Bridge is more than just school; it’s a body of students who should want to support each other and help each other succeed.

By attending a hometown choir performance, a school play or even just a portion of a debate showcase, the audience will encourage the performers to do their best.

Supporters will do RBHS justice and prove what enormous talent and potential our students contain. Encouraging the talent for sports allocates early dismissal on state championship days, school spirit days, and all-school pep rallies. And though the assemblies recognize these accomplishments, it is difficult to see a time when students get to see the great efforts from the “minor” clubs.

These organizations put enough time and energy into their finished product or production that RBHS should at least give them an award such as a medal or an early release to give the other students a chance to attend a quizbowl tournament or DECA competition in town

or on the road.  This engagement will not only benefit the performers by giving them the drive to succeed, but also those who are there to support.

They will be able to experience aspects of Rock Bridge they never knew existed. It may help students widen their horizons when it comes to what this school has to offer and maybe even convince them to take up a new club or class.

If there are all of these benefits, it is hard to understand why students are not involved at RBHS. To be a part of the school, students must take on the role of supporters and encouragers in the multitude of aspects Rock Bridge contains.

“WE ARE ROCK BRIDGE!” Now, let’s prove it.

By Brittany Cornelison

Art by Richard Sapp

On a Saturday night, my sister and I lay across my floor, eating popcorn, looking for something to watch.  Eventually, we stumbled upon Tom Six’s horror film, “The Human Centipede” on Netflix.

We looked at each other and nodded in agreement, deciding that we could handle the notoriously disgusting movie. An R-rated film can only encompass so much, otherwise it would be rated NC-17.

During the film, Dr. Heiter’s crazed face laughs as he watches his three joined victims crawl on all fours like a dog in his backyard.  The piercing screams of the defenseless victims fill the room when they discover their tragic demise. A trembling woman’s face cringes with horror as she gags when forced to swallow the attached man’s waste.

My sister and I shuddered, wishing we had never watched it.

The film is  graphic, gruesome and altogether repulsive.  The Motion Picture Association of America granted the 2009 Dutch film an R rating, which, judging by the content, is both predictable and unopposed.

The MPAA’s system of rating movies is based on a statistical approach.  According to the MPAA, if a movie uses a sexually derived word more than four times throughout the film or multiple times in one scene it receives an R rating.  Male and female nudity gives a film a PG-13 rating and is increased to an R rating once it is depicted in a sexual manner. The use of drugs usually receives a PG-13 rating.

However, the MPAA’s method for rating movies is inconsistent, misconceived and ineffective. The MPAA should not rate movies by mere statistics, but by content and the objective material in contrast to the entire film.

The R rating is too broad and encompasses too many aspects.  A film can receive an R because it portrays a gory, offensive scene and has objectionable content, while another R-rated film, for instance, may simply construe a flurry of profanities for a brief amount of time.

For this reason, movies such as  Lee Hirsch’s documentary “Bully,” an attempt to change children’s view and behavior in the schoolyard and online, received the same rating as films like

“The Human Centipede” — R.

How can “Bully” be rated the same level of inappropriateness as “The Human Centipede?”

“Bully,” a touching film documenting the lives of bullied teens, received an R rating from the MPAA because a lone scene incorporates five uses of the f-word, one over the limit.

In the United States, the majority of films planning on a widespread release send their film to the MPAA to be rated. Choosing not to have a movie rated is economic suicide in the movie world.  Movie theaters are more reluctant to show unrated films, and many television times do not advertise for unrated movies, which results in a limited release and publicity of the film and a lesser chance of receiving awards as well as an audience.  One moment on the silver screen can heavily affect  the movie’s fate.

Despite many attempts to change the rating to a PG-13, the MPAA refused to alter the rating of “Bully” unless the scene was either taken out or edited.

After a world-wide Facebook protest, online petitions and many letters written in, the MPAA still refused to change the rating.

Ultimately the makers of “Bully” cut the curse words and edited the guilty scene to get their desired PG-13 rating.  Alas, “Bully” was bullied by the MPAA.

The MPAA is too quick to grant an R-rating, and the range of films given the rating fall into different spectrums.

In no way do films like “Bully,” “The King’s Speech” and “Slumdog Millionaire” have equivalent objectionable content to films such as “The Human Centipede,” “Pulp Fiction” and “Borat.”  R-rated films are not necessarily offensive or pornographic, but the scope of the rating system is so broad it is hard to tell.

The MPAA sees its job as simply a guideline, but it focuses too much on what a movie encompasses. It is up to the viewer to remain informed.  Until the MPAA implements these changes, viewers should scour the Internet to find the true scoop on the freakycentipede or the soulful bully.

By Jacqueline LeBlanc

Students meet to discuss the coming year in August 2011. Photo by Parker Sutherland

First-year students start their RBHS career as energetic, excited little sophomores. They have an unquenchable desire to get involved in the activities they’ve heard so much about.

After being at the unfortunate, prison-like junior high schools, students are most excited about the opportunity to have other students hear their voice and to be treated as adults.

Student Coalition is just the place. The club has achieved many great things that have made RBHS better.

Student Coalition recently changed the grading scale, and after many long hours of work, the club persuaded the school’s administration to change the cell phone policy. The previous policy was a strict ruling of no cell phones allowed in the hallways or classrooms at any time. Now, the policies are relaxed so that the student will not have their phones confiscated and will only be written up. Many areas of the school are reserved for cell phone use by the students.

Sophomores come to RBHS expecting a student body that cares and wants to accomplish things, but sometimes they are disappointed. This year’s Student Coalition has been fruitless. The club had huge plans to make school-sponsored sports a P.E. credit, to put lampposts on so-called “Sophomore Alley” for early morning parkers and night practices, and to extend library hours. Little to no progress was made. Sure, many of these changes would take time and lots of effort by leaders, but Student Coalition has done it before.

Student Coalition has been a great part of RBHS since 1995. Middle schools and junior high schools give little power to students because they believe students cannot achieve much, but now they have the freedom of responsibility to look for. However, RBHS’ constantly repeated mantra of freedom with responsibility allows the high schoolers to break out of their kiddie jails and become adults where they matter and where change is possible. The students are usually responsible with this power; they all want change for the betterment of the school. But Student Coalition has disappointed this expectation.

The seniors are our leaders, the top of the chain, and they have failed to be the great commanders that we need and are supposed to have, especially when the end of the year rolls around. Seniors check out, and the underclassmen are left helpless. So the juniors need to step up and become the great leaders we hear about through siblings and alumni to make RBHS a better place. Sophomores could also rise up.

Lately, “senioritis” has been a growing disease and it keeps spreading. The laziness of the seniors is contagious.

If the leaders of important clubs like Student Coalition don’t fill in the shoes of the past leaders, other students need to. The juniors who are in the club should start planning and changing things when the seniors are being lazy. They could start changes around the beginning of the second semester and take the seniors place and start to learn from the roles and responsibilities that the seniors have.

By Katie Wheeler

Some animal rights activists believe experimenting on animals, like the adorable dog pictured above, is wrong. However, these activists do not consider the progress science has made because of such experiments. Photo by Jack Schoelz

In March 2012, the pro-animal rights group Stop UBC Animal Cruelty accused the University of British Columbia of performing unethical and cruel experiments on animals. The organization joined People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals (PETA) in a larger protest pressuring eight major international airlines to stop shipping animals to research labs around the world, such as the UBC lab in Vancouver.

But after investigation into the accusations, the Canadian Council on Animal Care found no evidence of any animal cruelty taking place in the labs. However, one major airline, Air France, has already caved to the pressure of the organizations and canceled shipments of monkeys to research labs.

Animal experimentation  has led to numerous medical breakthroughs, such as the discovery of the diphtheria toxin, the development of heart valve replacement surgery and the invention of the polio vaccine. Organizations such as PETA have no appreciation for the millions of lives these discoveries have saved. Instead they attempt to limit such research for the sole reason of feeling bad for the animals and label the practice of animal experimentation as ineffective; sadly, they are misinformed.

In the ‘Frequently Asked Questions’ section of its website, PETA claims  “more lives could be saved and suffering stopped by educating people on the importance of avoiding fat and cholesterol, the dangers of smoking, reducing alcohol and other drug consumption, exercising regularly, and cleaning up the environment than by all the animal tests in the world.” But they provide no evidence or statistic to back this up. It’s therefore hard to take this claim seriously, especially since under another FAQ, PETA makes the outrageous assertion that “Many of the roads we drive on were built by slaves,”  while discussing the ethics of using drugs developed through animal testing.

Actually, PETA, slavery ended in 1863 with the Emancipation Proclamation. Most of the roads we drive on weren’t built until the interstate highway act of 1956. With such an egregious historical error displayed on their site, it’s difficult to believe or trust anything PETA says. The UBC lab in Vancouver, falsely accused of animal cruelty, probably feels the same way.

Animal experimentation is the key to our current medical prowess. Without it, insulin would never exist, thus dooming diabetics. Heart surgery would still be in an archaic form, as no surgeon would be able to practice it except on live humans, a daunting prospect. Right now, researchers are using animal tests to search for a cure to HIV/AIDS. Without animal experiments, all new treatments would take far longer to isolate and test, as they would all have to depend on the availability of human trials. This would slow down medical research to a snail’s pace, which means life or death for some; patients with Cystic Fibrosis, a disease being tested, observed and experimented on in pigs, can’t wait that long for the development of new treatments and therapies.

Groups like PETA need to be restricted. Instead of listening to their incorrect assumptions, we should press on in medical research, something that will benefit all humans. While the freedom of speech is protected by the First Amendment, that does not mean we need to listen to them. Students, as well as large institutions that fund research and airlines that ship animals to laboratories, should ignore the counsel of animal rights activists and do what is right for humanity.

By Jack Schoelz

Beach balls like the one pictured above made several appearances during the assembly May 4. Photo by Muhammad Al-Rawi

I recently attended my final assembly as a Bruin, the annual Flashback assembly. Nostalgia ruled the affair.

I sat in rapt attention as my peers were honored for their achievements throughout their high school careers. Tears were shed, and glorious moments were shared, but in a single brash and disgusting moment, cannons shot off and beach balls and confetti rained upon the audience.

My initial reaction was one of humor: “This is pretty d— funny,” I thought. Yet, within a split second, the sweetness of the moment turned sour.

The nostalgic atmosphere was gone for good, and attention had shifted from those who truly deserved recognition to a group of pranksters with confetti cannons.

Stealing the limelight from others has become a plague in our society. People have be trained to think that if they aren’t publicly praised, then they are worthless and, therefore, must do everything in their power to get any and all recognition, often at the expense of others. Encounters between friends have become one-upping contests; if you aren’t the center of attention, you aren’t liked.

It’s sickening.

I’ve never really been one to seek the limelight actively, but  it’s not because I haven’t desired it;  it was almost always taken from me. Athletes overshadow bookworms, ignorant loudmouths silence quiet geniuses, and nice guys finish last.

The limelight never found me in my earlier years, and even if I had gone looking for it, it would have already been taken by someone else.

At the Flashback assembly this phenomenon was shown again. Sex dolls were thrown during sax solos and beach balls stole the spotlight from Everyday Bruin award winners. Even the Bruin of My Life moments were made into a spectacle centered around awarders instead of awardees. For many people being honored it was one of the only times they had been publicly recognized, yet their limelight was stolen from them.

A desire for a quick laugh and class clown status must stop. I’m guilty of attention theft as well, and it kills me when I find out I’ve done it to others because I know exactly how it feels to be overshadowed.

Next time you see someone enjoying their own shining moment, let them have it. Don’t try to one-up them; don’t try to shift attention toward yourself. Never take a moment that wasn’t yours to begin with.

Hopefully 2013’s Flashback assembly won’t follow the spirit of this year’s. For me, the only thing my mind will flash back to for 2012′s assembly will be confetti cannons and blow up dolls.

By Alex Burnam

Read a recap of the assembly here.

Photo by Asa Lory

There is a certain flavor to Beijing, China, a taste in the air, that is wrought with age. Granted, it’s also wrought with smog and cigarette smoke — smoking is far more common in China than here, especially in Beijing, but transcending the pollution is the age of the thing, and it infects the air. There is so much history that it runs together — a building younger than 500 years old is of no special significance, and a decade is nothing. So when I was in China, moving about the city and the country, a question sprang to mind: how does something so overrun with history deal with the advent of modern technology?

China is a country recovering from war with itself. Not a typical war with blood and guts and valor, but a cultural clash between the forces of surging modernism and three thousand years of history. It’s quite a sight. Like I said, there are the ancient temples and fast food restaurants in a rather classic juxtaposition, but the conflict goes beyond what can be physically seen. One could boil it down to something as simple as technology versus culture, but that far oversimplifies. China, over the last two decades, has thawed out in terms of culture, government and industry. Today, it is struggling to come to terms with that thaw — to grip its past firmly in hand while also trying to adapt to globalization of pretty much everything. The Temple of Heaven, for instance, once a private and sacred sanctum of the gods, now is a park for all to enjoy. While the government of China struggled to embrace past and present simultaneously, I found that the people of the country readily accepted both.

So when I boarded the flight from Beijing to Detroit to leave the country on a sunny Saturday morning, I stared out across the tarmac at Beijing International and turned the idea over in my head. After that I settled in for the journey. The flight is 12 hours, which could be painfully long, but this was alleviated by the fact that our plane was quite new and had quite a few movies to enjoy individually.

I found myself drawn to one movie in particular: “The Artist.” If you don’t know the premise, “The Artist” tells the story of (fictional) silent movie actor George Valentin, at the end of his era. As new ‘talkies’ begin to take over the film industry, Valentin begins to lose his sense of place. At the same time, young actress Peppy Miller begins to rise through the ranks to become a star in movies with sound. It’s a movie about transitions, about passing the baton and forgetting to remember who passed it.

Naturally, after my week in China watching old and new conflict, the movie’s themes resonated with me. In one scene reporters are interviewing Miller, and she says something to the effect of old actors hold back young ones. At this Valentin stands and leaves, saying, “I’ve gotten out of your way.” It struck me this was not what I had observed in China. In China time was not discrete. The old had not moved out of the way because there was simply too much of it to move. The government of China tried in the ‘60s and failed. So they learned instead, and they began to live with the past. The United States does not accept the past as readily. Here, we tend to argue over the past, fighting over who was right and wrong, and instead of taking away the lessons of history, we enter mortal combat over the honor of our ancestors. Over time, history splits groups, when they should be knit together.

I do not condemn those to whom the gaps created by time are frightening. What I do condemn is devaluing the experiences of the past. While freedom of information is nonexistent in China, and the government still restricts access to political viewpoints beyond its control, the population at large seems at peace with the past. The Forbidden City is a tourist destination and the Temple of Heaven a public park. Perhaps because there is so much of it, the past in China is nothing unusual or exotic. Sure, there are some sore spots, such as the Tiananmen Square Massacre or the Opium Wars, but all in all, the Chinese have learned to live with the past. There is so much past in China that they have found it easier to simply deal then fight it. Here, in this young country, we go with the second option.

People seek to bury the past when what they should seek is synthesis. The past, like anything else, cannot be ignored, nor can it be changed. It is useless to try. What it can be is accepted, and a la “The Artist,” a la China, it is evident that this is the best option. Without an acceptance of the past, we will be consumed by it.

By Adam Schoelz

It’ll be hard to think about what I’ll miss the most, though.

On March 11, my grandfather passed away. For a long time, I thought about what I was going to miss most about him. When I realized I wasn’t going to hear his voice anymore, my heart broke. His voice was downright captivating. It was low enough to be strong and powerful but soft enough to be sentimental and warm. When he spoke, everyone listened.

He was an incredible man with so many talents. He taught math at St. Louis University, took care of my grandmother, raised my father and uncles in amazing fashion, was a shining star in his own community, made sure to take care of me, my brother and my cousins, and he wrote a book with some Korean dude. But, though I can see his words any time I want, I miss his voice.

It had a lasting quality to it. As he got older, I could see parts of him withering away and becoming weak, but his voice remained as solid as ever. I remember at Christmas, he was sitting at our kitchen table talking about his new handicap-friendly minivan and thinking that he could be the voice of movie commercials or audio books. He wasn’t young, but his voice was.

I’d like to think I have that quality in my own voice like he had in his, but I don’t. I have my own voice, but I don’t use it. I hide behind of lot of screenames, a lot of generic profile pictures, a lot of status updates. It’s the era of ever-expanding technology, but my Facebook and my Twitter are muffling my voice. I get my words out, but there’s no power behind them.

What my grandfather taught and is still teaching me is that there’s nothing more powerful than the voice of an individual. He changed my perception with his own voice. He made me realize I can type and text my opinions and my stories to the world all day if I wanted to, but if I wanted a real impression I’d use the impact of my voice. I encourage everyone here to do the same. Never underestimate the influence you can have with your own voice.

Every senior in this school is going different places and doing different things; we may be miles away from each other even though we’re in the same town. We could text each other or post on our Facebook pages, but what is that really worth? We’re far apart.

Maybe what we need is something more fundamental, one simple phone call. Then there could be a connection. Because when I hear a voice, it makes more of an impression than a phone screen ever will.

I miss my grandfather’s voice, and I’m going to miss yours.

By Shannon Freese

As I sit on the couch, staring at the blank white computer screen, waiting for a thesis to pop magically into my head, I see a small square of light appear in my peripheral. I look over to see the blue notification:

Words With Friends: “Your Move with cookiemonster166.”

My hand involuntarily moves towards my iPod, and before I know it, I’ve spent 10 minutes calculating every possible move I can make and the highest point value I can get. I’ve spent 10 minutes obsessing about how many times I can hit a TW and deciding if it’s smarter to save my 10-point Z’s or Q’s for a better word.

If it’s not Words With Friends stealing my attention, then it’s some other game. The haunting tiki head of Temple Run stares at me and taunts me to play. I puzzle over the intricate drawings of my friends on Draw Something and slowly play my own equally intricate drawing.

And of course, I can’t stand the temptations of Angry Birds. I think of all the work I should be doing while my hand rhythmically pulls the slingshot back and releases.

Eventually I drag my attention back to the computer. With no plan for a thesis whatsoever, I decide to get some inspiration. I pop open a new tab and head off to the wonderful land of YouTube. I start out watching a funny Super Bowl commercial, then spend hours getting linked from video to video and end up watching keyboard cat.

Eventually my mom notices me laughing hysterically with myself and asks just what it was that is so funny about my homework. How it was that I started out writing a paper on Lincoln’s Second Inaugural Address and ended up watching videos of cats playing the keyboard? With no reason for watching the video, I return to the blank white screen.

It’s the smartphones, the iPods, the social networking sites that lead me astray when I’m trying to get something of importance done. I can waste hours of my day without even realizing it. I become absorbed in my games and forget about the real world.

I could text my sister who’s living across the world, but instead of being connected, I’m distant. Now I would rather text people than call them or talk face-to-face. I can put things in my notes or my calendar and set alarms to get organized. But instead of being organized, I’m flustered in trying to do a million things at once and reliant on my device to tell me what I’m supposed to do.

Although I hated it when people did it, I noticed myself slowly starting to do the same. I would text while my mom talked to me. I remember how rude I thought the people who did that were. And now, I’m slowly being sucked into the same virtual world.

As convenient and fun smartphones and tablets are to my everyday life, they’ve become a distraction. I’ve finally learned to delete most apps that distract me from work. I don’t text while someone is talking to me, and I’ve restricted myself from distracting websites while I’m trying to work.

I’ll put the phones, the iPods and the tablets away and sit with people. I’ll live in the real world and do one thing at a time. I’ll take my life slowly and live it to the fullest.

Instead of relying on my phone for reminders, I’ll sticky note it on the fridge. Instead of talking to the wonderful robot named Siri, I’ll look my mother in the eyes and have a nice conversation.

By Jude El Buri

Art by Sami Pathan

By age 45, half of all women will have experienced an unintended pregnancy, according to the Guttmacher Institute.

These unplanned pregnancies have serious consequences. The Minnesota Department of Health reported that such pregnancies have negative outcomes for both infants and parents. Infants are more likely to be abused and die in their first year of life.

Meanwhile, parents must cope with reduced education and career attainment, an increased dependency on welfare and heightened risk for divorce or domestic abuse.

Unintended pregnancy is clearly a larger social issue than it seems on the surface, but increasing access to female birth control would easily resolve the problem.

While The Washington Post reported 70 percent of insurance policies provide coverage for erectile dysfunction medication, few policies provide equal coverage for birth control. Instead, women must pay $180 to $600 a year for birth control medication, according to Planned Parenthood, with only a few institutions, like DePaul University in Chicago, providing insurance coverage.

