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R.O.T.C. debates seize Columbia University

Columbia University was "the heart of the Vietnam-era student movement" in the 1960s, and their antimilitary rage ended up banning R.O.T.C. from campus, according to an article from the New York Times. However, the University Senate has voted to bring R.O.T.C. back. 

New York Times reporter Alan Feuer led his article with a long, wordy lede that I had to read a couple of times before grasping the point, which made it lose some impact. 

More than four decades after Columbia University, the heart of the Vietnam-era student movement, banned R.O.T.C. from campus in a moment of 1960s antimilitary rage, the University Senate voted overwhelmingly on Friday to support efforts to bring the group back. 

To clean it up a bit, I would have led with something like the following: "Columbia University banned R.O.T.C. from campus in 1960s in response to antimilitary rage, but a the University Senate is now supporting efforts to bring the group back." There is not as much detail, but everything mentioned in Feuer's lede is restated later. 

As the article went on, Feuer got caught in the classic toss-up of deciding which side to mention first. 

Free Breakfast!

This semester I’m interning at Market News International. One of the things I like most is its great location. It’s right by the Metro Center Station (with red, blue and orange lines) and has a great D6 bus route for rainy days like today (or days when I don’t feel like walking to Union Station—OK most days).

My office is in the National Press Club building. Which is nice because sometimes the event I’m covering for the day is just right up stairs. I save so much time in the commute.

But, what is also great is the free daily breakfast The National Press Club offers to members. And as student at WJC we have a semester membership! This is great for the daily free breakfast and a free (well free with soda purchase) taco night on Fridays.

While my cape is at the cleaners

I don't leap tall buildings in a single bound.  I don't have heat vision.  I'm not from Krypton.  I can't fly.  I'm not Clark Kent...or am I?

A couple days before I came to Washington I got new glasses.  My old prescription wasn't working well so I figured it would be good to get new ones before I came.  Little did I know that this would alter my DC experience.

The Washington Journalism Center program is notorious for developing nicknames for members of the group.  Greg Perreault has the final say on all names proposed for permanent use.

While taking my seat in class one day, my roommate Josh Brown of Union University looked at me and said,"Brosef, has anyone ever told you that you look just like Clark Kent?"

"Cause when you're a celebrity..."

I can't believe the way some people stalk me to talk to me about my folding bike. This week I was on my way to my internship walking down M Street in Georgetown grooving to some tunes on my iPod when I feel a tap on my shoulder. I turn and look really hard at the woman looking intently at me, but I don't know her. I pulled my headphones out and she started asking a dozen questions about folding bikes. I listened and answered the questions as I locked Foldy up at Dean and Deluca where he waits for me while I do my journalism thing.

I thought that putting my keys in my backpack and starting to walk toward the Georgetowner, the paper where I intern, would signal to this lady that it was time for me to go and for her to stop asking questions about Foldy, but apparently she didn't understand the cue. Finally I told her I had to go to work and she said ok.

Later that day on the way back from my internship I was riding down the National Mall when I hear a guy behind me yelling "hey, hey, hey!" He starts running next to me and Foldy. I looked at him and he goes, "Is that one of those bikes that like gets smaller?" I told him it was a folding bike and he said, "Well would you stop and fold it so I can see it?" I was a little shocked. There I was riding down the Mall and some guy wants me to stop and fold my bike so he can see it. "Sorry I have somewhere I have to be," I told him. He thanked me and finally stopped running next to me.

Public transportation gets stranger

It was a gorgeous Saturday, the kind that just makes you want to be out and about. My roommate and I were volunteering at Taste of Georgetown, a gathering of 30  restaurants from Georgetown to raise money for the Georgetown Ministry Center. It was the perfect day to be outside chilling with good people and helping out a good cause.

We left with plenty of time to get to Georgetown, but we experience unexpected difficulties. At one of the first stops along the Circulator route, a bus to Georgetown, the doors would not close. It was bizarre to say the least. The would get to a certain point and then open all the way again instead of closing.

Suddenly the rumble of the engine stopped. The bus went silent. Everyone was looking around and looking to the front of the bus to the driver. He tried starting it a few times, but it wouldn't go. I sat there remembering why I ride my bike to my internship in Georgetown.

Finally the bus started again. I looked down at my watch. We should make it about right on time I thought. But then the driver had to stop the bus at every stop to make the doors close. The stops took long enough as it was since there were so many people headed for Taste of Georgetown, but having to stop the bus was just like the cherry on top of a bad bus ride. Luckily we made it to Georgetown only a few minutes late, and the volunteer organizer had built in time for people to be late.

The ride back after the event was like pandemonium as well. It was like a giant rush of people all pushing their way on as if the driver would close the door and leave them. I was reminded why I love riding my bike to Georgetown, so many people all going to the same place makes public transportation crazy. Georgetown's just so popular.

Good directions

I've been in DC for only one month, but suddenly I must look like an expert. On my way to and from my internship I got asked fourtimes how to get places. I counted myself as lucky since I was aquainted with the places I was asked about.

I was in Union Station heading up the escalator to the Circulator bus when I woman asked me how to get to E street. "What?" I asked halfway up the escalator and with her standing on the floor calling up to me. I wasn't the only person in the station why she was chosing to ask me at that moment was beyond me. I started walking down the up escalator to give the woman directions. "Here let me ride up with you," she said and suddenly some strange woman was riding the escalator up with me while I waved my hands around pointing and directing the woman. When we got to the top of the stairs though I realized all my crazy arm waving was for naught because she still didn't even know how to get out of the building. To say the least I was disapointed.

