Last week I became a published journalist! Woot, woot! An article I wrote ended up on the Times Union website. Very exciting. It was no easy task.
A story I had read really got me irritated. Here is the article. It seems that my fellow Saint Rose students are suspected of repeatedly damaging school property to keep a shortcut intact.
I was annoyed that my fellow classmates would destruct property just so they could create a short cut. The more I thought of it, it just didn’t seem right. There just had to be more to it.
Then I read the sentence where the student said that the short cut saved her a “solo walk down Partridge” street. Hmmm…
I go to school at night when it is dark. I park right next to the school. I pump myself up before I get out of the car the way that Rocky Balboa does before a fight. I listen to work-out music to psyche myself up for the well-lit walk of oh about 50 feet into the building. When I get out, I put my angry face on, shoulders back and walk into class like an angry, premenstrual psychopath. This is my way to ward off any potential predators. I stare down strangers with a psychotic gaze that dares them to mess with me.
If I had to take an evening stroll longer than my 50 foot maximum I would probably drop out of school.
So this fence cutting sport had me intrigued and I decided to scratch a little deeper.
The roads around our campus have had a history of crime. I wondered if anyone was using this shortcut as a way to get on to school grounds as quickly as possible and to avoid a walk on the street.
Seems I was right. That is what motivated me to write this article. Here is the article.
I wonder if the students will take action and what the school will do in response. It would make for a great follow-up story.
What do you think? Who is being irresponsible here, the students or the school?
As a mature student, there is one area in my college pursuits that I continue to struggle with – group work. This is where you find out exactly what you and your classmates are made of. If you are depending on each other for the grade, well then things get interesting really quick.
In one of the classes I have this semester, we have some big, bold personalities. That’s cool; I prefer this to the lame and the meek. However, if you put all the big and bolds in one group then it takes a few weeks to get your groove and sort out who is the Alpha Dog and how the rest of the pack is going to file in place.
The course is really interesting and the teacher has a neat way of viewing the world. I look forward to each class because of that alone.
At the end of the class, we split into two groups. It was a simple divide of where people sat in the room. The division splits us in such a way that all the people in their twenties are on one side and all of us that are in our thirties (or over) are on the other side. One guy sitting on the other side of the room referred to the 30’s crowd (without a lick of malice) as the “elders”.
The problem is the “elders” can be a bit cantankerous and set in their ways. It truly seems to take us longer to come to a consensus and get things done. We tend to veer off task and pepper our work time with personal anecdotal stories. This does not bode well for “elderly” stereotypes that I have tried so hard to overcome.
The young’uns must get a real kick out of us.
I have decided that the only way I am going to be able to cope with this “Digital Media Communications” class is slinking in the shadows so I can observe until I feel more comfortable in actually participating. I feel comforted by this new plan.
My professor picked up on this the way a shark smells fresh blood. It was about three minutes into the class when he looks me dead in the eye and says, “Alicia, you need the experience. Why don’t you shoot this one?”
Well professor, here’s why: You see I can’t right now because my heart is beating so loud and so fast that I can barely hear you and I am preparing for cardiac arrest. It’s just my age finally catching up with me you see.
I don’t say this. I get up. Now everyone is looking at me. The guy who does nothing but text the entire class (he didn’t read the syllabus to know this is highly frowned upon) has even put his I-phone down. I am certain I am wearing the wrong clothes that the catty girls will make fun of. Man this feels a lot like fifth grade. I hated fifth grade.
I am shaking. The professor tells me that the camera equipment I am about to handle is only worth about $7,000, so please be careful. Oh my god, that is more than my tuition! Goody. Did I mention grace is not my strong suit?
I was up half the night after I put my son to bed reading the syllabus and watching training videos for this class. Why can’t I remember how to turn this thing on? I am sweating.
Someone else was assigned to help me. We fumbled together and we got through it. I barely remember all of it looking back on it now. It took me about a half hour to stop shaking.
After it was over, coming through this terrifying experience made me feel really good. I don’t want the professor to know that though, because I don’t want to encourage him that his “tough love” is actually working.