Birth control also has many purposes other than contraception. According to a study Rachel K. Jones of the Guttmacher Institute conducted, 14 percent of women use the pill solely for non-contraceptive purposes, such as for reducing cramps and menstrual pain, menstrual regulation, acne treatment and to reduce endometriosis, where cells from the lining of the uterus grow outside of the uterine cavity.

Fifty-eight percent of women use birth control for these reasons along with contraception, and studies from the National Cancer Institute and the National Institute of Health show using the pill decreases the risk of ovarian and endometrial cancer.

Fortunately, the Obama Administration’s Affordable Care Act provides a solution to the unavailability of birth control medication. A mandate related to birth control would require all employers to provide their female employees’ insurance coverage for preventive care services. The administration estimated cost per year to be about $360 per person, which is lower than the current median price of $390.

By increasing access to contraceptives, the United States will additionally save more than $11 billion a year solely from preventing unwanted teen pregnancies, according to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention.

While the bill has received criticism for allegedly infringing upon first amendment rights like freedom of religion, these claims are illegitimate.

All houses of worship are exempt. Religiously affiliated universities and hospitals, however, still must provide health insurance for their employees.

The Affordable Care Act’s birth control mandate is a laudable start to improving the availability of birth control. By making employers pay for insurance coverage, it places women on equal ground with men who have no difficulty receiving coverage for erectile dysfunction treatment. In doing so, the government will also cut down on the number of unwanted pregnancies and, more importantly, the number of women who die each year from complications related to an illegal abortion.

The birth control mandate is another step in the right direction for health care in the United States.

In this political year, as presidential and senatorial elections loom in the near future, voters should avoid a knee-jerk reaction when filling out ballots. Don’t simply stay within party lines — consider what’s best for public health.

By The Rock staff

The Varsity Acting Squad cheers for itself in a huddle during the assembly. Photo by Muhammad Al-Rawi

In Rock Bridge tradition, the spring assembly offered more recognition to the school’s athletics than it did to all the recent accomplishments of RBHS combined.

It’s not that athletics were not deserving of recognition, but kids in other areas have done amazing things at this school, and there was just a disproportionate amount of recognition going around.

The assembly was only 49 minutes long, and 15 of those minutes were dedicated entirely to sports. There was the state-win spiel athletics director Jen Mast gives at most assemblies, a competition among spring sports athletes and recognitions for the numerous spring sports’ season.

Granted, RBHS has a very sports-oriented culture, and it’s almost a given that sports will shine more than any other activity regardless of how well anything else does, but this heavy emphasis on sports while ignoring state and national wins in academic and artistic areas is disappointing.

Even within the realm of sports, there is inequity. This year the school held a send-off assembly for the girls basketball team’s trip to the final four, and last year, boys basketball was the only sport deserving enough for such a pep assembly. Yet six of our fall and winter sports teams made trips to the equivalent of a final four showdown.

While it’s perfectly fair to celebrate good news, like a state win, 26 percent of the assembly does not need to celebrate one group of students. Thirteen minutes were devoted to sports, and eight minutes were devoted to recognizing the accomplishments of every other student group.

Perhaps most disappointing is fewer than six minutes were spent announcing student council candidates. Fewer than six minutes. That’s less than a minute per candidate.

Candidates were only announced with the student body president reading a brief quote about why each candidate likes RBHS. A brief note encouraged students to watch videos on the RBHS home page for more information. Only a small percentage of students will go onto the homepage to make an informed decision on for whom to vote.

Not only does this produce an uninformed public, but it also reinforces the idea that student council elections are nothing more than popularity contests. Without the speeches people were just making brash judgments of character. They could not possibly know the work each candidate did or did not put into student council in the past, they only had one quote from which to base a vote off of, along with the number of punny posters around the school.

To their credit, sports teams work hard. They spend hours after school practicing. But they’re really not the only ones

The assembly’s emphasis on sports resulted in severe lack of attention to almost every other club in the school save Varsity Acting Squad, and inadequate information presented about each student body candidate made the assembly less worthy of an excuse to miss class. Assembly times need to be more meticulously apportioned to avoid the egregious favoritism that existed at this assembly.

By Avantika Khatri

Members of The Rock take a break from late nights to enjoy the unusually warm weather and eat burgers grilled by staff member senior Thomas Jamieson-Lucy (far left). Photo by Muhammad Al-Rawi

Story Idea Day

A paper without stories is kind of like a person without organs — it’s thin, flimsy and kind of gross. For that reason, while everyone was still exhausted and bleary-eyed from the late nights — where everybody stays at school until 11 — for the February paper, they had to kick their brains over and come up with six more stories: two for online, four for the paper.

On story idea day itself, the newspaper staff separates into rooms and writes their ideas up on the chalkboard, sorted by section. Everyone with an idea for a feature writes that idea down in the feature section, editorials in the editorial section, news in the news section. The rooms contain categories of stories: in one might be editorials, commentaries and news and in the other might be sports, community, personality profiles and features. Online story ideas are judged in the hall. The editors-in-chief go down the board one idea at a time and whoever came up with it needs to defend it; the idea is then either accepted or vetoed by the section editor.

The split is about 50/50 good ideas and bad ones. This ratio might seem high, but keep in mind that most of the story ideas are hacked together in two days while everyone, including the EICs, are incredibly sleep deprived and don’t have a newspaper class together in which to brainstorm. In addition, a good amount of ideas have already been done, and the rule of the day is if you can remember a similar story, you shouldn’t rewrite that story. The usual turn-around time is about two years.

This story idea day we separated into three groups: the hallway for online stories, the computer lab for a few sections and the main room handling the bulk of the content.  This, of course, resulted in the main room taking the entire class to get through one group of people, the room and temperatures both growing hot, while the rest of us, safely hidden in the hallway, played rolly-chair races. Theoretically, this was supposed to save time or something.

Once all the ideas are in place and the writers and section editors have headed off for home, the EICs assign stories.

Interim Day 1

It’s funny — time doesn’t really seem to exist in newspaper. First drafts are due in two days, an absurdly short amount of time and yet today is the day when writers get angles.  Angles are what story is being told — the wrestling story, for instance, is obviously about wrestling, but the angle could be that of a defending champion or a rising underdog or just a team trying to succeed as best it can.

In any case, angles talks with editors are over pretty quickly, and then writers and editors alike are given freedom to work on their own stories and pages.  For instance, Maria K., the community section editor, is behind me laughing at a mustachioed photo of herself being used as a placeholder. Maddie M. is reading a 3000 word report detailing the release of teacher scores in New York, and Avantika K. is desperately trying to recruit someone to write short news stories to go up on the website, which nobody really wants to do. Blake B. is giving away Twizzlers.

I’m sitting here writing this blog instead of working on my robotics story because I’m an oddly misanthropic reporter. It’s funny really, if you ask reporters what their least favorite part of newspaper is they’ll probably respond, “Setting up interviews.” There’s something about the awkward act of planning out a place and time and subject of talking with what is usually a complete stranger.  Dare I say if we newspaper kids were a bolder bunch our stories wouldn’t be so late all the time.

In any case, writing stories is different for every writer. There are some, that, like me, are not so good at finding sources and setting up interviews, then there are the opposites who aren’t such big fans of the writing part but love the interviewing process, and then there’s everybody who is good at both.

Well, at least I’m keeping up with this blog instead of writing it on late nights.

First Drafts Day

So we’re up for online Pacemaker.  For those, and probably most, who don’t know, the Pacemaker award is the highest in the country for any high school journalism newspaper, website, yearbook and other . Basically, it means in the first five months our website has become one of the top fifteen in the nation.  In any case, it means we have the opportunity to go to Seattle for the west coast convention, which is unquestionably awesome.  Also, this is the first year the yearbook, newspaper and website have been up for the same award at the same time.  So basically, give props to Daphne Yu and Parker Sutherland when you see them in the hall — they’re our online editors.

This was first drafts day, and our (very) rough drafts were due to section editors.  A week ago the February paper came out, and already the crushing weight of deadlines sits heavily on pretty much everyone’s shoulders. However, only a small minority of stories are turned in on time for first drafts.

I don’t really know why, but the first draft deadline is easy broken. I know mine won’t be on time.  It’s odd (I don’t see the odd part) too because it seems like the end of every month the paper is thrown into a small panic because the stories aren’t done. And yet…

Anyway, with this being a True/False this weekend, a small taskforce is preparing to load the website with information, because, well, T/F is pretty awesome.  A ton of people, although theoretically, interested in writing reviews and sight-and-sound pieces recognize that the labor of love that is covering True/False would not bode well for them, as they haven’t finished their first drafts.  So it’s down to a small but determined group to cover it all.  I’ll admit: I’m not part of it, but that’s mostly because I wrote for Southpaw, our magazine, which was kind of like shooting myself in the foot. But hey, at least here on newspaper, we all shoot our feet together — that is, if one piece of the puzzle doesn’t fit then the entire thing falls apart.

Interim Day 2

So today I finally got around to transcribing my interview. For those of you keeping score at home, that means I’m about 5 days behind. I don’t know how this happens. Luckily, I’m in good company because no one turns in stories until they’re about to be cut, and then they do it reluctantly. People on staff wonder why we’re so stressed out all the time, but it’s because they’re the greatest enemy to time management the world has ever known.

The mini-dilemma today was backpage. Backpage is pretty important because it’s visual in nature, so the entire page needs to have a strong and controlling theme. The problem is coming up with said theme. You see, while it would be easy to simply say “Hey, Spring Break!” we won’t because that’s overused. Much like story idea day, the big problem with a backpage is coming up with something unique, or at least a unique take on a subject. For instance, this month we weren’t able to escape the gravitational pull of a spring break backpage, but the subject is staycations, which is at least peripherally unique.

Production Week

Despite seemingly impossible odds against staff writers — that is, quite reasonable ones — most stories are finished well in time to start production. Production week is the last week before the paper comes out, so it’s when things either start to click or go wrong.

Mostly things go wrong at the beginning of the year. To use an incredibly cliche metaphor, this newspaper is like a well oiled machine, albeit one with some serious network latency issues. By March, pretty much everybody has their roles figured out. This year, at least, we haven’t had issues with power struggles or anyone having significant trouble with the machine. Not yet in any case.

In other words, this month production has gone fairly smoothly. Not “leave late nights, two long days before the paper is sent, early” smoothly but it’s a step in the right direction nonetheless. I don’t have a page per se; I’m just monkeying around trying to finish up various online stories. However, pages have begun to move, which means they are being edited for accuracy, not just general design, and stories and art are being placed on them. In other words, stuff just got real.

I Lost Track

Twas the class before late nights, and all through the house, all the creatures were stirring because they wanted to get a few x’s on the chart before crunchtime. Yes, it’s that wonderful time of the month that really defines newspaper: late nights.  Two nights, every month, where everyone on staff stays at school until eleven to make or break the paper. Yeah, it’s awesome.

Since at long last my own article is finished and up on the server to be placed onto a page, I thought it would be appropriate to give a sense of scale to the paper, mostly because I don’t really want to work on my page. The paper, I think it is fair to say, is a pretty big undertaking, especially every month, but it’s actually kind of hard to delineate exactly how much work goes in.

It starts with the writers. Every writer — about 40 all told — writes at least two articles every month. Many write more. In any case, each of those writers turns in their first drafts to the section editors. Section editors edit those stories, and give them back. Each section editor edits about seven stories a month. So imagine if you had to peer-edit seven papers in the space of about two days in addition to writing and turning in two of your own. And they have to be edited well, as they’re for publication.

After first drafts, naturally, comes seconds. Most stories don’t make it to first drafts on time because of what I deem “too-much-time syndrome,” but they’re cut from the paper if they don’t make it to seconds in time. But since that’s an a 150 point hit to grades, most make it on time(ish). Second drafts are edited by EICs. There are three of them. So, while trying to keep up with their regular course loads and finish their own articles, EICs must edit somewhere from 15 to 20 stories. Every month. Sleep is a luxury.

After that comes third drafts, edited by the journalism teacher Robin Stover, who edits EVERY story, some more then once. And once all the stories are done and the pages are (hopefully) mostly designed comes…

Late Nights

Late nights are unique. They are what make The Rock what it is. It’s a bonding experience for the staff and works well to make everyone gel. It’s also the time when the paper is pieced together. Stories and art are hurriedly finished, surveys are done, and photos are taken.

Every page in the paper, from in-depths to ads to backpage, goes through 11 edits. The staff splits up, assigning a writer, sometimes two, per page, and pretty much everyone is working straight until 11 at night, at least on Mondays. At the end of late nights, pretty much everyone is either smiling or pulling out his hair. Preferably not the latter.

They follow a familiar pattern. After school, the staff slowly trickles into the lab and works more or less hard for about three hours. Then comes dinner.

Dinner is prepared by usually two or more staff members. This time, it was me and Thomas Jamison-Lucy furiously out-grilling a tremendous rainstorm outside the north entrance. Photographer Asa Lory prepared homemade onion rings to add on a the perfect touch.

After dinner came a thirty-man game of ninja, naturally. The rain arrived about three hours late.

After dinner comes a scramble as everyone realized the enormous amount of work they could have been doing while they were eating dinner. This is definitely the most heated portion of late nights, where the worst problems arise, that sweet spot between seven and 10 where people work like the dickens to get the paper out. This is when around 50% of all work that gets done in newspaper is done. That may have been some light exaggeration.

After all, at late nights all we can hope for is that the art is done and the stories are written, and the rest just comes with time. The problem is that when one of these elements is missing, newspaper turns into a game of “everyone bother one person until he grows too frustrated to work.” Luckily, this rarely happens, because usually everyone is enjoying the downtime they get from their page frozen in time and space.

Ah, downtime! That magical time when friendships are forged, games are played and people commandeered to write online articles! I can’t speak for everyone, but I know downtime is one of my favorite parts of late nights, opposite getting awesome authentic meals from various folk. It’s being free to move about the cabin, which is not that unusual at RBHS; we have this thing AUT, you see, that kind of functions in a similar manner. But there is a certain magic to being at school “waaaaay” after everyone else (I know: nerd alert) and the simple pleasure of not doing anything with several other people after working for hours and hours and hours that make downtime like sinking into a silk mattress with down pillows, et cetera, after working all day in the most classically hard of pastimes: ditch digging.

The second late night goes pretty similarly to the first: if the first was easy, the second might finish early. If the first was hard, well, then there’s always next month to have fun. Not that working isn’t fun, but the stress that comes from having almost nothing on the chart for the first late night, especially for our beloved EICs, can be a lot to bear and usually means some heated tempers. After all, it’s important to assign blame.

The last bit of late nights is composed of last looks. This is why I’m usually genuinely surprised when a typo makes it into the print edition. After some eleven edits, you’d think that spell check + three to seven people reading every article on the page one last time would catch them all. And yet, somehow, those dastardly marks slip through.

But I digress. Last looks are super relaxing. It’s the end of the night, lights are off, and everyone’s in their favorite chair reading The Rock and scanning for typos and grammar mistakes. It has that nice sort of silence that a library has, that is broken every once and a while by a funny comment or a correction, and everyone’s so tired by that point that laughs come easily. Imagine a movie night where everyone read a paper together and looked for spelling mistakes.

Folding Day

The last bit of paper is Folding Day. We don’t have enough money to both print our paper in color and have it folded for us, so every Thursday when the papers are delivered, everyone (read: like half the staff, though everyone SHOULD be there) comes into journalism around 7 to fold all 1500 papers. Oh yeah, it’s fun.

Other then the whole mandatory teenage disdain for manual labor thing, my only problem with folding day is that it always seems to magically align with my first hour AUT. This means that often when the paper comes out I have to be at school on time for three full days in a row. I find this unacceptable.

But, it’s nice to see the fruit of our labor. Literally, hundreds of hours of labor goes into every single issue. And then we hand them out, distribute them, and pretend that people read them. And another paper toddles away, all grown up.

And then, next class period is story idea day, and the cycle begins anew…

By Adam Schoelz

Bows fill the air: RBHS students from the orchestra perform at the Pre-contest Concert on March 14. Photo by Madison Brown

So many artists are flashy, auto tuned monsters trudging out single after single; there’s no true quality, but an overabundance of quantity. True artistry lies within our very building in the young generation’s attempt to capture classical pieces to their fullest, the RBHS orchestra.

Classical music is not old and outdated. The music of the past makes up components that can be found in every piece in today’s generation. Movements and rules to rhythmic flow branch from the generations before our time that paved the way musically.

For people who can’t stand a classical sound, it doesn’t mean there aren’t beautiful instrumental pieces of recent. Cool, chic manor groups like Apocalyptica put classical spins on modern music and sound almost the same as the original artists.

If stringed instruments aren’t an interesting way to play music than there are other ways to enjoy classical music. New instruments are popping up everywhere like this saw piece played by Austin Blackburn.

A live orchestra concerts may be slightly expensive as the average orchestral attendee is prepared to spend $150-$200 for concerts, according to the Amati Organization, a group for the preservation of stringed instruments. In contrast the average rock concert tickets cost $46 a piece, according to ABC News. attendee spends. But there is absolutely no reason not to attend the RBHS orchestra concert because it doesn’t cost a dime to attend.

Someone working on a specific piece for months only turns out amazing. There shouldn’t be expectations that the music will be awful because the students in orchestra care about it. They aren’t going to perform a terrible piece that sounds like a four-year-old screeching it out for the first time.

People in the orchestra class spend the entirety of the year preparing for a concert, and yet almost no one comes to see them. It is not fair, or even acceptable. The next Mozart or Yo-Yo Ma could be practicing in the warm-up rooms right at this very moment. Students need to get  to the next orchestra concert or possibly miss a performance of a lifetime.

By Parker Sutherland

Art by Theresa Whang

A spring break spent in Paris, France was only 50 feet from its close. As my driveway grew into sight, I gathered some composure, forced my weighted lids apart and realized how far I’d come.

Paris is roughly 4,500 air miles from Columbia. I’d survived traveling halfway across the globe, exploring a dangerous, lively city for seven days and spending almost 20 hours total in the world’s scariest contraption, the airplane.

All of this risk was worth it. My week in Paris was stunning. I’d basked in fountains of flowing foreign language, immersed myself in streets of eloquently crafted architecture and indulged in too many pots of sweet and thick crème brulee. My mouth watered at the thought of crepes.

So as I heaved my suitcase from the trunk of my friend’s car and received ecstatic hugs of welcome from my parents as they rushed onto the driveway, the feeling that hit when I glanced at my house surprised me.

I’d never been away from home without my family for more than a week, let alone out of the country, so this feeling was new, or maybe more intense than it’d ever been.

Our large front window was lit up, glowing in golden light against the inky night’s darkness. It revealed the piano my mother plays so beautifully, sitting sturdily and shining black. My little dog, Louie, sat on the trunk below the window, still and staring out into the night reunion scene. Curly, brown fur covered his body, and his adorable, longing gaze made me love him more than I ever had before.

I’d rarely been as full and content as I was at that moment. I’d call it a feeling of relief, and I’m sure that was part of it. I’d also call it a feeling of comfort. But what fits it best, although somewhat vaguely, is happiness.

I was proud of the place I was coming home to. To see it sitting there, so warm and full of life and the things I knew, struck me with an overwhelming love of my home. It was my own, where I lived, slept and ate.

Home was where my sister and I used to talk for hours before we’d fall asleep and where we realized we knew each other best and always would. It is where my family talks around the dinner table. It is where people care, even about the trivial things. It’s the place that houses the people I’m going through life with, where we accept and live in happiness every single day because that’s the best way to live.

And the next time I’m feeling annoyed with my parents or itching to break away from the place I’ve lived for eighteen years straight, I’ll remember what I felt on that homecoming.

This realization pushed me to value the happiness held in my home. It forced me to stop constantly wishing for bigger things and to realize how much it’s meant to grow up somewhere so lovely. My family is my home, and even Paris wasn’t able to outshine the beauty found in the love of this comfort.

By Abbie Powers

Art by Kelly Brucks.

Colleges use affirmative action to diversify campuses. The Supreme Court decided to uphold affirmative action in 2003 because colleges favor “underrepresented minority groups” in admissions. However, affirmative action inhibits overrepresented minorities and has no basis.

The question of affirmative action has returned to the Supreme Court, and proceedings will begin in October. Students of all races should rally for the Supreme Court to eliminate affirmative action.