On the bus three women laughed jovially and talked about how glad they were to be in DC. Then one of them spoke up and said, "Did any of you pay attention to that map we looked before we got on this bus to see what stop to get off at to go to Georgetown?" None of them had and thenhad terrified looks on their faces.  I asked where they were trying go in Georgetown to which they answered they just wanted to shop. "Just follow me then I am getting off in Georgetown." The women were extremely grateful but I realized ten minutes later when I got off the bus the ladies weren't following me. I called to them, "Hey this is Georgetown" to which they jumped up startled and said, "We just got so into talking we forgot we had to get off the bus to get to Georgetown." I smiled and directed them to some good shopping places. I felt like I'd failed once again.

So many people!

Last weekend I took the subway to the Smithsonian Museum of Natural History and walked to National Community Church at Ebenezer’s Coffee House.  The week before I had coffee at Eastern Market with a Pastoral Assistant from Capitol  Hill Baptist Church and went to the Thomas Jefferson Memorial—at night.  During a scavenger hunt my first weekend here I took the bus to Ben’s Chili Bowl in the Northwest quadrant.  The day I arrived in Washington DC, my profs Terry  and Greg took me and several other WJC students out for lunch at Tunnicliff's Tavern.  In case you’re wondering, these are all places around Washington DC, and none of them really have anything to do with each other.  My experiences at each, though, have one thought in common: There’s so many people!

Lots and lots of them.  Everywhere.  All the time.  Coming and going.  Walking and honking and selling and buying and riding.  Every person is different.  Each one has his or her own story, trials, fears, beliefs, and perspectives.  Each one has a unique and precious soul.  Yet I don’t know where any of them are going, or why they happen to be riding the same bus as me.  It’s completely foreign to anything I’ve experienced as a laid-back, suburban, born-and-raised California boy.  I don’t understand how so many people can be moving about all over this place at every decent hour of day.  Back home in my quiet southwest-Bakersfield neighborhood, I can go for a two-mile jog and count the number of people I pass on one hand.  It’s almost awkward to pass someone on the street because you don’t know what to say, or even if you should acknowledge the other person’s presence.  Here, the people are a state of being, something that just registers in the back of your mind.  There are always buses, and taxis at Union Station.  There’s always some weird person sitting behind you on the subway.  There are always people jogging down the National Mall. 
 
Three years ago, my family spent a week of our month-long summer vacation in Washington, DC.  So going into this fall, I had already seen and experienced many of the highlights here.  I thought I had a pretty fair idea of what to expect this time around, but there’s a difference between seeing hundreds of people everywhere on vacation—on the National Mall, George Washington’s house, or even the subway—and passing hundreds of people on a quick errand to pick up some food.  Last time it was a tourist attraction.  This time it’s my home.

A life well changed

I had quite a few expectations going into this semester,  not the least of which was a nightly ritual I had planned to begin the first night I was here, and continue until the end of the semester. The hyper-influential electronic indie-pop band, Postal Service released a song in 2003 entitled "The District Sleeps Alone Tonight." My planned ritual was to go up to the roof of our apartments, and listen to this song each night before retiring to my bed. I mean, why not? It's about D.C., so any opportunity to tie a song into a real world experience is an opportunity I am going to wholeheartedly seize.

Music is my life. It's rare for me to spend a day without spending some time relaxing, listening to some of my favorite bands. I relate most of my life experiences to songs that I was really into at that particular time in my life. Certain songs can bring me to tears simply because of an overwhelming sense of nostalgia. Like I said, music is my life.

The first two nights here, I did manage to make it up to the roof to listen to some Postal Service, but now my priorities have shifted. Coming here, I wasn't sure how the community would be. I knew going into the program that I would be thrust into a completely different culture than that which I am used to, and be forced to live amongst people from different cultures. This was a daunting situation for me, seeing as most of my friends are people with whom I've shared life experiences, and we tend to have very similar world views.

Building Communities: One Step at a Time

By Alaina Pangelina and Monica Martinez

Community. It can surprise you what you learn in and through such a community as a collection of college students from across the country interested in journalism.

Monica Martinez got first-hand experience in the middle of the semester at WJC.

 Here's her testimonial:

"I fell. I missed one step going down the stairs and my ankle suffered an injury. It was sprained.

I was seated by Sari and Sonja, my fellow WJCers. They came to my rescue.  As I sat down, I realized the rest of the crew surrounded me and looked at me with caring eyes.

They asked me how I felt and they wanted to help. I quickly told them that my injury wasn’t anything serious and that they could go back and continue their night as they had planned. But they didn’t go.

The path already traveled

Growing up I had always looked up to my grandmother.

She was the type of woman who would wear her friend’s wedding ring to pretend she was married so she would appear old enough to drink when at a bar. 

She was the type of woman to meet her Navy pilot husband when he was accidentally using the women’s restroom while on a date at the bowling alley.
 
She was the type of woman who would tell her young, wide-eyed granddaughter stories of her own youth and the charming military admirers who would woo her and take her to their elegant balls. 

My grandmother passed away in 2002, but I still find beautiful connections with her in every area of my life. So when I was asked to the Naval Academy’s Memorial Ball just one day after arriving in Washington D.C., I was delighted.