The idea of affirmative action is that students of certain races are disadvantaged in college admissions. While this may have once been true, it no longer is. Instead, socioeconomic factors have a greater correlation with success. From birth to 18, a middle-income, two-parent family will spend $226,920 raising a child, excluding college, according to Money CNN. Children from low-income households will not have access to the same money pool for books or enrichment programs their middle-class peers will have.

According to the study “The Influence of Wealth and Race in Four-Year College Attendance” by the University of California-Berkeley, four-year college attendance rates by wealth among blacks, whites and Asians were almost identical. In the lowest wealth deciles, all the races and ethnic groups went to college at similar rates. These individuals, the ones with the fewest opportunities, are the ones in question.

If any factor beyond academic achievement or overall well-roundedness should be considered in college admissions, it should be socioeconomic status, not race.

Ending discrimination is a battle worth fighting, but the question of affirmative action is back at the Supreme Court because a white student in Texas was disappointed by admissions results, blaming the decision on affirmative action. This sort of festering resentment exacerbates discrimination. Instead of colleges accounting for race, they should consider socioeconomic factors, unquestionable hindrances in the admissions process determined by something less arbitrary than the race or creed a person is born into.

Not only will underrepresented minorities accepted by colleges face this stigma, regardless of how well-prepared they are for college, those who have fewer achievements than their classmates and who got admitted primarily because of race will not succeed.

Affirmative action is essentially discriminating against overrepresented minorities, individuals who might have exceeded all the college’s standards but had the misfortune of being born to parents of the wrong ethnicity.

Diversity is important. Going to a college where people can bring unique experiences is important. But diversity isn’t skin-deep. As soon as people begin to accept that diversity is in thought and experience rather than a person’s genes, discrimination will end.

Affirmative action has no statistical basis, and it discriminates despite trying not to. This makes it vital to eliminate affirmative action and follow the case carefully to avoid a repeat of the mistake the Court made in 2003, by allowing affirmative action in college admissions.

By The ROCK

Sophomore Cannon Hackett. Photos by Halley Hollis.

If you could help either one person or 10 people with similar amounts of effort, what would you choose to do? We could probably agree that helping 10 people is the more reasonable choice. Helping one person is still a good thing to do, but it makes more sense to spend your time and effort helping 10 because of the far more significant impact you’ll have.

So if you want to make a difference by helping others, what career should you choose? It’s well known that social workers, aid workers and teachers can do a lot of good for others, but don’t take home very much in the way of income. If you were to become any one of these, you would likely have a positive impact on the world. However, what if you had the option to make 10 times the impact? Consider that a banker making $600,000 would easily be able to hire 10 social workers to help people with disabilities or help drug addicts get over their addiction. A CEO who received a fairly normal compensation package of $6 million would be able to hire more than 100 people to do similar tasks. I’m not suggesting that bankers or CEOs actually do things like this, or at least it’s not very common. But someone who starts off by looking at how they can do the most good, and has the smidgen of self-control needed to make the choice to buy mosquito nets or vitamin A tablets for others as opposed to mansions for themselves, ought to at least consider attempting to make lots of money to donate to good causes. Even if you’re better at helping people than the average aid worker, you probably won’t be better than 10 or 100 of them. If you believe you have the ability to perform a high-paying job and the commitment to use your affluence for a positive change, it might be the more moral career choice.

There are other categories of work where there are huge opportunities to change the world. Research is one. Agricultural researcher Norman Borlaug developed a strain of wheat that was especially resistant to disease and gave up to three times the normal yield. His research created a “Green Revolution,” which caused wheat production in India to increase from 12 million tons in 1965 to 20 million tons in 1970. His earlier work in Mexico helped to double yields in about a decade. All of this served to prevent a looming food crisis. Nowadays, artificial intelligence and medicine have become similarly high-potential fields for research.

“Influencers,” people who (politically or non-politically) spend their time advocating for something positive, also have a great opportunity to improve the lives of people. Warren Buffet has not only pledged to give away 99 percent of his fortune, but has also, along with Bill Gates, convinced 40 billionaires to give away at least half of their wealth. Viktor Zhdanov (who did not even have a Wikipedia page until 2010) convinced the World Health Organization to adopt a program to eradicate smallpox that probably saved millions of people from a terrible disease.

Even at work at so-called “evil” organizations allows for the possibility of having a positive impact. If you are interested in protecting the environment, a job at Chevron might not intuitively seem like a good choice. But consider you’ll have an opportunity to convince the company to adopt cleaner policies. Even a small change in a company that pumps millions of barrels of oil per day can have massive benefits for the world. Consider that Stanislav Petrov worked for the Soviet military, but is arguably responsible for preventing a nuclear war. He was the commander of a nuclear-attack-warning command center on Sept. 26, 1983, during a month of heightened tensions between the United States and the Soviet Union. The system he was suing reported that there were incoming missiles launched from the United States. The system was new, and he suspected he couldn’t trust the readouts. So despite a lack of certainty, he reported the warning to be a false alarm. It turned out that this was what had happened. But there’s no telling what would have happened if the person in charge had been a less peace-valuing individual.

Neither I nor anyone else can say for sure which career will offer the greatest opportunity to help others, and the best option undoubtedly depends on the strengths of the person trying to choose. Focusing on research, influencing, or money are all good options, In any case, choosing an ethical career isn’t simply about rejecting the greed-enveloped corporate world to become an altruistic employee of the Red Cross (or any other charity). It’s a lot more complicated than that.

By The Rock

art by Joanne Lee

House Bill 1186 has a one word description discriminative. While awaiting Senate debate, the bill questions Missouri’s acceptance toward certain ethnicities, alluding to the idea that Missourians find only those who speak English are superior than the rest.

The bill would remove driver license tests in 11 languages. The reasoning behind those who sponsor the bill is to insure that individuals with a license understands the road. However, just because English might be a second language for some individuals doesn’t make them incompetent in terms of managing the road.

A large percent of Missouri’s population is foreign. Two of the largest groups Asians make up 34.4 percent of the community, while 16.8 percent are from Mexico. Together, these two ethnic groups account for nearly half of Missouri’s people. By removing their native languages, House Bill 1186 discriminates against them by putting them at a disadvantage.

Regardless of what one’s native language may be, if America were really the “land of the free,” then if someone is qualified for a license the government should place no restrictions or disadvantages against them. Imagine being forced to only take a crucial exam in an unfamiliar language just to accomplish ordinary things. The same thing would happen to nearly half of Missouri’s people if the government passed HB 1186.

With the rights of the America in mind, in order to continue living in a free nation, its vital for individuals to feel comfortable and accepted. HB 1186 will eliminate these feelings. With no other languages besides English available for the written portion of the driver’s test, immigrants will be discriminated against and lose some freedom of movement.

If America plans to live up to the ideas of being “land of the free,” then it’s inevitable that passing a bill like this one only hinders America’s success. How can America be “land of the free” if English as a second Language learners can’t even take a drivers test in their language? Americans discusses the negative effects of stereotypes often; in conversations about closing the achievement gap and putting an end to racism; however, with laws like HB 1186, America is simply all talk. If our actions don’t reflect our words, then America is just a hypocritical nation. Judgmental stereotypes lives in bills like HB 1186, and by passing it, America and Missouri, is just discriminative.

By Mahogany Thomas

No matter how they cut it, a hard fact of life for high school seniors is that college is expensive. According to U.S. News, the average cost of college in 2010 was about $20,000 for public schools and $35,000 for private schools.

While scholarships may help somewhat, students or their parents often must pay out of pocket to cover the rest of tuition. This is usually done by getting a student loan, but the problem with loans is that if students don’t repay them in time, they end up in debt.

While some student debt is probably inevitable, there are a number of ways to ease the burden. Students can and do apply for scholarships, but there’s another small solution that can be implemented right here at the high school level.

In general, it would be a huge help to Advanced Placement students if the fee to take the exam were eliminated.

The AP program is basically an opportunity for high-school students to take college-level courses and earn college credit. The courses are designed to prepare students for the AP exams towards the end of the school year, which cost $87 apiece to take. According to the College Board website, AP students took an average of 1.75 exams per student in 2011, which amounts to an average cost of $152.35 per student.

If the College Board just got rid of the $87 fee, it would be doing a great service to all AP students. The $87 that students spend on the AP test could instead be another $87 toward paying for college tuition. Sure, that may not seem like much in the grand scheme of things, but the truth is that when paying for something as important as a college education, every dollar counts. And while someone will have to pay for the exams, it seems unfair to place that burden on the students taking the test. Instead, having the AP teachers pay to have the students take the exams seems like the better option.

Many people defend taking the AP exam as worth paying the price to avoid the much higher costs that come with each college credit hour. However, especially if students take multiple AP exams, those costs will add up. Students could be parting ways with hundreds of dollars, money which could instead be saved and put in towards paying for tuition later.

If students want to save on college, they shouldn’t have to fork over additional money in high school. Furthermore, while other tests like the SAT and ACT come with their own fees, the AP exam differs from the ACT and SAT in that, unlike those tests, the AP test is just like a part of students’ normal studies. All of the time in AP classes is devoted to getting ready for the exam. The AP test serves a similar purpose to finals in other, non-AP classes.

If a student enrolls in an AP class and then decides not to take the exam, it defeats the purpose somewhat. While it is true that just taking AP classes still saves money on credit hours, taking the exam is still useful for another purpose. As much as taking an AP class might impress the admissions personnel, looking at a student’s transcript and seeing a 4 or 5 on the AP exam will convince them even more that the student belongs at their college.

Because of this, students shouldn’t be forced to pay extra to take the test, especially considering that $87 is an amount equal to what high-school students make in a week working 12 hours on minimum wage, according to the U.S. Department of Labor website.

In short, the $87 fee to take the AP exam has no reason to exist. First of all, the College Board is a nonprofit organization, according to their website, so they would be able to make the necessary money through donations. AP students who already suffer through the rigorous work those classes offer should not have to pay extra to take the test, especially considering that these students have spent all year preparing for it. By the end of the year, the students have probably worked hard enough, and paying any amount of money – especially as much as $87 – to take the test only adds insult to injury.

Highs chool students, seniors especially, need every dollar they can get in order to avoid excessive college debt. The fee to take the AP test, therefore, is just another unneeded expense. I urge someone to call or write the College Board and persuade them that if they were to get rid of the AP test fee, it would help a great many students in the long run.

By Isaac Pasley

George Hage spoke to U.S. Studies classes about his experience during World War II. Photo by Mariam Yayha

These days it is hard to find true sacrifice. When surrounded by misleading organizations and hypocritical leaders, it’s hard to put your faith in people.

Today, March 9, a man of a different era honored my class, Cone and Irwin’s Honors U.S. History, with a visit.

He spoke of his involvement in WWII, his experiences of Prohibition and the Great Depression.  The veteran, George Hage, 87, fought in the 84th Infantry Division.

“On October of ’42 they had lowered the draft age from 20 to 18,” Hage said. “So I was a fair game.”

Even though Hage was in the process of completing college, he was drafted. Months later, Hage learned he was headed to battle as an anti-tank gunner in the infantry. Hage lost many friends, including many who protected Hage himself from death, and counts himself incredibly fortunate to be alive and well.

It overwhelmed me to hear about his sacrifices because not many people would choose to put their own life at risk for the sake of others. Just one example of this was his infantry’s freeing of a women’s concentration camp.

“I thought all the women in the camp were pregnant, from their swollen bellies,” Hage said. “But our leader told us they were suffering from malnutrition.… They went through a long period of rehabilitation before they could leave. The conditions were terrible; they were underfed, overworked, and even covered in lice.”

Although my grandfather was not a veteran, Mr. Hage reminded me of him, and how he was full of courage, strength and empathy for other people. Not only did he help all of the people in the war, but he was willing to come and relive his experiences in his discussion with a few interested high school students.

The U.S. class had many questions. Maria Kalaitzandonakes, junior, was curious about his assimilation or preservation of his family’s culture. Hage is originally from Lebanon. He came to America with his father, mother and brother. His father was a businessman who spoke “broken English.”

From the beginning, Hage had a deep appreciation for all that America had to offer, but, he reminded Kalaitzandonakes that all must stay true to their roots. After he returned from the war, he was so glad to be able to enjoy his tradition of lunch at Casablanca, a Middle Eastern restaurant, every Wednesday.

By the end I was brought to tears, his soft voice and matter-a-fact stories left me with such a deep respect for this aged soldier.

Never before had history class been so inspiring.

By Mariam Yayha

I confess; I never paid Rush Limbaugh much attention until this weekend when on a segment of Limbaugh’s radio show where he called Georgetown student Sandra Fluke “a slut” for testifying in front of Congress about birth control.

The incident reminded me of the ever present double standard when it comes to sex.  The saying “A good key opens every door but a good door only opens for one key” has been running through my mind this whole week as I’ve tried to put my outrage into appropriate words. The phrase essentially means that a man can have sex with whomever he wants while a woman should wait for one man. How can it be that now, in the 21st century, women are still supposed to be sexually pure while men can be as promiscuous as they choose with no ramifications?

When a man buys contraceptives, his buddies may comment on how he is “getting lucky tonight.”  When a woman testifies in front of Congress about a new health care bill providing for payment for birth control pills that while in addition to preventing pregnancy, also help regulate abnormal periods and helps treat ovarian cysts, she is labeled “a slut” and “a prostitute” by Limbaugh and the far right that support him?

Fluke does not deserve to be branded as a slut for wanting ownership of her body, she should be commended as brave and responsible. She is brave because testifying in front of Congress is never an easy thing, and responsible because she taking care of herself by waiting until she is ready to have a child; 1,693,658 children were born in 2009 to unwed mothers who may be unprepared for being a parent; birth control is a way to lower that rate and hopefully ensure that children are born into families who are ready for them.

But obviously Limbaugh would rather have women subjugated to a lifetime of pregnancy à la Michelle Duggar, or maybe he was feeling a little attention deprived and chose Fluke as his train back into the front mind of America.

I’d also like to take this time to call out the Republican candidates, specifically Mitt Romney, for their reactions to Limbaugh’s debauchery. When asked what he thought of Limbaugh’s rant, Romney replied,  “It’s not the language I would have used.” Well, then, Mr. Romney, what words would you have used? Tramp? Floozy? Or god forbid, unsavory person?

If the sexual double standard is to be eroded and women can purchase contraceptives without the stigma of being a slut, then men like Limbaugh need to keep their thoughts to themselves. Or better yet, they should educate themselves on birth control (honestly, it’s only one pill a day, not 500,00) and start treating women as equals.

It’s been 93 years since the Nineteenth Amendment was passed, and 44 years since the birth control pill was created. One would think that America could be more mature about the matter, but I guess not.

By Jessica Jost

Feature photo by Savannah Viles. (Calistus Nyeko, a Ugandan principal who came to RBHS in spring 2011, arrived through the Invisible Children program. From a print edition of The ROCK, Jan 2011, "Invisible Children sends African principal to RBHS")

Inspiring. Motivating. Sensational. I wanted to do something after watching the Kony 2012 video on March 6. The next day in school, one day after the video aired, I saw posters all over.

I was a little shocked. I accepted the video only because of my familiarity with Invisible Children. Global Issues paired with Invisible Children last year to help fund Calistus’ trip as part of a teacher exchange.

The exchange was a success. I thought both RBHS and Calistus’ school in Uganda benefited, but I was under the impression few people knew anything about Invisible Children, having only experienced moderate success with our fundraising attempts last year. I could be wrong, but it appeared a limited scope of people even knew about the fundraising before Calistus arrived, let alone that Invisible Children hosted it.

And that people became ardent Invisible Children enthusiasts overnight was disturbing.

But the turnaround was just as unbearable. When I logged onto Facebook earlier today, I saw one of my friends had posted a link questioning the Kony 2012 campaign and Invisible Children. While this in itself is not bad, repeated accusations and angry remarks toward Invisible Children are.

Though the Kony campaign is questionable and imperfect, this is the case with most not-for-profits, especially when meddling with controversies like the one in Uganda. Every organization requires enormous sums of money to fund travel and to pay workers. Transporting large numbers of people to and from Africa runs in the thousands per person (totaling $1.07 million in 2010, according to the organization’s IRS Form 990, found here*), and good publicity costs a fortune ($851,552 in 2010 for all production costs and $357,610 for film costs in 2010 relatively low for such high-impact films as the organization has pulled off).

The blog and many others that popped in my newsfeed questioned the exorbitant amounts the organization spends on making videos. But few documentaries capture an audience as Invisible Children’s documentaries have. Most organizations go completely unnoticed. This kind of advertising is essential for anyone to hear about their cause.

Think about this: few people heard about Kony’s deplorable acts last year when Global Issues, a school club, tried to raise the same issue. No one would have heard of Invisible Children had it not created the video.

Also, critics have blown the expenses out of proportion. Invisible Children’s revenue in 2010 was $13.77 million and its expenses amounted to $8.89 million, with $4.87 million going into savings. Around 65 percent of revenue covered expenses of running the organization, not an unreasonable amount especially considering the publicity the organization does.

The purported spendthrifts running the organization don’t make millions. The most any makes is $89,669 a year, according to Form 990, and this money goes to one of the founders of the organization.

The primary difference between Global Issues’ and Invisible Children’s focuses remained in education. Calistus came over to understand how American schools run and to take the teachings back and apply them to his school in Uganda. The Kony 2012 video’s focus was on mobilizing support for the troops that are already in Uganda, to spread knowledge.

If people don’t know or care about Kony, politicians could withdraw troops from the area. It is a great idea, but capturing Kony using troops is more questionable.

Funding the Ugandan military to capture Kony might not — and also might — be the best idea. To call Invisible Children a scam, however, is a hasty conclusion. To question its solution to the problem is reasonable. While I don’t know the best solution, and I think it’s impossible to know what the right thing to do is, I think the solution is something peacekeeping forces like the United Nations need to sort out, not one nation or one organization.

Though that’s just one high school student’s thoughts, I do think it’s important to question. Before jumping on either bandwagon, extreme loathing or love for the campaign, it’s important to question.

By Avantika Khatri

*As a side note, before jumping to conclusions about Invisible Children’s low rating on the site, check the dates on the comments

I was silently talking — communicating with sign language. I first saw sign language at a rock concert on New Year’s Eve. Neither a frequent concert goer nor a rock enthusiast, I was planning to leave as soon as I could.

When the music started, I winced, trying to think of an excuse so I could leave. I glanced around the room in desperation, and my eyes fell upon a lady standing by the stage.

Her dark clothing and posture made it clear that she was trying to be inconspicuous, so her standing there wasn’t what caught my attention. Instead her hands captivated me.

I stared, enchanted, as she translated the rock music into beautiful hand movements. She was signing too fast for me to try guessing which actions meant which words, but it didn’t matter. The loveliness of the language fascinated me, and I left the concert with a New Year’s resolution — I wanted to learn sign language for myself.

I began the very next day. Using online dictionaries and YouTube videos, I learned dozens of words, always eager for more. Quickly closing my fingers showed capture. The thumb and index finger flicking out by the eye meant amazement. Touching the forehead and then pulling my finger away in a wiggling fashion indicated dream.

To help remember vocabulary better, I learned the signs to different songs. Although I was not using the grammar of American Sign Language — I was using English grammar instead, as many people do when they sign to songs — it was fun to practice using music I loved.

The emotions I felt, however, went past enjoyment. My initial fascination with sign language was not how people wove together stunning hand movements; it was how they actually sung with their whole bodies, conveying not just the meaning of the word, but also the emotion of the music and how it made people feel.

At the rock concert, the translator could have been sitting down, tediously interpreting the words perfectly into sign language. Instead she was standing, bouncing in time to the music and changing her body language and facial expression to fit the various, different tones of the music. Instead of just signing the surface meaning, she captured the emotion behind each phrase.

As I practiced more and more with sign language, I slowly imitated this talent of signers. Instead of just signing excited — moving the middle fingers alternately up the chest — I stood up straighter and opened my eyes wide, pairing this with a smile while I made the sign.

Digging for a deeper meaning, however, extended beyond this new language. Although I’ve always been the sort of person to “judge a book by its cover,” I began attempting to look past the surface meaning and into the deeper meaning in all aspects of my life, not just with sign language.

When my grumpy substitute teacher snapped at a student, I wondered if he was just having a bad day instead of automatically declaring him a mean-tempered person. When my friend showed up to lunch silent, I wondered if she was tired rather than assuming she was angry at me.

Using the mindset I learned from sign language, I looked past the surface to uncover the core of various situations instead of assuming things just from their appearances.

Learning this new language has not only given me a means to attempt a conversation with a deaf person, but it has also helped me become more open-minded. For that reason, when someone asks me my favorite sign, I use my thumb and forefinger and mime picking an object up — discovery.

By Kirsten Buchanan

To put the truth out there, I’m just not comfortable with Apple computers. I’m not a huge fan of them. I dislike their draconian policy toward software development and the App Store and their inflated prices.

However, I am not a rabid anti-Apple death machine either. I think that Apple is a spectacular design manufacturer, especially in its way of revolutionizing human-computer interaction every couple of years, and if one has the money there is nothing wrong with spending a few hundred dollars on a more intuitive operating system.

The problem is not with Apple computers, per se; it’s with Apple fans. Or more specifically, my brother Michael the Apple fan.

Now, my dear, dear brother who, by all accounts, is intelligent, amiable and has even been called kind, turns to a belligerent and hostile curmudgeon when it comes to the subject of computers. You see, while my brother Kevin is an equal lover of all UNIX-based operating systems, a popular sub-operating system, my brother Michael is quite discriminatory, eschewing not only Windows but also Linux, the freeware OS, for the warm and anesthetic qualities of Apple Macintosh computers.

My brother Michael, a college student, stays in contact with my parents by check and stops in on the holidays to say “hi.”

This Christmas, in addition to the usual presents and food, he had another request: an upgrade to his nearly dead MacBook.

Such a request was not unreasonable. In fact, I think it quite admirable he would want to upgrade his laptop as opposed to replacing it entirely. However, he paid some $80 for two gigabytes of random access memory (RAM) to be installed. He, and many like him, have no idea what two gigabytes of RAM do or why $80 dollars is a silly price for them.

People must stop treating computers as if they are magical boxes powered by mischievous elves. They’ve been commonplace for what — nearly two, arguably three decades now? Computers are fairly simple, yet their seeming complexity drives people away. The large and scary words like GIGAHERTZ! or MICROPROCESSOR! make people want to crawl under the nearest wood crafting table or Amish community.

In truth, computers are fashioned out of a few major parts, each with unique properties that make the screen glow and words appear. These are the hard drive, the motherboard, the microprocessor, the RAM, graphics/sound cards and the power supply unit. Then there are disc drives, monitors, keyboard, speakers and other components with more obvious effects.

Now that list may still seem overcomplicated, but it’s really quite simple. This brings me back to my brother Michael. Despite my kind and completely-not-condescending offer to teach him the basics of computers, he refused even to try to learn. And though it may have been my tone, I think that it was more that he was unwilling to learn at all.

All those parts have simple functions. Most people know what a hard drive does — it stores stuff. Most everything else in a computer is almost just as simple. Microprocessor does a certain number of actions per second — a figure measured in hertz. Thus, gigahertz measures how fast a processor runs in millions of actions per second.

Graphics cards are the same thing, just with thousands of weak microprocessors running at once. Running programs are stored in RAM — this is why adding RAM makes a computer much faster. Power supply units, or PSUs, power the machine. Motherboards hold the whole thing together.

That’s a pretty brief explanation, to be sure. It’s almost absurdly short. And yet that’s all a computer is. A plethora of lengthier explanations can be found in books and online. There is a whole world of information out there, easily acquired. It’s not terribly difficult to learn, but many people, like my dear brother Michael, just don’t seek it out.

I was once like my older brother. I had little interest in how computers worked, being more invested in playing video games and generally screwing around. But then I decided to build my own computer — a good project I recommend to anyone — and a veil was lifted from my eyes.

It’s the big secret: if you have valuable information, you can charge other people lots of money for simple things. If you have information, you can understand what is wrong when something has gone wrong. If you have information, you can control things.

The ‘rule of knowledge’ applies to many things. To bring the idea of free information back to Apple, they control to a great degree what every iUser sees on the app store, and therefore control the flow of information to those users.

On the hardware side, Apple has created a user base that largely does not care how the computer works, only that it does, and thus can control prices for computers and repairs.

The same idea goes with media — newspapers, television, video games. Because people are not invested in knowledge, companies can take advantage of them to control their spending habits, their eating, even their vote. It’s important to know; otherwise one is just fumbling in the dark.

We have to understand this integral part of our daily lives so that, as citizens, we can make informed decisions. The recent near-passing of the Stop Online Piracy Act (SOPA), demonstrates the importance of knowing.

Many of the senators voting for the bill had no idea that the bill would authorize domain name system (DNS) blocking, let alone knowing what DNS is. And in this day and age, with the battle over the privacy of computers and the Internet being fought daily, it’s important to ask the right questions of the things we buy and the laws we create.

And if we don’t know how something as simple and fundamental as a computer works, how will we be able to know what to ask of it?

By Adam Schoelz

This action deserves applause. Raising the tax serves two primary purposes: to generate revenue for public education and to better Missouri health in general.

An increased tax will generate money “to be used for public education purposes,” according to the bill, and the Columbia Missourian reported the tax could generate as much as $400 million. In times of economic hardship such as now, there have been budget slashes across the board; increasing the tobacco tax provides a quick and necessary supplement to help resolve this problem.

In addition to providing new funding for schools, the bill will act as a deterrent to those who smoke, as all excise taxes do. By increasing the price of cigarettes, some smokers will quit using tobacco products and save even more money for the state.

Each year, Missouri spends nearly $2 billion to treat smoking-related illnesses, according to Missouri Department of Health. Of the adult state population, 23.1 percent smoke; of these people, 54.5 percent want to quit. Increasing the tobacco tax will provide a much needed incentive for them to stop, while generating revenue for the state in the process.

Smoking has a strongly negative impact on the currently floundering economy. Smoking-attributed productivity losses cost Missouri about $2.5 million a year, according to the Missouri Department of Health. In addition, each household in the state pays $585 a year in state and federal tax dollars on smoking-related problems, like caring for newborns suffering because their mothers smoked during pregnancy. This problem alone costs Missouri $10 million a year. A simple way to mitigate all of these problems is to implement a better deterrent to using tobacco products, such as the higher excise tax HB 1478 proposes.

Some critics may say this bill will affect the poor more than the wealthy, since it will be difficult for poorer addicted smokers to pay the price. Currently, smokers spend around $2,000 a year on cigarettes on average, according to statistics released by the Missouri Department of Health. That’s about 523 packs a year, which means each smoker would spend an extra $376.56. While this seems to be a lot, it could also be the necessary incentive for people to stop smoking, thus saving lives.

Students should back the passing of this bill. Since representatives of Missouri, and more specifically Columbia, proposed the bill, it is a simple matter to contact our representatives, like Still, via email or phone and show our support by asking what we can do to help. In addition, encourage peers who are smoking to try to quit. While a major purpose of the bill is to raise revenue, it is equally important to try to improve the health and habits of the general population, starting with the youth.

By The ROCK staff

Senior Emily Wright runs in the early mornings. Photo by Muhammad Al-Rawi.

This morning when my alarm went off, the last thing I wanted to do was lace up my shoes and hit the sidewalk. I would have preferred to curl up in my mound of comforters and ease back into sleep. But, no, I dragged my lazy body out of the warm bliss and onto the frostbitten pavement.

My legs screamed to stop as I struggled to put one foot in front of the other. My muscles twitched with every step. My mind began to think I was so tired I might, in fact, fall asleep right there on the concrete path of my neighborhood.

Then a realization struck me — why would I pry myself out of bed at such a ridiculous hour to run every day? As a distance runner, this was not the first time the question had prodded me. It usually comes to mind on those painful morning runs when drinking boiling water sounds more appealing than taking even one step onto the road. And each time I begin to question my daily ritual of running I convince myself there is a decent reason for it. So I gulp that wintry wind and motivate myself.

To start, track begins next Monday, marking the beginning of my eighth season as a distance runner. I’m already seven eighths of the way there. I have one more season to set personal records — why stop now? People depend on me to work as hard as they are, to log miles so we can make history just as we did in the fall with our second place trophy at state.

So for me to take an extra day of rest just so I can cling to my mattress would be completely selfish. My feet continue to brush the ground as my legs press forward.

I’ve been through worse. There was the time my junior year when, unknown to me, my iron levels plummeted. My legs felt like lead, slow and rusty, and I transformed into a sickly, pale anemic. Running felt like a disappointing endeavor, laced with failure, as I was unable to cling to my teammates’ pace, putting me further and further behind. There were times I wanted nothing more than to throw my tennis shoes in the trash and quit for good. But even then I vowed to make a comeback and stick with it.

I think of how far I have come since day one of running before my freshman year, when I simply hoped to carve out my abs and get in better aerobic shape. I didn’t dream of being on varsity, and the thought never crossed my mind that I might be on RBHS’ first state trophy cross country team. No, in the beginning I was just in it for the abs.

My improvements have been too meaningful for me to head back to square one. In the end, I realize sticking with something when things get rough is necessary to reap any sort of benefit. Had I quit running a year ago, I wouldn’t have proven to myself that I could rebound. And though I wouldn’t be surrounded by the needle-like pain of chilly air in the early morning, I would not have had the opportunity to work with my teammates toward a common goal. Ups and downs are part of life, and I have learned to stick with running, facing the lows rather than shying away from them. For me, running has been a metaphor for the struggles that life brings.

So on my early morning jog, my pace quickens, defrosting my limbs and loosening my taut muscles. I can feel a rosy glow forming on my face.

It feels good

By Emily Wright

Art by Joanne Lee.

Effective classroom management arises from experience. A competent teacher’s students will gain 52 percentile points over a year’s time, whereas those of an ineffective teacher will only gain 14 percentile points, according to the Association for Supervision and Curriculum Development.

Keeping good teachers means keeping experienced teachers, but experienced teachers won’t stick around if districts can fire them on a whim. According to the National Education Association, 46 percent of new teachers leave their jobs within five years.

At such a high attrition rate, taking away an incentive like tenure will only increase the number of teachers that quit.

Presiding Commissioner of Cole County Marc Ellinger started a petition in Missouri; if it receives enough signatures, it may put teacher tenure on the November ballot, which is one of the worst things that could happen for teacher tenure.

When teachers already earn so little — the starting annual salary in Missouri schools is $29,281 according to Teacher Portal compared to a national average of $41,673.83, according to Social Security Online — they need the little protection tenure affords them, especially for such an important job they perform: teaching today’s youth.

After instructing for five consecutive years in a district, teachers in Missouri may apply for tenure, but tenure does not provide job security. Districts can still fire tenured teachers. Schools may notify tenured teachers 30 days before firing them in cases of inefficiency, insubordination or incompetence. This notification allows teachers to resolve conflicts within the 30 days, giving them a chance to improve.

Tenure also is the only guarantee for due process, a chance for teachers to have a trial before losing their jobs. Teachers may request due process within 10 days of the notice.

Proceedings for firing a teacher are open to the public, and teachers may have up to 10 witnesses. The school board pays for the costs of the proceedings, but the teacher must pay for his attorney.

Tenure has no connection to salary. Pay in CPS, and many other districts, instead, is on a scale. Teachers who have been teaching longer, and therefore have more experience, earn more. However, in economic downturn, administrators may choose to release these older, more expensive teachers, hiring instead inexperienced teachers to save money. After Hurricane Katrina, New Orleans schools fired most experienced teachers and personnel. Only 45 percent of teachers in the Recovery School District are veterans. The district released experienced teachers to save costs, according to the Louisiana Federation of Teachers.

Tenure mainly provides a sense of security to teachers. Administrators may not prematurely fire them as a result of backlash from the public. Teachers who tackle difficult and often controversial topics, may continue to do so without fear of losing their jobs. Tenure allows teachers to teach without fear of censorship or arbitrary decisions.

Chicago Public Schools fired Allison Bates in the 2010-2011 school year for failing to place her lesson plans in a red folder, as her principal had requested for her evaluation, the Chicago Reader reported. Yet, Bates had her lesson plans; they were just on her computer instead of on paper. Having tenure would have prevented Bates’ unfair dismissal.

Tenure provides teachers time to defend their teaching methods. Districts can still fire ineffective teachers. Eliminating tenure would only generate insecurity in teachers, which will reflect in their teaching. Tenure allows teachers to improve their methods by giving them the time to improve. To keep tenure, speak against the petition and any related proceedings.

To understand tenure, read the news story here.

By The Rock staff

Photo by Parker Sutherland.

With the world rapidly bending to the will of technology, there are few defenses left to combat the influence devices such as iPods, kindles and cell phones have on Americans’ lives. As a generation mesmerized by the lure of instantaneous communication, high school students now live in a privileged world where they can talk to anyone at anytime practically anywhere. It’s no wonder teens text more than they talk nowadays, according to Pew Internet & American Life Project’s research center.

However, by opting for a more tangible form of conversation as their main way of communication, teens put themselves in a vulnerable situation – others can easily see and read everything they say at any point in time. Students at Adlai E. Stevenson High School learned this the hard way, when administrators, trying to catch drug dealings, confiscated students’ phones.

In a world where 47 percent of teens credit their social lives to tiny cellular devices, 74 percent of teenagers in the U.S. use cell phones and teens send an average of 80 texts a day, an intrusion into the bubble can reveal almost everything.

Individuals can, and have, lost some rights when the good of the people outweigh the cons, including President Abraham Lincoln suspending habeas corpus during the Civil War. The situation is the same when administrators confiscated students’ cell phones at Stevenson High School to try to catch those involved in drug dealings.

Administrators have a duty to find and report illicit activities that could endanger the student population; drug dealing is one of these activities. Administrators are within their rights to search and seize student cell phones to try to prevent  illegal activity.

It is within the school policy to allow administrators to confiscate the cell phones. The policy follows the same logic that law officers follow when, with probable cause, they search cars for suspected drugs. It is the same breach of privacy in both cases. The administration’s decision is backed by New Jersey v. T.L.O. T.L.O. was a student accused of smoking at school; after denying the allegations, administration searched her purse and found cigarettes. The Supreme Court upheld the actions of the administration, saying the student’s right to privacy had not been violated, since students have reduced expectations of privacy in school.

Some critics may argue that the administration should have gotten a warrant before their search and seizure. However, many schools do not have easy access to judges who will grant them a warrant, thus slowing down the process and giving guilty students enough time to eliminate evidence from their phones and themselves. In fact, students’ personal property can already be searched, as seen in the T.L.O. case ruling.

Why should cell phones be subjected to different rules than the rest of students’ belongings? Do they have some sort of “elite and privileged” status? This thinking is illogical – cell phones are personal property, just like purses, which can be searched under law and policy.

Administrators at Stevenson High School had legal precedent to confiscate students’ cell phones looking for evidence for drug dealings. However, to avoid such conflicts in the future at Rock Bridge, administrators should inform students what our policy will be if such a situation occurs.

Making the information more publicly known will reduce public outcry if such a problem would occur at RBHS. And then if needed, administrators can respond quickly and effectively to reduce the potential danger to the student body.

By Walter Wang and Daphne Yu

Photo from Caraline Trecha

After spending what seemed like countless minutes of fiddling with my attire and making sure I looked elegant and presentable,  I began the real challenge of preparing myself for a number of probing questions. After hearing the stories of  my older brother, Raleigh’s, experience at Boys State, I knew Missouri Girls State was one thing that I wanted to be a part of my 2011 summer.

The part that I feared the most was the first step into my admission, the interview. I knew their standards would be set high and I would have to bring my A game.

The interview was nerve-racking. Sitting in a room full of beautiful, accomplished young women, I felt my odds of being selected were low, but to my surprise, a few weeks later, I opened the white envelope to find I passed the test and would be spending a wonderful week learning about politics and making new friends.

Upon arrival at the University of Central Missouri, the camp’s location, I was eager to find out what my experience would be like, who my roommate was going to be and how much information about politics I could possibly squeeze into my head with only a week at camp. The first step to my adventure was being placed in what they called a “county.”

A county is a big group of girls that is then broken down into multiple “cities.” The city was my family for the week. Fortunately, I was blessed with a great group of girls in my city, whom I now consider my very close friends. The bonds built in a week really does blossom into a community that sticks together. We still keep in touch, and a few of us will be attending the University of Missouri together next year.

Throughout the week, we learned about policies and experienced the exact process of how the government functions. Each attendee ran for a position that they felt would best fit them. I decided to be on the highway patrol, along with one other girl from my city. Our job was to “protect” the camp and to enforce the ground rules.

Each day we had two classes. One class revolved around our positions and the other informed us about politics. During our class for the highway patrol we were fortunate enough to have multiple guest speakers and presentations on the Missouri Highway patrol. A highway patrol officer brought in his search dog and showed us the process of search and seizure. We learned valuable information that I will never forget.

At the end of the week, I was sad to leave. I had such a wonderful experience, and I recommend it to all the junior girls. It was a week that changed my life, one I will never forget. I recommend Missouri Girls State to any junior who is looking for a great week in Warrensburg, Missouri. You dont even have to interested in politics!

By Caraline Trecha

Of course, the President is correct that a high school degree is a necessary step in becoming a successful, contributing American citizen.  According to a 2006 report from the U.S. Census Bureau, “the average annual income for a high school dropout in 2005 was $17, 299, compared to $26, 933 for a high school graduate.”

But there is no reason to believe this maneuver by the Obama administration would raise the high school graduation rate and keep lazy 18-year-olds from staying in bed. Even if government force successfully drags unmotivated teenage bums into the walls of a local school, it’s not as if they’re going to all of a sudden become enlightened learning machines.

It’s only common sense that students who are intent on wasting their talents and time will do so no matter what the laws on the books are.  These students, then, will most likely cause distraction to those students who are intent on using their time well.

This leads to a situation that is uncomfortable for all of those involved in high school learning. Good students will be forced to put up with the antics of would-be-dropouts, bad students will feel even more alienated and angry than before, and teachers will have to deal with the tension.

According to The Huffington Post, 21 states require students  turn 18 before leaving high school. Some of these states have low dropout rates, like Vermont and North Dakota, and some have high dropout rates , like Maryland,  Massachusetts and New Mexico.

In other words, there is no real evidence to suggest raising the dropout age does anything. So why should we believe this Obama mandate will do anything?

The high school graduation rate is a complex issue, and it’s not going to be solved with a simplistic federal “solution.”

The saying is “it takes a village,” not “it takes a bloated, over-reaching federal government.”

Leave education up to the states and local communities.

By Mike Presberg

As I opened my first and read that simple word Congratulations, calm swept over me. Enthusiastic and relieved, I would return to school with good news of these acceptances, and my teachers and peers would congratulate me.

With each pat on the back my mentality changed. The promise of life after high school caused me to slack off in my studies and extracurriculars. Math problems and newspaper assignments became low priority to me; I would begin them and suddenly remember that I was going to college. What is the point in me writing an analysis of a novel or figuring out the probability of x?

I found my new condition surprisingly enjoyable. This was the first time I had shirked my academic duties, and I liked it. I had  more free time because I did less homework. Relaxation became my forte. I thrived in my spurious reality until it all imploded.

When finals week arrived, I had no idea what was going on. Frantically, I fought and scraped for each and every point available to me, coming in after class, studying late into the night and begging for extra credit opportunities. I couldn’t afford to lose my college admissions because of a terrible GPA.

As Christmas break began, and the delusional fog surrounding my chaotic last week cleared, my report card gleefully showed a host of As and Bs, and one big fat C sat next to Advanced Placement Statistics on my transcript, sticking out like a wart on a super model. I had failed the final.

More than 80 percent of Americans attend college of some kind according to the U.S. Census Bureau’s 2010 data. Senior year and high school as a whole are merely a launching pad for what is to come in the most important educational years of students’ lives. Students check out once they start receiving college acceptances. We’re told it’s OK to slip into a lie that accepts part-time students as the norm or taking easy classes during senior year as the status quo.

I am very far from making it in life, and I am wrong to expect to do well in college after slacking off for a whole year. I can only imagine what kind of success I could have had this year had I simply applied myself in class; I let thousands of scholarship dollars and countless opportunities slip through my hands.

As I continue to salvage my senior year, I will forever be forced to wonder what kinds of positive things could have happened to me and if I will be able to step up to my pre-senioritis academic performance as  I enter college.

It’s important for students to get their work done when assigned, not at a later date. Academics are similar to athletics — you won’t do well if you don’t practice. Putting in the extra hours may seem unappealing, but making an investment in your future always yields high returns. Colleges don’t have time for procrastination.

Looking forward, I’m not going to let my desires for relaxation trump my drive for success. I got into the colleges I applied to because of who I was before senioritis took hold of me. Because I was someone who cared and worked hard, I intend on beginning my freshman year of college as that same person.

By Alex Burnam

art by Anna Sheals

Now I’m well aware that for many people the profession of journalist — writer, television anchor, what have you — is often perceived to be that of a professional cynic.

To work off of a stranger’s words is to be skeptical, and most of the time the reporter falls into the step of not believing people because people never say what they mean, especially in the context of news events that could damage a reputation, that most critical of public measurements.

This is a problem endemic in our society. For instance, here at The Rock, we’d love to run wonderful little exposés on drug dealers, violent crime and STDs, but who will talk?

And since The Rock frowns upon using anonymous sources, who will talk and leave their name in the open, exposing their reputation to critical attack from all sides?

The answer, unfortunately often, is nobody. Or they will talk, then completely turn upon realizing that, when they talked to a newspaper reporter, their words MIGHT end up in a newspaper. It’s always a question of reputation, that fickle beast that haunts everyone’s steps.

Reputation — or trying to please others to preserve oneself — constantly takes the stage from truth, which is unceremoniously tossed to the side. It’s natural to avoid being embarrassed; the only problem is when avoiding embarrassment occurs in a self-perpetuating cycle and takes precedence over actually doing anything. People avoid saying what they mean, doing what is necessary, for the sake of personal comfort. Basically, this is lying. Complicatedly, it will lead to the collapse of society as we know it. I know this because I have seen first-hand what happens when one follows this road too far.

It was a day in early September, when the leaves were yellow and crisp but the wind had not yet turned bitter and hateful toward all things good. I was a wee lad in second grade, enjoying the state of selfishness that all small children share, when I noticed that I had lost a backpack borrowed from my parents. Said backpack contained several papers vital to important family business and I had promised quite fervently I would not lose it.

My primary response, naturally, was panic.

My second response was finding someone to blame. You see, I feel I can examine this phenomenon, this obsession with ‘rep’, because I took it to the extreme — well, as extreme as a second grader can go. I framed someone for theft in the name of protecting my own hide.

The day turned bitter cold. Upon my second grade countenance lay an expression of tenfold anger, with a hint of fear. My finger rose, pointing, accusatory. A student had taken my backpack, I said. A thief went to that school. My anger and my accusation were, of course, lies. But lying, it seemed to me, was far more prudent than accepting the truth. Admitting my mistake was out of the question. My ‘rep’ with my parents, with my pupils — it depended on this devilish gambit.

Of course I deservedly failed. Whisked up to school in an instant to collect the missing item, my story fell apart rather quickly. The ‘thief’ himself had waited to give me back my backpack, as if my lie weren’t already vile enough. Obviously, this painted me bright red as a liar, and the whole thing fell apart. Dehorned and dishonored, I returned home, my rep significantly damaged.

Though this was as a minor incident, it displays the dangers of promoting what others think of you above telling the simple and honest truth. Though the stakes were still small in this case — a missing backpack — been replicated in local politics? On the national stage? If I were willing to blatantly lie to protect myself in an incredibly minor matter, what happens when politicians make the same sort of mistake?

The answer, of course, is nothing good, which is frightening because our entire political sphere is absorbed in the business of self-protection. Every scandal, every fight — it’s all in the name of protecting a person, or a person’s money. Instead of working together to find the lost backpack, we’re killing each other over the blame. As it turns out, getting my rep destroyed was the best thing for me. Traumatic experiences in childhood carry a lot of weight, and even today I still just don’t lie. As self-righteous as that sounds, it’s true — lying has been kind of ruined for me.

Being real may sound like a phrase from a ‘90s sitcom, but it is a rule to live by. Telling the truth before the lies pile up is an easy way to avoid trouble — I learned that in second grade. Every action will have an effect. Really, rather than ending up strangled by lies and drama, wouldn’t it be easier to live without them?

By Adam Schoelz

We need a change because better education leads to better jobs and salaries. But students do not feel enough pressure for their own future.

A massive 68 percent of parents in the United States said they felt there was not enough societal pressure on educational prowess when the Pew Research Center surveyed them, yet these same parents do not pressure their own children to do well in school.

While we cannot do much about the problem nationwide, there is a simple fix available to us here at RBHS: instead of making Alternating Unassigned Time untouchable except for students in detention, those earning a D in any class should be required to go to tutoring sessions during their AUT until they pull up their grades. This system would be  similar to the current sophomore advisory program.

This plan will put pressure on students to do well in class, not wanting to lose the privilege of their AUTs. In turn, students will have a better academic environment.          It also benefits RBHS to have fewer students failing, decreasing resources spent and space used on uninterested students.

RBHS currently has about a 94 percent attendance and graduation rate, about average in Missouri, according to the Missouri Comprehensive Data System. If we put more pressure on students to do well, these numbers would rise in accordance to academic drive and success.

Doing well in education corresponds with higher pressure on students from society and such pressure on students makes a difference.

According to the PRC survey, 68 percent of Chinese parents believe there is too much pressure on students to do well.

In the 2008 Programme for International Student Assessment, scores from Shanghai, China topped the charts.

The difference between these first place scores and second place was at least four times the difference between second and third, places which no country held consistently throughout the subjects of literacy, science and mathematics.

Students need more pressure to do better in school. There are only consequences for failing a class when that class is necessary for graduation.

Even then, the only disciplinary action will be to make the student retake that class and fail to graduate. Students thus have no real incentive to work hard in school unless they are self-motivated.

Changes to the system should not increase the number of hours spent in school or the amount of money spent on quality teachers. While these changes can make a difference, they mean absolutely nothing if students have no motivation to learn.

Making AUT a privilege for having good grades will be a strong incentive for RBHS students to care more about school. Students need to start going to class as much as possible and complete their work on time for all classes.

It will boost the quality of their education and serve as a model to how big a benefit a little pressure can cause.

By Walter Wang

“Come on, Joanne!” my sister Gloria hollered.

I hastened my pace as I focused on the flashing lights of the subway train, which waited only for a brief time. Then, I felt it — a subtle, but noticeable vibration climbing along my bag. My bag.

As fast as light, I glanced at the brown pouch that hung behind my shoulders. I froze when I saw my handbag slightly open.

I tried to find out what was missing, and I looked for the robber, but before I could do anything, the last call for the subway forced me to board with the rest of my family, who were happily oblivious to my inner panic.

Looking through the murky windows of the metro train, my eyes darted frantically as I scanned the crowd of people.  I caught only a glimpse of the culprit, the back of a big gypsy-like figure. But even this little crumb of information I had was only a guess. I leaned my forehead against the grim glass.

As I felt the rhythmic clicks of the rails, my eyes peered helplessly into the racing blackness. Thoughts rushed through my head like blood out of a wound: Please, not my Passport, I’ll be stuck here… What if they want my 40 euros in my wallet?

I looked into the handbag expecting the worst; I realized my camera pouch containing my $250 Canon, a Christmas present only a few days old, along with my extra battery and 4GB memory chip with all my personal data. Gone. 

How could they be gone? No, no, no. I kept repeating that word in my head. I didn’t want to tell my sister, who had gifted me that camera only a few days earlier. How could I face my family? My mom paused her friendly chatter with Dad when she saw my horrified stare.

“Is something wrong, Joanne?” she said.

So I told my parents. While I was telling them, their faces gradually went from a curious grin to shocked bewilderment. Later, this news spread to my brother, and then to my sisters.

I expected mockery. After all, shouldn’t they fault this on me? They were supposed to say I should have stopped the robber when I could, that I was being careless. But to my surprise, they didn’t say anything along that.

My family members gathered around me.

“It’s OK, Joanne,” Gloria said. “I’m glad you weren’t attacked by the gypsy.”

“Yeah, gypsies can be dangerous. What if they stabbed you because you caught them?” my brother Daniel added.

It was sweet for them to be so embracing, but I still couldn’t forgive or forget what had just happened. This time I stuck close to the rest of my family members as we walked out into city from the metro.

As I thought about the robbery, I started to generalize the entire trip as having only the negatives.

Was this trip really worth the 14-hour flight and all the money? Why didn’t we just go to the Kansas City Crown Center where we could at least understand street signs?

Unlike the rest of my family, I was angry. Perhaps deep inside, I wanted them to agree with me and punish me because that would show they were upset. But, oddly, they seemed to shrug it off so easily, so fast.

Meanwhile, I only thought of how outrageous it was that our family had to go through these petty head-aching problems. I started to collect more reasons to justify my frustration. Those reasons were, for example, ordering the wrong food because of a slight mispronunciation or frequently being unable to find a bathroom, which is indeed, quite unpleasant.

Being deprived of much family time — my father was alone in Korea for a year and a half, and both my older sisters are enrolled in out-of-state colleges  —  I was looking forward to this trip, hoping it would be worthy of the long time I had to wait for it to arrive. However, I felt betrayed by my expectations.

Then I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was my sister, Esther.

“Joanne, isn’t that beautiful?” she said.

I looked up, both away from my unpleasant thoughts and the dog manure on the sidewalk.

It was the Alhambra.

When I saw such surreal beauty accompanied by the uniform joy shared together with all my family members, those blips seemed irrelevant. Gazing at the magnificent castle with its brick walls glowing like gold, I realized misfortunes can happen anywhere and everywhere, but moments of beauty shared altogether with family come with limited times. Why should I dwell on the negatives when, in reality, I don’t even have much time to share the beautiful moment in life with those whom I love?

I felt as if I mentally gained a powerful weapon; even through the imperfections, my family will still be there for me. Never waste time dealing with what only embitters the situation. So my response to my sister’s perhaps rhetorical question was, “Yes, it’s beautiful.”

By Joanne Lee

Often times it is not the caliber of the experience, but the caliber of those who experience it with you can truly change the way you think. When I received my acceptance letter to attend Missouri Boys State last summer, it was difficult to contain my excitement.

Boys State is a week-long summer simulation hosted by the American Legion. Every high school in Missouri sends junior student representatives to create and run their own city, county and state governments. I have always had a passion for politics, and the opportunity to take part in a world-class government simulation was practically a dream come true.

Upon arriving, I joined 50 unfamiliar faces as a citizen of the fictional city of Pershing. I would be spending the long week ahead with them. That same day at 9 p.m. we had the daunting task of electing our mayor. I felt a sense of despair. I dreaded that my peers would not be as passionate about the simulation as I, but much to my surprise, after about an hour of lively campaigning and debate, we had elected our mayor.

I realized this group of men was different. They weren’t typical high school students who would dismiss Boys State as a childish game of pretend. Every citizen wanted to make the week a success, regardless of the effort and hours it took. Throughout the week, we accomplished more than we had thought possible. We wrote countless city ordinances and elected multiple state senators from our city; we decorated every inch of our hallway in painstaking detail.

Members of 72nd session of MBS are honored in the Missouri House of Representatives for their leadership roles

I have an hour and 30 minutes before the bell rings. That’s no large amount of time when the pressure is on, and the thoughts keep slipping right through my fingers. All those historical facts I memorized are like paper birds in the wind; they keep flying out of my reach.

I pause, my hands freezing over the keyboard. Paper birds in the wind. That’s not a bad simile. Not bad at all.

I tack it onto the sentence about slaves in the South, and pray to God it’ll make sense and stick — stick like rubber cement, preferably, so that my teacher will go along with it. Glue can be a little unconvincing.

The essay sits before me, settled upon the screen of an outdated computer monitor. The document is a blinking, ugly mess, highlighted in large blocks of blinding yellow, mixed and matched with dirty patches of overused words. And this is what I’m turning into my teacher? Wonderful.

With “The Scarlet Letter” in one hand, my pen in the other, I have no idea how to compare Hester Prynn with the pursuit of passions and ideology throughout American history. Part of my mental block is the time limit, but part of it is that I’m grasping at straws like the last rhino at the watering hole.

Last rhino at the watering hole. Well, it’s probably the most awful cliché simile I’ve ever heard, but it’ll work.

I throw it onto that sentence about Hester’s kid. As long as I have an insightful metaphor, it shouldn’t matter that I can’t remember the kid’s name, right? Or what it was she symbolized?

Never mind. I’ll just make another two-paragraph description of the whippings slaves had. Blood rolled down their backs like rain from a storm cloud. So on and so forth. As long as I attempt to write with all the grace and propriety of Ernest Hemingway, it shouldn’t matter that I don’t know why, how or when those slaves were whipped.

This is the philosophy most high school students hold. We believe if we can just “get through” or “BS” — as most students call it — the paper, then we’ll get a big, fat, spotless A.

This nonchalant guise — the secret every student knows — is what makes me feel guilty. All I’m doing is reading a few pages of Shakespeare, with all its hidden meanings, “thee”s and “thou”s, then covering up my real lack of knowledge through similes and a flourish. And if all I do is compare his work to the “ever-flowing stream through the mountains” or call his words “sweet as honey,” I’m learning nothing besides ways to make my paper cheesier than the ‘60s “Batman and Robin” TV show. “Holy clichés, Batman!”

Fortunately, some teachers see through this. But many don’t. They hand out a rubric and adhere strictly to that rubric, while students find sly ways to slide pass the rubric’s requirements, sloughing off the real work.

“Meaningful thesis with significant claim?”

The story of John Grayson’s struggle through the fields of Kansas symbolizes hope because of the long strings of wheat, which pull drops of dew from the atmosphere like delicate day lilies throughout the autumn twilight of another endless day in the sloping hills of growing sunset light…which…symbolizes hope.

“Colorful language and vivid imagery?”

Her tears were like raindrops, her eyes like the most polished of Kay’s Jeweler diamonds. Every kiss begins with Kay!

Yeah, OK. So maybe I’m exaggerating a little. I hope   most of us would know better than to include jeweler slogans or “autumn twilight” clichés in our papers. But, then again, I’ve seen some pretty bad attempts at “getting by” in an essay. Including my own.

The first time I wrote a paper like this, I came back with a shiny, artificial 100 percent. Of course, I was pleased. My teacher even drew a cute smiley face next to one of my particularly overdramatic metaphors. I was feeling rather proud of myself, gallivanting around with my A, thinking I might keep dancing through assignments like this on a regular basis.

But the next time I wrote a similar essay, in a more competitive atmosphere, I found I had no idea what I was doing. The essay was much stricter and required a greater breadth of knowledge. I found myself groping for an escape, trying to throw in my lovely imagery lifesavers and failing at every turn. This essay wanted to know how much I knew about a recently discovered vaccine, not how well I could turn a phrase.

For the first time in a very long time, I received a poor grade on a piece of writing. I couldn’t help but be crushed. Writing was supposed to be my strong suit, the one area of schooling I could be completely and utterly comfortable with. Something was obviously wrong.

So I went back to the books. I paid attention to details. I started tracking pieces of information, tracing patterns. I took deeper notes. And when essay time came around again, I knew what I needed to know — even without all the fancy schmancy descriptive words.

But “BS-ing” through assignments is still a huge issue. It’s like an addictive drug. Once a person knows it’s a potential way out — a quick fix — it becomes a hard habit to break. Metaphor junkies are dangerous, easily trapped into the delusion that the number of fancy words is synonymous with the number of earned points.

Even now, I’ll occasionally write an essay that doesn’t really teach me anything. In a month I’ll have forgotten what was so important about the Chinese railroad workers or why kids with an INFJ-type personality are fantastic listeners. That’s why writing flowery essays makes me feel guilty. I’m turning in a piece of work that was no work at all.

If we’re spending seven hours of our day at school, and all we’re learning is how to trick the school system, which is quite different from the real world, are we accomplishing anything? Students need a steady foundation to settle upon, so that they don’t collapse like homes in a hurricane. Real life, a real career, isn’t going to ask for lovely words with little meaning. Real life is going to ask for lovely words with every kind of significance. Plus the cold, hard facts.

Maybe we’re walking towards the future with fake IDs, with no real knowledge to back up our claims.

Maybe “fake it ‘till you make it” is just another commonly accepted lie.

By Lauren Puckett

But with RBHS deriving four out of its five language offerings — Spanish, French, Latin and German — from Western European societies, students are again taught the society they live in. The other, Japanese, isn’t enough to make up the lack of diversity seen in the foreign language curriculum.

Because of this shortcoming, not only are students not as linguistically aware but they are also not as culturally educated. For example, the French curriculum at RBHS, like that of other languages, does not only teach students the nuances of the language; instead, it combines the language skills with an exploration of the countries that speak French – the same European ones.

By not learning about other cultures, students are being left out of the globalization trend; they will not be able to keep pace with the countries that really matter today.

In addition, by offering languages that have slowed in growth, RBHS has further minimized students’ access to the global world. According to a study Modern English Education conducted between 2002 and 2006, Spanish had the highest enrollment at U.S. colleges in 2006 but only had a 10.3 percent increase in enrollment since 2002. French only went up 2.2 percent whereas Chinese classes increased by 51 percent and Arabic a 126.5 percent.

French and Spanish are still the highest in demand maybe because they have been for the last century, but other languages, such as Chinese and Arabic, are gaining more interest. French and Spanish may have been the basis of communication in the 19th-century, but in a world with booming competition, Arabic and Chinese triumph.

French and Spanish lost their statuses as languages of business when Mandarin Chinese and Arabic became the language of 845 and 221 million people respectively, according to Bloomberg.

These dominating languages, however, are not offered at RBHS. That doesn’t mean learning Spanish and French aren’t important, but if students want to be able to compete with the economies and cultures of today, a change is necessary.

RBHS should include more than just one non-European language in its course offerings. The language department must realize the transformation of “nice to have” languages to essentially “must-haves.”

By Shivangi Singh

Though it is important to have educated voters, comprehending politicians does not require a college degree. Anyone with a basic understanding of English can follow politics.

Most students eligible to vote will be graduates by the time national elections roll around. In 2010 only 13.8 percent of high school graduates ages 18-24 turned up at the booths, yet those 75 and older, also with only a high school education, represented themselves with 35.2 percent.

Those with the same level of education, with less stake in the future, are seeing higher percentages in voter turnout. Even after acquiring advanced degrees, 18- to 24-year-olds only yield 30.5 percent of their demographic, while those 75 and older produce percentages twice as high at 62.5 percent.

The 2008 general elections had 58.2 percent voter turnout, an extraordinarily low number for a developed nation.

The conference Board of Canada gathered voter turnout statistics for the national elections from 17 developed, democratic nations. Of them, the United States ranked 14,  tied with the United Kingdom and above only Canada and Switzerland.

Even this ranking is generous considering how few people vote in municipal or public elections. 2010 was not a federal election year, and voter turnout fell to 41.8 percent, as the U.S. Census Bureau recorded. The census also demonstrates vast differences in percentages of 18- to 24-year-old voters and those 75 and older. At both the national and local level voter turnout for 18- to 24-year-olds is extraordinarily low. In 2010, with issues at a state or local level, 18 through 24-year-olds had the lowest voter turnout of all ages, at only 19.6 percent, with votes from only 13.9 percent of 18-year-olds. Those 75 and older, however, represented themselves with 57.7 percent of their votes.

April 3 is the general municipal Election Day, and the last day to register is March 7. Though it is good for voters to be aware of national issues, local issues often have a greater impact on citizens, and despite presidential primaries, local issues should not be overlooked. Everyone who will be able to vote, and even those who will not, should inform themselves of the local issues so they can make informed decisions in April.

A Columbia School district levy increase measure will be on this ballot. If it passes, it will increase the school levy by 40 cents per $100 of property, raising the property tax rate. The levy would serve to raise funds to maintain staff and pay for operational costs of the district, in a nutshell.

A Columbia School district bond measure will also be on the ballot. The measure would issue a $50 million bond to pay for school construction projects, renovation, upgrading facilities and equipping projects in the district. This would also raise the debt service levy by 12 cents to pay for the bond.

These descriptions are mere summaries of the bills. Each bill has the potential to provide many more facilities and resources to the district. The bills may also improve overall function of CPS. But without knowing how the money is being used, we might completely waste these funds.

These bills have a heavy bearing on high school students. They influence students’ educations, thereby impacting their futures since local government has a greater impact on school issues than does the national government. It is vital not only for students to bring greater turnouts in elections but also to vote on local issues.

By The Rock Staff

A month ago, when my church gave us the opportunity to help out at the annual “Fall Family Fun Feast,” the members of my youth group had all looked at each other and shrugged our shoulders. Not the most exciting event ever, but we supposed running different game stations for young kids would be fun.

And it should have been.

But when the day arrived, it turned out to be quite different from how I had imagined it. As the organizer assigned different stations for the youth to work, people eagerly volunteered. However, when she reached one booth, a sudden lack of willingness materialized.

People called it the “Candle Station,” and at first it didn’t seem too daunting. When the organizer asked me if I wanted to work at it, I agreed. All the other stations required only one person to man them, but I had my friend, Mark, to help me. Knowing I needed another person to assist me should have foreshadowed the future difficulties of the booth, but I meandered to the Candle Station anyway, happily oblivious.

At our booth, children extinguished three burning candles with a water gun in less than 30 seconds – or at least tried to. Our only role was to make sure everything ran smoothly. It seemed simple enough, and Mark and I prepared to lead the children in our game.

As the kids began arriving, I quickly found out why the Candle Station needed two people. Mark and I faced problem after problem after problem; with each new trouble, I felt increasingly terrible because things fell short. If we couldn’t run this station well, then what was the point of working it at all?

In a typical round, a child came up to the station, eager to play. As he waited, he saw Mark trying to fill up our one working water gun, desperately shaking it in a bucket of water. The child glanced up to see me frantically trying to light the candles.

Interestingly, candles refuse to light when wet; of course, this problem normally never pops up for candle owners. Come to think of it, the only situation I can ever imagine where a candle would become wet seems to be when someone squirts water at it.

Lucky us.

To make matters even worse, one of the lighters we were using — the good lighter, of course — stopped working halfway through the evening. While timing using Mark’s phone, I spilled so much water on it that I feared it would stop working.

That evening, as I often do, I concentrated only on the bad. Things weren’t perfect, and in my mind, that meant they weren’t going well at all. Faced with trying to light a stubborn candle for the hundredth time at least, I mentally marked the “Fall Family Fun Feast” as a failure.

In multiple studies, such as one by Purdue University, researchers have found that people who focus on the bad tend to have so much anxiety about failing that eventually it becomes a “self-fulfilling prophecy.” They end up failing because they think they won’t succeed.

That was what happened to me. As I tried, once again, to light a stubborn candle, I paused and looked up to see the next participant in our game. Maybe six years old and eagerly grinning ear to ear, she juxtaposed my annoyed demeanor.

After 30 seconds with the water gun, she — like so many other children — failed at our game. Instead of immediately counting out her tickets she received as a consolation prize, I paused to study her face, wondering if she felt the burden of failure like I did.

Not a trace of unhappiness tainted her smile; she simply shrugged and skipped off to the next booth. I saw her fail, yet in her mind, the night remained absolutely perfect.

I wrote her off as being one of those ridiculous, perpetually optimistic types of people, but to my surprise, when I paused to look at our next participant, he shared the same unbreakable joy. In fact, all the children who visited the Candle Station came with a smile and left with a smile. I was dumbfounded. Maybe being flawless wasn’t what mattered.

As I continued to help with the game, my mind set began to change. I started to seek the joy the kids were looking for instead of striving to be flawless.

In the end, I wasn’t going to remember that the water almost ruined Mark’s phone or that I spent far too much time trying to light candles.

I would remember the smiles of the children and the happiness they found, and I would remember giggling with them about all of our problems.

They taught me that it really didn’t matter what a situation is like. The important thing, instead, is that they approached the situation with joy, as if they couldn’t be any happier — as if they thought everything was perfect.

And, slowly, I began to realize it was.

By Kirsten Buchanan

“Super Bowl XLII- the Sequel” is a go. The New York Giants and New England Patriots will meet in the Super Bowl again, four years after the Giants upset the 18-0 Patriots in one of the most memorable Super Bowls ever.

The public will focus on the quarterback matchup, and justifiably so. Patriots quarterback Tom Brady commandeered an unstoppable offense, based on creating matchup issues with their two athletic tight ends, Rob Gronkowski and Aaron Hernandez.

The offense has led New England to 13 regular season and two playoff victories, including Sunday’s win over the Baltimore Ravens in the AFC championship game.

This season Eli Manning has erased any doubts as to whether or not he’s an ‘elite’ quarterback. He has emerged as an unquestioned leader, carrying his team to five straight victories and the Super Bowl after an embarrassing 23-10 home loss to the Washington Redskins.

Receivers Victor Cruz and Hakeem Nicks have also developed into real threats, as the Giants’ offense really meshed to end the season. The Giants thrashed the top-seeded Green Bay Packers in the divisional round, and managed to defeat the San Francisco 49ers in overtime in the NFC championship game Sunday.

The quarterbacks and offenses are great matchups, but what will really decide the game in the end is defense. Both defenses were far below the NFL average in the regular season, with the Giants finishing 27th in the league with 376.4 total yards allowed per game and the Patriots finishing next-to-last at 31st with 411.1 total yards allowed per game.

To push them over the top in the playoffs, these types of teams need at least competent performances from their  usually incompetnent defenses. The defenses who step up (see: 2010 Packers, 2009 Saints, 2008 Cardinals, 2006 Colts) make the big game.

Since the start of the playoffs, both the Giants’ and Patriots’ defenses are playing much better. In the playoffs, the Patriots are allowing a total of 325 yards a game, while the Giants are allowing 321, improvements of 86 and 51 total yards per game respectively. If they had posted these numbers in the regular season, the defenses would have ranked seventh and eighth overall. Combine that with their juggernaut offenses, and both teams would have been hard to stop. With the improved defensive performance, the teams have won a combined 16 of their last 17 games. The Patriots alone own a 10-game winning streak.

The key for the 12-point underdog Giants’ defense was to be more physical than the 16-0 Patriots’ historical offense. The Giants did that with their defensive line. Unfortunately for the Pats, they get a rematch with a stronger, more experienced line this year.

The key to winning battles on defense is getting enough pressure on the quarterback to force a bad decision or throw, because given enough time, good quarterbacks will beat coverage, and elite quarterbacks will overwhelm it. However, blitzing more than five guys could spell trouble. These guys have to be removed from coverage, increasing the likelihood a receiver gets open downfield. Teams live and die by the blitz, but it’s a risky strategy to employ against an experienced quarterback.

The best defenses find ways to generate enough pressure with their front four defensive linemen so they don’t have to keep sending guys at the quarterback. This is where the Giants excel; they have a dominant front four, led by All-Pro Jason Pierre-Paul, that can easily get to the quarterback without help from their secondary. That’s the formula they employed when they defeated the Patriots before and is certainly going to be the focus in this year’s matchup. The key for the Patriots will be to have backs and tight ends chip in on blocks, creating an extra second or two for the QB to throw. It can be the difference between completing a throw and a defensive victory.

The Patriots’ defense isn’t as strong as the Giants’. Their front four is marginal at best, better suited for stopping the run than the pass. In order to get pressure on the quarterback, they send linebackers and defensive backs in exotic blitz packages and show different schemes in the secondary, to compensate for the ‘lost’ defender(s). Against good quarterbacks, however, they struggle. But knowledge of the Giants’ tendencies and weaknesses may be all the defense needs to not become a major weakness, and as long as the defense isn’t a crutch, the Patriots offense will certainly keep them in the game.

It’s hard to predict exactly how this game will turn out. The last meeting, Week 6 of the regular season, resulted in a 23-20 Giants victory at New England. Since then, the Giants offense is much improved. Eli Manning’s performance all season has earned him the right to be mentioned as one of the elite quarterbacks in the league, along the likes of Peyton, Rodgers, and Brady himself. The Patriots have been surgically finding weaknesses in opposing defenses, led by Brady, Gronkowski and Hernandez. The matchup is highly anticipated. The offenses are elite and the defenses a deciding factor. It’s football. It’s the Super Bowl. Get pumped.

— Stats compiled from espn.go.com

and pro-football-reference.com

By Nadav Gov-Ari

Listen as the author weaves the tale of food and why the guts are as good as it gets:

Audio: Eat It, Narrated By Maria Kalaitzandonakes

Some sort of guttural gagging noise is the usual reaction to Jamie Oliver’s videos, “Food Revolution.” In one particularly “horrifying” clip, Oliver shows American children how their favorite fast food restaurants make chicken nuggets.

The British man wanted to show what’s in our food, hoping to encourage people to question the food they eat. He slapped a raw chicken down on the cutting board and took away the “good” pieces: breast, legs, wings and thighs. After the separation, he told them what remained, “bone, all the connective tissues, little bits of bone marrow, and stuff like that.”

He hammered a cleaver into the carcass, cutting it into large chunks and put it in a blender. All of the children watched in amazement as the bones and meat mixed noisily into a pink paste. Oliver then strained it, covered the soft meat in bread crumbs, shaped it into round globs of meat and fried up the patties.

The high school students with whom I watched this video vowed never to eat chicken nuggets again, yelling that the disgusting companies should throw out those bits and only give them the good stuff, the edible stuff.

I sighed, my frugal Greek grandmother, or yiayia, was rolling in her grave. She would classify casually tossing food away as criminal. She lived in poverty for most of her life. My yiayia learned to survive on almost nothing. So when she bought food, whether it be a chicken or a vegetable, she used all of it. Her recipes, now yellowed at the edges and worn with time, include strange ingredients most Americans would trash: orange skins, feet of chicken and various animal organs.

She spent almost all of her monthly budget on food. Throwing any of it out hit my yiayia hard, both in wallet and in conscience. According to the USDA, the average American family spends less than 10 percent of their budget on food.

As people everywhere spend a smaller percentage of money on things to eat, throwing out the leftovers appears not to be such an offense. And as modern society travels from the farm, it establishes an inherent nastiness in eating the skin or the bone of an animal, unfit for human consumption. But with the right preparation and old-country know-how, every morsel becomes usable. In fact, this “trash” is often what becomes the most delicious.

Kokoretsi, a favorite dish in Greece, contains bits of the lamb’s liver, spleen, kidney and lungs, all marinated and skewered. The cook wraps all the meat in the cleaned lamb intestines, covered in oregano and other spices and roasted over the fire until crispy.

Lamb organs are quite popular for the Greeks. They make Easter, Greek’s biggest holiday, has the classic organ soup — magiritsa. It’s made of mostly liver and intestines. The aroma of the soup fills my house each year, bringing reminders of spring.

Using spices and flavors, Greeks even eat horta, my mother’s favorite summer time food, which technically means weeds. It grows in various kinds, and everyone has a preference. My mother’s is vleeta, which Greeks boil until it softens, then squeeze fresh lemon over top. It grows in almost everyone’s yard.

Oliver is right. We consumers should know what makes up our food. But we should question Oliver’s requests of families and restaurants alike to waste parts of countless animals that were killed solely to feed us.

An animal is not made of 10 legs and 17 wings. An animal has organs. It has bone marrow, and these parts should not be condemned to rotting away when they could so easily be consumed.

My grandmother would have given these food wimps a hearty whack on the bottom with her wooden spoon and gone back to her closet sized kitchen where she fed many and wasted none.

[Show as slideshow]

By Maria Kalaitzandonakes

SB 590 would make it a Class C felony to willingly fail to complete alien registration forms. In addition schools would have to identify the immigration statuses of all students, and police officers would need to do the same to all they stop lawfully. However, the bill will cause much more harm than good because of its negative consequences.

The wording found in SB 590 is similar to that of bills passed in Alabama and Arizona that also required law enforcement and schools to check immigration status. But these bills have had limited effectiveness and questionable constitutionality.

The federal justice department has halted the enforcement of these bills, stating that enforcement of immigration is a duty exclusive to the federal government. SB 590 clearly oversteps the bounds of state government.

In addition, SB 590 would place an inordinate strain on resources. It would require law enforcement officers to check the immigrant status of any they pull over if there is reasonable suspicion.

Schools would be required to check the immigration status of all of their students. Unfortunately, schools have ever-dwindling budgets. In this year alone, the Board of Education reduced the district’s operating budget by $1.8 million.

The financial situation makes it difficult for schools to check the status of all of their pupils, especially since SB 590 allocates no funds for the checking. The time required for background checks is also a problem.

At RBHS alone, there are 1,790 students. How long would it take to check every one of us?

Strict immigration laws could actually harm the economy. States received $11.2 billion in tax revenue from undocumented immigrants in 2010, according to the Center for American Progress. The Center also reported if these immigrants were legalized, the government would gain $4.5 to $5.4 billion. However, it would cost the government a hefty $285 million to deport all illegals in the United States. The pros obviously outweigh the cons here.

Students need to protest SB 590. An easy way is to go to the Missouri Immigrant and Refugee Advocates’ website, where there is a link to a petition form. Within minutes, students can add their voices to other protestors.

Students can also become involved by writing Kraus directly, or registering to vote on the issue.

By Walter Wang

art by Daphne Yu

The reign of the iPhone is over.

Other operating systems, like Android, have caught up to iOS in many areas and surpassed them in others. Apple has already been copying and catching to Android 2.3 Gingerbread; with the advent of Android 4.0 Ice Cream Sandwich, iOS5 falls further behind.

In comparison, there little the iOS 5 offers that Gingerbread already does not. Both offer a solid camera, good web surfing and many applications. While iOS 5 does have Siri, an advanced voice recognition system, Gingerbread too has a voice command system, albeit not as advanced.

Taking a list at common comparisons, like the ones found here, one can see that the features that Gingerbread does not have are simply because either they are Apple exclusive, like wireless iTunes updating, or there are more options for the same service. For example, to do messaging, iOS 5 has iMessage, which is really just the same thing as GoogleTalk, texting and Textfree.

What’s the point of having something exclusive when there are other ways to do it?

That brings us to the next point: it is nearly impossible to customize an iPhone. There are no third party apps, only those sold by Apple. While some may argue that Android’s widget system is excessively complicated, there is an ease of customization that lets you customize it to suit your own needs, thus making those so-called “complicated home pages” easier to use than many pages of the same square apps.

There’s also a lot more variety in the phones themselves: the iPhone 4S has a starting price of $199.99 for its model with the least memory, and can go up to $399.99. On the other hand, Android phones range from $49.99 to $199.99 when looking at AT&T, most of which are upgradable with microSD cards for memory, which the iPhone is incapable of doing. The sheer customizability of Android surpasses the few benefits of iOS 5.

This is all a comparison before Android released their new operating system, Ice Cream Sandwich, which boasts improvements over Gingerbread. These include better Near Field Communications technology and Facial Recognition unlocking. For a full comparison, click here.

In short, Android is now at least equal, if not better than iOS 5. The uncontested rule of Apple is now over, as they begin to fall behind in the software race.

The author the day learning of the coming SOPA vote.

I am a user of Wikipedia. Even when my teachers stand in front of class and strictly warn us against the use of the online encyclopedia, my first resource is always Wikipedia. I use Wikipedia for everything, whether it be school projects or finding out whom Jake Gyllenhaal is currently dating.

I was on Facebook when I first heard of Wikipedia shutting down. After Google-ing the reason for the temporary shutdown, I discovered it was in disapproval of Congress’ attempts to pass SOPA and PIPA bills. Wikipedia, along with many other websites, had agreed to shut down for one day as a form of protest.

The Stop Online Piracy Act, or SOPA, and its Senate companion, the Protect IP Act, were proposed with the intention of strengthening and preventing piracy on the Internet. If passed, the government would be allowed to shut down websites including Facebook and YouTube that contained copyright infringement.

As a high school junior, I’m not afraid to admit that my computer is always on those three sites.  I keep in touch with my friends on Facebook, discover new music on Youtube, and Wikipedia allows me to research new subjects. Businesses in support of SOPA, such as the Motion Picture Association of America and the U.S. Chamber of Commerce, believe innovation and jobs are threatened by growing internet piracy, but piracy is never going to seize.  Businesses believe posting copyrighted material on popular sites will hurt their ability to make money; however I believe the opposite. 

Posting videos or songs on sites such as Facebook does not hurt business. It provides free advertisement and publicity.  The majority of Wikipedia users know some material on the site is altered; however, Wikipedia provides a general overview or summary of the subject and has a large number of users. 

Material on these sites is not used to intentionally make profit.  No one pays to use Wikipedia or to use Facebook, or to post videos on Youtube.  No one makes money off of their one million views video.  These posts only provide business for movies that are making money because someone saw the trailer on Facebook.  Record companies receive millions of dollars because their new act’s song is going viral on Youtube.  

But the irony of SOPA and PIPA is that businesses in support don’t realize is that it would not stop pirating websites that’s main purpose is to make profit off of copyrighted material.  These websites will simply change their website and web address and continue their illegal activities.

Granted, the Senate is only attempting to stop criminal activities and save some of America’s biggest businesses, but SOPA and PIPA is not the way to do it.  Instead of focusing on the internet’s most populous sites that provide benefits for both people and businesses, the Senate and the Web should be more concerned about the sites that are intentionally committing the crime. 

The Senate will vote soon.  If you are like me, and cannot imagine an afternoon after a long day of homework and cannot go on your favorite social media site, or listen to music or interesting videos contact your congressman and let your voice be heard.

Just look below. I’ve made the first contact easy for you.

Rep. Blaine Luetkemeyer [R, MO-9]

202-225-2956

Sen. Roy Blunt [R, MO]

202-224-5721

Twitter: @RoyBlunt

Sen. Claire McCaskill [D, MO]

202-224-6154

Twitter: @clairecmc

But prior to May of last year, I had never been outgoing. I kept to myself. I lived in my own personal safe zone where nobody could embarrass me and I couldn’t embarrass myself. I was the type who had more fun playing Halo on a Friday night than spending time with people. It took a lot of strength from inside me to put my name on the ballot for student body president last spring. Although I had never heeded my father’s words, I figured I would be brave for the first time and run for office.

I went to the activities office and got my petition to run. Timidly, I asked teachers and peers to sign it. As I was about to turn it in, I hesitated. “You can still back out” I thought to myself. Finally, in a rush of adrenaline, I turned in my form and sealed my fate.

It wasn’t just turning in the form that took courage; so did campaigning. I had to talk to people I had never seen before. I printed clever stickers with embarrassing and somewhat stupid phrases on them. I dealt with the constant pressure that comes with a popularity contest of such magnitude.

However, none of these things compared to the fear I had about giving a speech in front of the entire school. It would have been more appealing to swim in a tank full of sharks than speak at an assembly.

Writing a speech was next to impossible. Every word had to be chosen perfectly, or else I would come off as stupid. To say I was stressed would be an understatement.

I didn’t sleep the night before my speech. I was too nervous to even attempt to calm myself down. In my mind I was attacking myself: “What have you done?! How could you get yourself into a situation like this?!”  

I drove to school with only a goodbye kiss on the cheek from my mother to comfort me. Even “Lose Yourself” by Eminem couldn’t get me pumped for what I was about to do, so I  drove in silence. At school I sat on the stage, listening to my opponents’ speeches. I told myself it was time to man-up: sometimes, you’ve just got to do something and not think about it.

Upon taking the podium, the butterflies finally left my stomach. I knew I had gotten into a situation I couldn’t back out of, so I decided to just suck it up. An overwhelming calm came over me; I was ready to be brave. I gave my speech and to my delight the crowd did laugh at my jokes. They applauded loudly throughout, and I received many compliments afterwards. The great reception I received gave me complete confidence that I would win the election.

On election day a different story unfolded. I lost badly. There wasn’t even a run-off between the top two candidates. Shocked, any confidence I had temporarily faded. I was blinded by the positive feedback from my speech and thought I had the school in the palm of my hand, only to be told I definitely did not. The experience was humbling.

I had been brave, yet fortune did not favor me. But after this crushing defeat, I discovered I was no longer phased about speaking to strangers. Talking in front of large groups was easy. In the back of my head I just kept thinking, “It can never be worse than talking in front of 2,000 people. It’s not like I’m losing a school-wide election.” Even though I had lost my election, I still had delivered a great speech.  

Failure is an amazing tool. The lessons learned from getting rejected, hurt or downtrodden define who you are and are extremely beneficial to your well-being. Even though I lost my election, I discovered something new: that I had it in me to face my fears.

It is important for everybody to get out of their comfort zone every once and a while and challenge themselves; do something that they would have never dreamed would be possible for them, even if they end up failing miserably at it. It is astonishing how much can be learned about yourself by failing at a task. Be it trying out for a sports’ team, confronting somebody who has wronged you, or even running for an elected position, even if you fail, you will learn valuable lessons and discover things about yourself you never knew.

My father had said fortune favored the brave, but after my defeat at first I thought this statement was a lie, but I have realized fortune has favored me in other ways. My pain was only temporary, but the lessons I learned lasted forever. Failure was necessary for my eventual success. If I had never tried and failed, I would have never discovered my true potential.

By Alex Burnam

Below is a video of Alex Burnam delivering his speech during the election: 

The Rock surveyed 180 students

When a shooting occurs within spitting distance of a school, one would expect the administration to respond swiftly.

At RBHS administrators attempted to initiate a “code yellow” lock down.

But poor notification procedures caused the lock down to be less effective than it should have been.

The administration sent a three-sentence email that gave a brief description of the events to teachers and stated the school was under external lock down; teachers were to keep students out of the halls if possible.

However, without having told the teachers to be alert to  the message, administrators assumed they would check their emails, a task many do not have time for during a typical class period.

The result: too many students ambled through the hallways despite the potential danger.

Across the parking lot, the Columbia Area Career Center instituted a similar lock down using email notification. However, administrators there told teachers over the intercom to check their emails, informing all teachers of the situation.

In contrast, some teachers at RBHS were unaware of the lock down.

Lack of proper notification during shootings on or near campuses has had tragic consequences. In 2007 administrators at Virginia Tech waited two hours before notifying students and faculty of an on-campus shooting via email; 20 minutes after the notification, gunman Seung-Hui Cho opened fire in classrooms, killing 30 more people. The Virginia Tech administrators could have saved lives by notifying students of the danger earlier.

A shooting occurred a few seconds’ drive from RBHS. Meanwhile, too many students wandered the halls during lunch, Alternate Unassigned Time and fourth hour classes. It is fortunate that the failure to properly notify teachers of the situation did not end in disaster, as the gunman could have been inside RBHS before the initiation of the lock down.

RBHS’s response went against proper external lock down protocol, as dictated by the RBHS emergency management manual. According to the manual, administrators need to announce external lock downs to teachers and students via an announcement over the intercom. Under “code yellow” protocol, classroom activities and instruction will proceed as usual.

Protocol exists for a reason. The incident that occurred on Providence constituted an external threat; let us hope we never face such a situation again, but if we do, administrators must follow the letter, as well as the intent, of the procedure.

Not notifying teachers or students of a lock down doesn’t just defeat the purpose of the procedure but places the lives of those within the building in danger. In all future events, administrators must follow procedure to ensure the safety of the school.

By The Rock

And while that may seem a particularly morbid metaphor, I feel the reflection part is most important, as winter is the best time for it.  There is little time to spend outside in short days and cold temperatures, and thought takes up a larger amount of my time.  Idle hands may be the devil’s playthings, but idle minds are mine.

After a while of sitting inside and doing little, my mind inevitably drifts back to the scorching days of summer, naturally returning to the equal opposite of my current condition.  This summer, I decided to get off my rear and finally get a real job—so I became a lifeguard, with just a hint of irony.  I guarded at a little pool called Douglass Aquatic Center, which could comprise a lengthy story in itself, but there was one thing in particular that stuck with me.  The music.

I am not a music snob, nor am I what could be called culturally relevant.  I simply listen to whatever is on the radio. Douglass Aquatic Center’s radio definitely tuned to music of the ‘culturally relevant’ variety, with solid 4/4 beats and easy harmonies streaming out of Y107—the most popular radio station by far at that pool.  They played the same 5 to 10 songs on any given day, so needless to say I heard repeats, and repeats of repeats.  You can’t really listen to a song for that many times without listening to the lyrics, so eventually I had good portions of the songs memorized.

With this I realized two things.  First, pop music is fairly repetitive.  Second, pop music is fairly repetitive in themes.  Every song was about partying, dancing, sex—the whole hedonism of a generation contained in a few poppy rhythms and good beats.  Without fail, the songs held a theme of forgetting about tomorrow—live for today, they said, forget about what would come later.

This was problematic for me.  Not for the classic hey-you-kids-get-off-my-lawn reasons of praising sex and parties to elementary school students.  No, it was more born out of practical realism.  You can’t get a job partying, I thought, smug on my high, unimpeachable throne of life guarding power.  For every high at a party there is a hangover the next day, and life is no exception.  For a third party such as myself, it seemed simple that focusing on now—exclusively—was a dangerous, if fun, way to live.  It was all too precarious a position, too easy for the party to go wrong and morning to come and with it a splitting headache.

And that’s what was so scary when I realized ‘no tomorrow’ was my life. During the summer, there was no line of thought to my actions, no self discipline or plan over the entire period.  I realized that I had to have a plan—I had to know where my life was headed.  Over the summer I had done nothing real—what would I think when I looked back in a decade?

So as I sat, relaxing in a high-backed chair in front of my fireplace and sipping tepidly at a glass of hot chocolate, I confronted with the most terrifying question I’ve ever had to contemplate:  what am I actually supposed to do with the rest of my life?

There was, and is, no easy answer.  Life is long time, and it seems arrogant to make a choice about the rest of it before I’m even halfway through it.  But there I was, a junior in high school, facing what would be the most important choice in my life.  I had to stop acting with no plan. I had to think about the future.

It was an existential crisis in the truest sense of the phrase.  Did I really want to go to college? How did I want to live when I grew up?  What was I going to do with all that time?

I knew I wanted to go to college, and I had ideas about where to live, but to that last question I still have no answer.  But I am further along for trying.  I have decided that fear —that specific fear, the fear of failure that scares most people into accepting today as forever, was a barrier that had to be shattered in order to succeed.

In the summer I felt, but without emotion.  There was no meaning, the stars did not align.  I was swimming in a circle and running out of air.

Bidden or not, the future would come, and I decided to be proactive.  Rather than waiting for things to happen to me, I would be the initiator.  To live the life I wanted, to not drift into the toneless euphoria of a summer dream, I had to plan.

So plan I did.

By Adam Schoelz

This demand did not come with a side of pepper spray and baton sticks as it did in too many other cities, which displays the trust and respect Columbia’s government officials have for local citizens.

However, I am greatly disappointed in the response other city’s officials have given to the Occupy protesters in their city’s citizens.
For example, a police officer at University of California at Davis pepper sprayed seated students peacefully protesting by locking arms. Such blatant use of force was an unnecessary use of force from a respected government organization.

In another display of gross overreaction to the OWS protesters, the tactics the New York Police Department used to evict protesters from Zuccotti Park on Nov. 15.  The NYPD shut down airspace over New York to prevent media helicopters from filming the eviction, barred all media from filming the events occurring, destroyed tents and belongings, and arrested approximately 70 OWS protesters. Several reporters were also arrested.

The former New York Civil Liberties Union director Norman Siegel claimed 1,275 books out of 4,000 books housed at a temporary library at the OWS encampment had been recovered, and one-third of those 1,275 books were damaged to the point of being unusable. Siegel also said 2,725 books had been destroyed.

Really? I can hear George Orwell rolling audibly in his grave.

The destruction of books, an act commonly associated with totalitarian leaders and oppressive dictators, is occurring in the United States. A Marine Corps veteran was critically injured at a protest in Oakland. Peaceful students were pepper sprayed by police officers. I am disappointed in these reactions to Occupiers across the United States.

See other commentaries on the topic here.

By Brett Stover

It’s a scary word to call a country, and Greece is right on the verge. Their current bail out package is now put to a public vote, which has sent even the most seasoned of investors crying for their “mamas.”

Jobs cut, houses foreclosed, banks shut and food prices raised – along with mass panic.

Or one would think.

My cousin, Giorgios, who lives on an island in Greece, has been unemployed for over a year. He is not homeless, hungry or unhappy.

He has taken this year as a government imposed vacation, visiting the Greek islands by cheap boat or bus service and happily eating up his savings account. He no longer goes out every morning for coffee in the town square; instead, he and other unemployed friends go to one another’s homes and drink filter coffee.

He is not homeless because he never borrowed money and neither did many of his friends. It is not frowned upon in Greece to live with your parents until you get married, nor is it odd to rent a small apartment until you can afford to buy a home without credit.

He is not hungry because he knows all of the people in his small city. If he eats out, many times, the owner will pick up the tab. If he eats at home, he’ll make soup for lots of friends and invite them over. If he gets desperate, his family is always there to support him, and many of them live near by.

He is not unhappy because, in general, Greeks are not wound up as tight. When faced with unemployment, he turns to his beaches. He turns to his conversations. He turns to his family.  His country may be bankrupt, but his life is not. There are things that red tape cannot touch.

If this same situation happened in America, the haunting images of The Great Depression would be tripled. They would be homeless, lying on the streets with no family for miles around to take them in. People would be hungry, with no plot of olive trees in the family and no local guy to give you a break. People would be unhappy because without a job to drive their day, they wouldn’t know what to do.

In America a job is what you circle your life around. This is not because we are obsessed with money; it is simply a different mindset. Americans like having something to motivate them. When faced with unceasing unemployment, the person rushes to apply for a job at other places. Giorgios felt no such need.

Greece is not America, and Greece doesn’t treat its bankruptcy in the way America does.

As money flows from worried Germans and the rest of the world looks in with baited breath, the Greeks sip their afternoon coffee and sing an old song about the government, “Watch your pretty throat … for you are unfit to rule us.”  Unemployed Giorgios and his friends discuss, with lively passion, their government.

By Maria Kalaitzandonakes

As the stinging notes began to string together and create a full-blown melody, my heart began to pump with inherent exhilaration.

I couldn’t help my excitement: It might be coming. It might be cruising down our street right now, right out my window. What if I don’t make it in time? I can’t let it get away.

Its sound was more electric than ever as I heard wheels roll slowly past my house. I knew then my dreams were confirmed – the ice cream truck was floating down the street, a blown up toy car and fluffy childhood playmate.

An oversized plastic ice cream cone teetered cheaply on its top, waving and wiggling with each dangerous lurch of the gas pedal. The rainbow of stickers pasted to its side advertised much bigger and fuller treats than the actual dull, squished popsicles of reality.

But then I remembered I was 17 years old. I wasn’t yearning for some tropical flavored ice crystals doused in sugar like the ones I’d drooled over as a child. My 13-year-old brother might be excited to swap 10 quarters for a mass of yellow mush resembling Sponge Bob, but not me.

Even as a child, it was never the ice cream that drove me to love the coming of the ice cream truck as much as I did. A simple popsicle didn’t seem to satisfy the question as to why I carried so much enthusiasm for something as insignificant and unyielding (except in ice cream) as the ice cream truck. It had nothing to offer me. The treats of my childhood did not hold excitement in themselves.

Yet the ice cream truck, the bulky, awkward van with its somewhat irritating music and scratched side doors, held a certain kind of rush. This rush brought with it the kind of happiness that can only be associated with a joyful time – that of childhood.

The sound I heard floating through the present summer haze harnessed my mind to its metallic bounce and steered it back 10 years ago to Mulberry Court.

I stood under the scolding sun and tried not to let its ferociously long rays  penetrate my soft, seven-year-old skin to a burn. My sister and a large group of neighborhood cronies stood by my side, rooted on the concrete, waiting our turn in hushed exhilaration for the serious task of ordering at the ice cream truck window.

The effortless happiness and utter lack of clutter of the summer between first and second grade shines through in this single moment. We were children surrounded by people to laugh with and discover with. Surrounded by people who haven’t yet learned how to judge or worry or think of the future. We stood united as a common crowd of ice cream lovers.

We gathered together on a square of pavement, becoming happier people through this one anticipated moment – through shoving our faces with popsicles.

The ice cream truck not only brought me back, but was currently bringing the same memories together for those whose childhoods were in the present. As they congregated on the sidewalk, I realized that one day this moment was going to be theirs to look back on.

They’ll remember this gathering of playmates, how they wilted in the smoldering sunshine and waited, perfectly content. They’ll remember how they stood there in smiles, like they knew the secret to life.

They’ll remember completely being there, encompassed in a glorious moment, as if they knew what made them happy and where to find it, and that was all that mattered. And they’ll remember bouncing on the pavement, bubbling with delight, like there was nothing more important or delicious in the world than a colorful, cold treat, straight from the ice cream truck itself.

I feel a rush of all these thoughts the second the ice cream truck makes its grand entrance onto our street. That feeling of ease, of knowing joy at something so small, was what made my summers as a child as simple and as happy as they were.

And if there is one vehicle with the ability to remind me of the simple happiness life has the potential to bring, to remind a stressing senior that it’s useless to live life unhappily when so many good things surround us, the ice cream truck is it.

That’s what life is for: to live for the good stuff, to live for ice cream.

By Abbie Powers

According to teachers backing the elimination proposal, honors-level courses have widened the achievement gap by separating students by ethnicity rather than ability, and an increased number of behavior problems and students with IEPs prevents teachers from adequately fulfilling the needs of their students.

The group believes eliminating honors-level courses would allow for a more even distribution of students with different socio-economic statuses, cutting down on behavioral issues and assisting teachers with classroom management.

But the proposal ignores the students’ voice. According to a survey of 180 students conducted by The Rock Oct. 24, 71 percent believed honors-level courses were a necessary supplement to both Advanced Placement and on-level courses. This demonstrates the need for classes that require critical thinking without the often burdensome workload of an  A.P. level course.

The absence of honors-level courses will have a detrimental effect on students who still wish to challenge themselves but carry busy schedules. Students will be forced to choose between an engaging curriculum or a manageable course load. Students who choose to take A.P. level courses rather than the on-level alternative may have to sacrifice extracurriculars or risk a penalty to their grade-point average.

Instead of attempting to narrow the achievement gap by eliminating honors-level courses, administrators should seek out alternative methods to solving the problem of the disparity between honors and on-level classes. Smaller on-level class sizes, or additional after-school tutoring and remedial programs could achieve the desired effect of narrowing the gap without damaging honors-level students.

RBHS clearly respects student opinions, as evidenced by the accomplishments of groups such as student coalition.

Students must take advantage of this opportunity and make sure their voices are heard as the policy change begins to be debated.

In the meantime, perhaps the school can adopt a new mantra when considering eliminating U.S. Studies honors-level courses — “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.”

By The Rock

The problem is RBHS has segregated classes.

Granted, segregation is a strong word and needs some clarification.  This segregation is not like ones of the past; it is the failure of a system  set up with good intentions, but one that now divides courses along socioeconomic lines.

Of students in regular U.S. classes, 36 percent are non-white, compared to the 13 percent in honors.  Fifteen percent of students in regular courses have Individual Education Plans, compared to three percent in honors classes.  Around 40 percent of students enrolled in on-level courses are on free or reduced lunch, compared with nine percent in honors classes.

Beyond the initial moral revulsion to the idea of segregation, it causes some severe problems.

First is inequity in terms of time teachers have per student.  Simply put, there are five times the number of IEPs in on-level courses than in honors classes.  These IEP students often require extra time from teachers. The time teachers must spend because of the disparity creates a black hole of inequity.

On-level students deserve a better ratio so that everyone has equal access to teacher expertise, thereby creating a more successful learning environment.

Giving a small group of students too much time makes it easy for the majority of a class of teenagers to talk, text and generally mess around.  The teacher must then regain control of the class, which causes resentment among the students.

Another difficulty in the current system of honors and on-level classes is the creation and reinforcement of stereotypes.  Most students will take classes to be with friends.   By itself this can cause disciplinary problems. But when combined with teachers who spread too thin, such disturbances seriously derail the class.  Disruptive classroom environments contribute to an overall negative stereotype about on-level classes.  A stereotype exists that the on-level student basically wants to coast through school.  In fact many on-level students are very invested in their education.  However, there is pressure from peers to fit into the image of not caring — not to be considered nerdy or geeky — and so the stereotype is self-perpetuating.

The final problem is honors courses put on-level students at a disadvantage.  While honors U.S. studies do essentially the same coursework as on-level classes, students in those classes get an honors credit for their transcripts. While some may say students who want honors credit should just take the honors classes, especially if the coursework is the same, the issue of peer pressure once again comes into play.  Because the curriculum is so similar, the division between the two classes is moot. Furthermore, teachers can individualize instruction — providing literature sets and supplementary assignments for those needing more challenge.

Currently Popular Culture classes have an honors credit project available; students sign up for the project to receive honors credit. When the program was first implemented, teachers noted many students said they had not taken an honors class before but did with this option. This disproves the stereotype of the non-caring student and shows  teens will take advantage of an honors system when they can do so without going against the will of their peers.

The system allows for a more authentic learning environment, one that replicates the workplace with its people and their varied abilities.

Combining classes works to resolve the discipline problem and ends the system of quiet segregation. Finally, mores students will have a greater academic challenge than they have had in the past.

It truly would be the best of both worlds.

By The Rock

The vile poison of empty rhetoric threatens the very fabric of this great nation, and what do the American people do? We sit and we listen. Even now, these destructive diatribes rampage against the very walls of our freedom! For where there is malicious speech, there is either true malice or corrupt emptiness behind it, and both are an equally deadly poison to the American country.

Why, you ask? Why? Because the very foundations of this republic depend on the citizen’s mind, and the citizen’s mind can no longer walk unmolested by petty cries to frighten or goad. Yes, while it is the mind of the citizen that has made this nation great, that mind can no longer function amid the mighty storm of unsupported pathos!

Would you leave a baby in a desert, all alone, to starve? Would you use a puppy as a wrecking ball? They would, had those who used such language be in control. Those who use it are wildly un-American. They refuse to call out specific problems, only making out a group of people in the vaguest sense, as if their language were not cowardice enough.

These politicians, who may be better framed through the phrase “Emptiers,” because of their empty rhetoric, can only be described as vile. Such “Emptiers” want to blame all the problems of the world on a group of conveniently unidentifiable people. The group they select is just vague enough to the point where it’s existence is not guaranteed but specific enough that the politician can simply call his enemies that apparently despicable group and they will shy away like animals from gunshots.

Another classic tactic of the “Emptiers” is to use buzzwords and “violent-ize” all political conflicts. They paint targets across enemy districts, declare war on many topics and peoples, and generally must view life as a permanent conflict, where the enemy is anyone who deviates from them in the slightest. For the ‘Emptiers’ it is their way or the highway. For the only weapon of the Emptiers is empty rhetoric; their only friend is themselves. They have a stranglehold on the public discourse, a knife at the throat of America.

Well, I declare war on hate speech. We must give no quarter! Bar no holds! We must burn the land of these “Emptiers” and salt the earth beneath them. There must be a target over every center from which this speech flows!

If we give hate speech ground, it will overflow into all of our society, poison our country and destroy our American way! It will burn our crops and steal our gold! The mindless fear mongering of the “Emptiers” must not be tolerated! Be nice, be balanced or else be destroyed!

By Adam Schoelz

These mostly young men and women say they will stay on Wall Street until the government puts a stop to corrupt bail­ing out of big banks and “selling out” of citizens.

My heart pitched at the pictures of the young people filling their eyes with milk to cool the burning. The violence by the officers just felt unexplainably wrong, and I didn’t understand why the police­men would perpetrate it. Even though the head of the department ordered some movements, police continued it to an inhumane level.

Occupy Wall Street is a series of pro­tests where people spend all day and night on the sidewalk or in the park, hoping to end corporate greed and eco­nomic inequality. Their catch phrase, es­pecially as violence ensued, has become “The whole world is watching,” and, at least for me, it was true.

I couldn’t get the graphic images out of my head: kids my age, lying on the ground, rolling in pain as their eyes be­came enflamed and red from the hateful spray. Act after act occurred. Policemen corralled protestors onto a bridge with the sole purpose of arresting them in masses; they used public busses to trans­port these new prisoners to jail. Officers also arrested a group protesting in anon­ymous masks – think V for Vendetta – by citing some old New York law, which forbids two or more people in a public area from wearing masks unless in an outdoor masquerade party; one wom­an reportedly got arrested for wearing a mask on the back of her head. Police used tasers and mace as crowd control.

Video after video show policemen us­ing orange nets to move the protesters. On the screen I saw them pushing both scooters and police cars into the crowds and even using some very direct meth­ods of physical violence as crowd con­trol.

Now, I think the group Occupy Wall Street has some things right and some things wrong; I’m not here to justify their political movement.

But the thing that troubles me is not their views. It’s the manner in which the people sworn to protect American citi­zens dealt with the protesters.

The police used excessive force rath­er than apologizing and explaining the wrongness of its decision, citing age-old laws, covering up videos and unexplain­ably having the New York press not cov­er the event.

I thought of my own dodging skill, how I metaphorically put burning liquid in other people’s e y e s with my thought­less ac­t i o n s . Namely, I shop too much. I pay in­credibly cheap pric­es because s ome o n e else, with most likely no mini­mum wage or prospect for the future, is making all my clothing for me. Thinking about the policemen’s disregard of the consequences forced this habit into a harsh and violent light.

To stop my shopping habit, I’ve chal­lenged myself to buy only used clothes and revamp my old ones.

I challenge that we see our choices in a new way. That we put down our meta­phorical mace and take responsibly.

By Maria Kalaitzandonakes

But times have been tough for me lately. Winter is com­ing, and with it comes his­tory projects, which, while undeniably enjoyable to a nerd like myself, are still pretty stressful and time con­suming. They put me into a drone sort of mindset, where work waxes as interest wanes until I’m basically just doing the minimum to stay in touch with my grade. It’s hard to care about learning when there is so much of it to do. It’s like eating too much can­dy and getting sick.

Last winter, just before the start of Arab Spring, I found myself drifting into this drone mindset. What was the point, I wondered, of all the work? What was the point of such-and-such battle at whatever date? It’s a ques­tion every student asks at some point. However, either the cold of February or the pres­sures of schoolwork forced me into answering: I don’t know. This triggered a sort of existential crisis, where it seemed to me then that there was little point in believing in anything at all; history wasn’t important, there was no physical benefit to me.

But then I found this lit­tle video game called Minecraft. Being a nerd, I have a n a t u r a l a f f i n i t y for video g a m e s , and Mine­craft fits the bill q u i t e n i c e l y . Minecraft is a game w h e r e the en­tire world is made of blocks. Survival is the player’s goal, alone on an infinite planet. It’s a the Robinson Crusoe of games, where the player has to build everything, on his or her own. Building is quite easy. You take a block from the world — or mine it, rather—and place it somewhere else in the world. But it is one of those great things that is far more than the sum of its parts.

Upon realizing the world is infinite and that one can rearrange anything into any­thing, my mind exploded. The first time I played Mine­craft was spent building, min­ing, and then dy­ing from gravity-related causes , during the c o u r s e of nine hours.

There is just so much that can be done. On the more basic end of things, I could build a pal­ace that would make Marie Antoinette jealous. On the other hand, I could build a computer — from scratch. It’s simply a matter of select­ing something, then applying brainpower. In other words, it’s the dream game of nerds.

Here, at last, was the world I wanted — one where dreams were more than achievable; they were encouraged. The only re­maining limiting factor was my imagination. Minecraft is a world entirely without structure; it begs for amaz­ing things to rise out of the dirt. So that’s what I did. Af­ter a time, though, the same nihilistic tendencies that had plagued me before returned once more.

It flaunts the laws of phys­ics and besides, it’s a video game, long considered the lowest form of entertainment. I could gain no physical ben­efit from it, so what was the point of even playing?

But then it hit me: it doesn’t matter that Minecraft isn’t real. It doesn’t matter that I could never reach that world, that beautiful land of blocks and monsters. It doesn’t matter for me, be­cause as cheesy as it sounds, the emotions it created were real. And like a fog lifting from my brain, I remembered why I love history. The emo­tions of history are real; it’s a painting in pastel colors. And as long as the feeling is real, nothing else matters all that much.

By Adam Schoelz

These days it’s even become trendy for people to wear headphones while they’re driving their cars when they should be focusing more on the road instead of what song is going to come up on shuffle next.

With so many extras built into the car, the driver adds more distraction by wearing headphones while driving. Wearing headphones when driving is dangerous, and law enforcement needs to take steps to prevent it from continuing.

Unlike a car’s stereo, headphones can cut off the majority of sound around the user in a more direct way. As a matter of fact, most headphones create a more solid sound by preventing outside noise from interfering with the music experience as opposed to the more filling sound the car’s stereo provides.

With little to no sound reaching drivers’ ears, emergency vehicles like ambulances and fire trucks are harder to locate. The purpose of wailing sirens is so drivers on the roads can hear an emergency vehicle before they see it. I’m not saying that drivers shouldn’t listen to music. But while they’re jamming to Ke$ha, there’s probably some old lady 20 minutes away who fell and can’t get up.

Not only do headphones make it dangerous for the emergency vehicles and those they may be attempting to help, but they are also a danger to those who share the road every day. Wearing headphones while driving distracts the driver, and distractions are one of the most dangerous things that can happen on roadways.

According to www.distraction.gov, distractions caused 20 percent of car accidents that ended in injuries in 2009. In this nation, 16 percent of all fatal crashes in 2008 involved distractions according to www.nhtsa.gov. When drivers tune into what’s playing through their ears, they have trouble focusing on the road. RBHS already has enough horn honking and close calls in the parking lot before school, after school and during lunch — surely the last thing the school needs is yet another reason to hate driving through the lot every day.

Despite this distraction’s deadly consequences, there is no law against it in Missouri. A law would help prevent distracted driving and the interference of emergency vehicles. In states like California and Michigan, laws keep drivers focused on the road without restricting all of the driver’s ability to utilize today’s technology. California law states drivers can have only one headphone in, therefore allowing things such as a phone’s hands-free options while preventing the driver from tuning out their surroundings with loud music.

Driving while wearing headphones is extremely dangerous, and the only way to prevent it is by creating a law to oppose it and punishing those drivers who do endanger others by doing it. Missourians need to raise awareness by bringing the problem to the people who can make a change such as lawmakers as well as the Missouri law enforcement in order to make sure this issue can be stopped as soon as possible. The last thing the United States needs right now is worse drivers.

By Shannon Freese

 The steps for applying to college are staggering. There is an endless stream of essays, monotonous paperwork, difficult coursework and a need for increasingly higher standardized test scores.

There needs to be a better method for applying to colleges that does not involve a number and some not-so-insightful essays. This way, students will not need to try to kill each other for coveted spots. By the time students actually go to college, they are burned out from trying too hard to do so much in high school.

This is detrimental to America, as it results in students doing poorer during college, a more important aspect of higher education than high school.

College applications revolve around good standardized testing scores and taking hard high school courses while maintaining an amazing grade-point average. However, even those “most challenging of courses” are getting more difficult as students rise to higher standards and try to show each other up by going beyond that. According to www.mycollegeguide.com, while a 4.0 GPA and good extracurricular activities would have nearly guaranteed acceptance into Ivy League colleges a few years ago, this is no longer the case.

Besides, tests like the SAT show no difference between someone who just walked in and scored high and a student who studied for hours to get that exact same score.

Taking challenging classes has also become a necessity for getting into top-notch colleges. The College Board implemented Advanced Placement courses in 1955 for select students who wanted to prove they were capable and already had learned the skills needed for entry-level college courses. Now, AP courses are almost mandatory for entrance into top-tier colleges.

In addition, colleges expect students to convey the essence of their entire life into a personal statement. It is difficult to express all of one’s beliefs, experiences and individuality in 500 words. No essay can truly embody a student’s life; rather, actions speak far louder than words.

What students do in their lives should show colleges what they believe in. A student who enjoys an academic challenge will pursue academic interests; others who like athletics will play sports, yet others who appreciate service will volunteer their time.

However, the way that colleges approach the application process has limited many students’ potentials. Colleges like to see students achieve perfection in all their classes and activities. Students shy from AP courses with the threat of a grade below an A, even though the course might greatly interest, engage and benefit them. Likewise, students are scared of focusing on just one extracurricular for fear of colleges needing to see other activities they were stellar at.

This limitation is restricting progress; if students are allowed to pursue what they desire without fear of recriminations, they will learn a better lesson for life than if they learn to conform to what is expected and do nothing audacious.

Instead of increasing expectations every year, colleges need to settle on a standard of excellence. This new system would track what the students have done over four years and focus more on interviews so colleges could get a feel for who the student is, rather than forcing students to write an ineffectual essay. To get a clearer picture, colleges must look beyond simple essays and tests. Standardized tests and short essays cannot convey the essence of a person; that can only be seen through experience.

Students should be able to begin the application process as freshmen rather than having to wait until senior year. With interviews spanning four years, colleges can really see the maturation of a student, giving far greater insight into a student’s personality than simple essays. The job of colleges is to groom students for the future.

To do that, they must find what is best for each student, which the current application process does not do because of its impersonality. This process does not put a face on the applicants; instead, it turns them into numbers.

Instead of trying to outshine everyone, focus on what you are truly passionate about. This will show colleges who you truly are; if they do not like that, it is too bad for them. Everyone is unique; colleges cannot expect to see perfect cookie-cutter students. Prospective freshmen should be who they are, and express their interests to the utmost, instead of conforming to college standards that homogenize society.

By Walter Wang

Cartoon by Kelly Brucks

Picture this: You’re in a classroom, but the teacher’s not giving a lesson, so you have an hour and a half to do assignments. This doesn’t sound that bad on the surface, but halfway through the period, you’re finished with all your work. You feel really hungry and want to grab a snack from the vending machine, and could use the restroom as well.

However, the teacher doesn’t let you leave the room without permission, and she wants you back within 10 minutes, so you just spend the final 45 minutes sitting around and staring at the clock, waiting for the bell to finally release you. Such is the ordeal all RBHS sophomores suffer, as they drift through the dull, featureless void known as sophomore advisory.

Currently, juniors and seniors, as long as they maintain good grades, have access to a special privilege known as Alternating Unassigned Time. “Sophomore advisory,” on the other hand, takes place in a specific classroom. Because sophomores are new to RBHS, sophomore advisory is meant as a way for students to get accustomed to their new surroundings. However, after the first few days, advisory often just involves sitting around anticipating the next class. In general, sophomores would benefit greatly by having AUT in place of advisory, just like their fellow juniors and seniors.

By its very nature, sophomore advisory goes against the ideals of RBHS. What makes RBHS the school that it is is its emphasis of the concept of “freedom with responsibility.”

Administrators believe within certain bounds, sophomores should be able to retain some degree of independence. Being free of the teachers’ restraints for at least some of the time is crucial for students because it gives them a preview about what life in college and afterwards will be like. AUT is an important part of the RBHS experience because it teaches students the vital life skill of making important decisions by themselves, something which can’t be learned in the classroom alone. Students will be better prepared for adult life if they are on their own as soon as possible.

RBHS teaches students the concept of freedom with responsibility from day one. How, then, does it make sense to give sophomores the idea that they’re not responsible enough to go off on their own? When students are not receiving class instruction or doing schoolwork, they should not have to ask permission to walk around the building by themselves.

Most people who defend sophomore advisory say it helps incoming sophomores learn the ropes and get acquainted because they are new to school. In reality, things taper down a bit after the first two or three days, and the overwhelming majority of time after is spent sitting in the classroom doing homework, and after that’s done, it’s mostly just sitting around and waiting, often with one’s head on his or her desk. Because of this, getting rid of advisory wouldn’t cause much of a loss especially since there is a system already in place for communicating with students on their AUTs.

Presently, if juniors and seniors on their AUTs have a special event to attend, such as a presentation in the Performing Arts Center, they will be notified of this over the intercom system. If there’s any special activity that sophomores need to do, the office could just make an announcement. On the other hand, for the majority of time when there’s nothing else for the students in advisory to do, they would be better off being left to their own devices instead of sitting and staring cooped up in a classroom.

In fact, sophomores once did have AUT until advisory came about as a way to help welcome new students to RBHS. Introductions can only go on so long, however, and advisory mostly becomes a time when students all too often just sit around with nothing to do. It is little more than a way of belittling students, basically saying they’re not responsible just because they’re new. This is a problem because it goes directly against the idea of freedom with responsibility, which is key to RBHS’s mission, and as such, the school impresses it upon students right from the get-go. As a result, advisory sends mixed messages and leaves students confused. And if students are receiving mixed messages, how will they be able to believe what other people are saying? The truth is, sophomores do not have to be “left out” of certain things, such as AUT, simply because they’re younger.

Giving sophomores AUT instead of forcing them to sit through the 95 minute slog of advisory every other day would help considerably. The more opportunities students get during their three-year stay at RBHS to demonstrate they can make wise choices on their own, the better they will function once they get through college and out into the real world of adult life.

 By Isaac Pasley

The untouched pages of “Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire” were about to meet the hands of a mob of anxiously waiting supporters.

The interior of the bookstore was so crowded that a horde of people spilled out into the front lawn. The University Bookstore’s workers had dressed up as characters from the book. Their version of Moaning Myrtle wailed as she directed and coordinated the line with a woman wearing a fake hooked nose dressed up as Severus Snape.

To entertain the line of more than 100 people, there was a costume contest, free food and drink and plenty of enthusiasm. People ran across the lawn, waving branches torn off tree limbs, shouting spells and curses created by the imagination author J.K. Rowling.

When midnight finally struck and the crisp pages fell into my hands, the story continued. As a seven-year-old who had just graduated from first grade, I surprised my own mother and myself as no grogginess could faze my excitement.

Eleven years later on a similar July night, I attended the final Harry Potter movie midnight release. In a crowded lawn outside of Forum 8, I watched as our generation said goodbye to arguably one of the best storybook characters of all time.

Since the release of “Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone” in 1998, readers who have grown up with the series have matured just as Harry has. We’ve been right there with him, every step of the way. Even though we might not battle the darkest of villains, many of the everyday challenges and experiences Harry and Co. have are linked to our lives.

I can’t imagine what it would be like if I didn’t live during this time. I can’t believe I was there to be involved in it, and that I will be one of the few to experience it.

The Harry Potter generation saw creative license, and even though the books and stories will surely last and eventually become what some may consider a classic, the story was new to us. We bought the tickets and turned the pages before anybody else.

In 15 years, when the Harry Potter generation is past 30, they will be able to tell their children that they were there when Harry rode his broomstick for the first time.

They were there when he watched his godfather pass through the arch. They were there when it began, and they were there when it ended. They lined up in front of Forum 8 on July 15, 2011, and closed the book on a story this generation will never forget.

And when they left the theaters and bookstores, they went away with a story about problems and day-to-day activities that everyone could relate to, making the Muggle world a little bit less mundane, one spell at a time.

By Shannon Freese

About halfway down the path, I started to enter a shop, but, after glimpsing a shining row of ceramic penises, decided to run over to its neighbor. This store was dull and full of muted colors, one I never would have entered if it weren’t for my scare. Inside, it was cool and dark, with high wooden ceilings and thousands of touristy chopsticks, Tweety bird mugs and the unfortunate initials of the “I <3 BJ” t-shirts. I walked around a bit, enjoying the relief from the heat, when I saw a small set of stairs at the back of the shop. Of course, I went down them.

The hallway-like room I entered stretched itself out — long and thin. It was low-ceilinged and lit by a yellow glow emitted from bare, dangling bulbs. There hung a feeling in the air; one of trepidation and closeted importance. Against the wall stood a wooden table where two Chinese girls sat writing diligently. They only looked up to nod at me when I entered, as if I was being admitted into a secret club deep in the heart of underground Beijing. Postcards filled one wall –– not the tourist ones I saw so often with smiling, white faces posed on the Great Wall. These were love letters. Some were homemade with lace and thick paper; others had sweet messages written in beautiful Mandarin script.

One of the girls, after noticing my clearly non-Asian status, began to read some aloud. “Always waiting for you,” one said. “I’ll kiss you when you wake,” said another. And then one, a small red card, simply stated the three words people often fear to say: “I am sorry.” The girls explained how the shop worked: you picked your card and its destination; you wrote your letter by filling the blank spaces and then brought the letter to the other wall. On this wall was a series of small boxes with the numbers one through 31 engraved on their fronts. The set of 31 repeated four times. Many of the boxes were full. They showed me how each of the cards would enter one of the boxes, and how the owner, a little, stout, graying woman, would send them so they’d be delivered on the day of the month that corresponded with the box’s number.

The young Chinese girl wrote one with just a few Chinese characters and put it in for July 14.  She didn’t offer an explanation, and I didn’t ask. Here, in the bottom of a crowded tourist shop with people above them flashing cameras and sending digital messages, a few Chinese girls reverted to the past. A past when “i luv u” wasn’t just text messaged. We found truth again in an ancient age where women and men wooed and courted, when you could get a letter that could change your life. You could receive letters from a person loving you from afar, from a friend who wanted to remind you why they care or from a stranger telling you that you affected their life without knowing it.

Call me a hopeless romantic. Call me old fashioned. Call me whatever you want. I know I am not alone. An hour went by in that wobbly, wooden chair, and more than 30 people passed through the shop. Each one’s steps crushed my disbelief. Each one’s pen marks scratched out my cynical heart. These followers left me with their belief in love, and left their words with an elderly widow, who promised to send them devotedly to all destinations.

By Maria Kalaitzandonakes

More likely, the place is either far more beautiful or far more heart-breaking than a photograph could ever portray.

This past summer I visited a rural area in Jamaica called Harmans with the mission group Won-by-One. They set our work out before us; we were to build houses and visit families, reading the Bible and discussing our lives.

The group leaders warned us the trip wasn’t going to be easy. A week without a cell phone and away from home was only the half of it. We could only take two-minute showers in collected rainwater, slept with no air-conditioning and dealt with giant bugs in bathroom corners.

I convinced myself this was no big deal. I was prepared. I’d brought my journal, a pack of Jolly Ranchers, some NutriGrain bars and plenty of T-shirts. The stunning, photoshopped sunset images that decorate gas station postcard racks  didn’t prepare me for tiny, one-story shacks with no electricity, dirt floors and spiders in the beds. I wasn’t prepared for Jamaica.

The first few days went by in a shock. We touched down in Montego Bay and loaded into a bus, watching as the sunbaked pavement jumped to seemingly endless green. After a few days, I learned to stop flinching whenever someone honked at us — honking was the Jamaican way of greeting. I slowly got used to the heat and sweat and learned to laugh at the little boys who would jump out of nowhere, onto my back, cheering for a piggy-back ride.

Then, one morning when I was feeling particularly cheerful, I headed to the Infirmary.

The Infirmary was a combination of a nursery home, mental facility and place for the physically handicapped. I was excited for it because I knew I could help make a difference. I wouldn’t just haul buckets of gravel up a hill, I would interact with actual people, actual Jamaicans who would have stories to tell and dreams to share. Being a writer and an emotional person anyway, I was optimistic. I expected flies, dim lighting and old mattresses, but figured it couldn’t be much worse than that.

I didn’t expect to step off a bus and see a disfigured man, lying on the pavement, drooling into his hands.

My initial reaction was just to stare. I forgot any and all manners when confronted with this small man. He looked up at me with his big brown eyes, his lips curved into a hopeful smile. I didn’t even have time to think, as my friends pulled me along to the women’s ward.

The facility was completely open. Every window was glassless. The walls were white and peeling, with cracks running up and down their sides. The women, who limped through the walkway and absently stared at the horizon, had rows of ratty mattresses as their homes. I helped my mom feed an elderly woman from a lukewarm cup of watery soup. The whole time I had no idea what to say.

And then I met Myrtle Smith. She was sitting out on a rusted blue bed-frame, eating chicken and rice from a bright pink bowl. She was dark and thin with short, wispy white hair and a large nose. I sat down beside her, saying “Hello,” and like a typical, uncomfortable American, commented on the lovely weather.

I waited while Myrtle finished eating. She set the bowl down decidedly, shoved it to the side and proceeded to talk to me for the next two hours. The entire time, I probably spoke five sentences. I asked her once about the fruit of Jamaica, and she spent 30 minutes taking me around the lawn of the facility.

She cut off leaves and seeds from bushes and trees, putting them in the palm of her hand. The tall, thin leaves were called “Callelu,” while the other plants were “Goongu” and needed to be cultivated. That was Myrtle’s favorite word: cultivate. “You must cultivate it, darling. Take it home and cultivate it.”

As she chatted on, I realized Myrtle was missing both her right arm and left index finger. She hid the stump behind her oversized shirt. But thing about Myrtle was she was always too busy showing me something else for me to notice these things.

She used the stump of her arm as a pretend mango, miming peeling and chopping. She told the story of her missing appendages, of her jealous family members who had cut them off when she talked to the landlord.

She recalled the pain of the endeavor, going to the hospital, frightened. She told me about a storm destroying her home, about her pastor and church, about how much she loved the Lord and how he had blessed her.

She was 103 years old but chattered like she was 17.

By four o’clock that afternoon, I considered myself an expert on The Life and Times of Myrtle. When we finally had to board the bus, leaving was more than difficult. Myrtle thanked us again and again, watching sadly as we left.

All of us spent the drive back in silence. I felt overwhelmed and shaken, yet oddly content in the midst of it all. I had found this woman, the polar opposite of my lifestyle and appearance, and she only wanted the same things that I did — to be loved, accepted and heard.

Before the trip, I pictured Jamaica as a gorgeous beach: white sand, pretty sunset, piña coladas and tie-dye towels. Now I think of open air, a blue bed-frame and brown hands clasped around my white ones.

Teenagers in general can be incredibly judgmental. Sometimes I think it’s because we believe we’re in a competition — one to find out “Who Gets the Most Out of Life?” And any methods different than our own worry us.

What we don’t realize is that sometimes the methods can be different and still get the same end. There’s the boy with the sports jacket wrapped around his shoulders or the girl with her arms filled with comic books. I sing with my friends and Myrtle peels her mangoes, but all of us are looking for the same happiness. That should rule out every other difference between us.

I returned from Jamaica, got back into the swing of my usual life — warm showers, hot breakfast, chocolate and ice — and readjusted to the American way. But I think about those Jamaican faces  constantly.  I wonder if