Jessica
KENNEDY
Hopeless romantic
Leave wedding plans to bride, groom and God
It starts with the first Barbie
wedding dress, carries on through
the first friend’s wedding to the
blessed event itself.
Female obsession with wedding
planning and wedding dresses starts
at an early age.
I was no different, until I saw
firsthand what wedding planning
can dp to your sanity. So, when that
magic day arrives, I’m going to
elope or have a nice little private
ceremony.
See, I want to remember what he
looked like, how he smelled, his
smile and the twinkle in his eyes,
not that I worried whether the guests
had fun or that bridesmaids liked the
wedding colors.
To console my friends and family,
I’m going to throw them the party of
the century. But I just don’t think I
could survive a traditional, bride-in
white-walk-down-the-aisle wedding.
Sure weddings can be a blast; lots
of friends and family, lots of food
and lots of booze. And I’ve yet to
experience any wedding disasters of
the “Funniest Home Video” variety.
Though the day may go off
splendidly, the planning is a whole
other force to be reckoned with.
Last fall, I was honored that my
friend Krista asked me to be a
bridesmaid in her wedding. Since
I*d never been a bridesmaid before
and I was friends with both bride
and groom, I said yes.
It was fun, planning and all —
forme.
However, I worried that Krista
might not make it, with her
mother’s nerves, shoe sizes and a
bridesmaid dress temporarily lost in
the mail.
In the end, she pulled it all
together brilliantly and the whole
weekend was amazing.
Impressed as I was, after seeing
what she, and every other bride,
goes through to get the day, I
seriously don’t think I could do it.
Wedding planning is an awfully
complicated ordeal for a few minutes
of a very, very private experience. At
this point in my life, I’d much rather
have a private ceremony with just
him and me, a couple friends for
witnesses and the priest — with
little to no fuss.
That’s all.
I don’t want the big poofy dress
— it isn’t my style.
I don’t want bridesmaids to be
stuck with useless dresses.
I like flowers, but I don’t want to
break the bank paying for them.
Here’s my stance: The marriage
is for you, him and God. Not for
you, him and your parents or his
parents. Not for you and^ll the
kibbitzers.
I want simple and I want elegant.
I want to remember that day
every time I look into his eyes.
I don’t want to be distracted
because one of the groomsmen is
falling asleep (I’ve actually seen
that) or because the flower girl and
ring bearer are fighting. I don’t want
to worry about who should walk me
down the aisle.
I want every ounce of my hus
band-to-be’s attention on me.
And when everything is said and
done and I’ve pledged my life to this
man, I want to celebrate.
I’ll be sitting on the top of the
world, lifted by the adrenaline rush
of a lifetime. The greatest man I’ve
ever known will be holding on to me
and I’ll have done it all my way.
Then, and only then, it’s time to
share the joy with everyone else.
I’m Irish-Catholic, so there’s got
to be an open bar and lots of music
until the wee hours of morning. No
dollar dancing — that’s cheesy, the
funky chicken and macarena if we
must, YMCA is an absolute, and
yes, lots of ’80s tunes.
So there it is.
To my close friends, I’m sorry
you’re not going to have to wear
bridesmaid dresses... but if you find
a nice suit or dress, you could be a
witness.
To my family, you’ll understand,
plus you’ll like the party better.
And to my future fiance (if you’re
out there), all that matters is you and
me, walking hand-in-hand, into the
sunset.
Kennedy is a senior advertising
and broadcasting major and a
Daily Nebraskan columnist.
Patrick
' MACDONALD" ■ :
eeuent
As a submarine sailor in the
Navy, I missed the opportunity to see
the birth of my first child. Families
were not part of the standard Navy
issue, so these matters were not as
important as providing a deterrent to
war.
I regret not being there for my
wife and son, and as fate would
dictate, I would miss a number of
significant events in my son’s early
development.
My wife’s first birth was not
uneventful. A friend of hers took her
to the Navy Hospital in Charleston,
S.C. She stayed to lend moral
support, but only immediate family
was allowed to view the birth.
Tne labor took 12 hours. I am
sure that during this time my wife
had few good things to say about her
husband. During labor, she devel
oped toxemia, a condition where the
blood contains poisonous substances
that can be life-threatening for both
the mother and infant.
This occurred dining a shift
change at the hospital, so the out
going staff did little to comfort my
wife. Once the new shift took over,
however, the new doctor realized my
wife was in trouble (primarily
because she started having convul
sions) and administered a shot of
magnesium. Tb hear her tell it, the
magnesium set her lower extremities
«i fire, but made her feel better.
Bear in mind I was on the
submarine the whole time this was
playing out, and generally the
captain reserves the “privilege” of
informing you of the birth by calling
you to his stateroom.
As any sailor will tell you, being
called to the captain’s stateroom
usually fills one full of dread.
Much to my relief, I found that I
was not in trouble and that I had
become a parent
Naturally, I was eager to return
home to see my wife and new son.
You can imagine my shock and
surprise when my wife described her
first experience at childbirth. I
vowed to be with her for the next
child — if there would be a next
child.
Shortly after moving to Nebraska
my wife informed me that she was
pregnant with our second child. I
would be able to keep my promise
and be with her for this birth.
Nine months passed with the
ritual prenatal visits to the doctor to
monitor the health and progress of
mother and child.
Finally, the fateful night arrived.
While preparing to go to bed, my
wife let out a blood-curdling scream.
I ran to our room expecting to see
her doubled over in a contraction.
What 1 found instead was my wife
standing beside the bed — shaking.
She promptly informed me that her
water had broken mid it was time.
I remained calm—after all —I
had spent time underwater and few
things rattled this “Old Salt.” We
drove to the hospital, which was
only six blocks away, mid I regis
tered my wife and asked that the
hospital (alt our physician.
I was then directed to the labor
room. Here my wife had been placed
in what appeared to be an uncom
fortable easy chair that had been
reclined into a not-quite-upright
position.
Because of work, I was not able
to attend Lamaze classes, but I had
seen enough TV medical shows to
know that I was suppose to remind
my wife to breath through contrac
tions.
My wife demanded that I sit in a
f hair at the foot of the birthing bed
so she could rest ho* feet on ray
knees. For some reason this helped
lessen the pain of contractions. This
also helped her focus on me and my
soothing voice as I coached her
through each contraction.
Doctors and nurses kept coming
in to poke and probe my wife to see
how far she had dilated. After about
seven hours of hard labor, the doctor
gave her something to help her rest.
At this point, I thought I would get
up to stretch my legs and give my
belabored knees a break.
Inis was not to be; as soon as I
stood up, my wife screamed, “Where
are MY knees? I need MY knees!”
At this point, male instincts
kicked in and that voice in my head
yelled “RUN!” but I knew that she
needed “her” knees. 1 reluctantly
resumed my position at the foot of
the bed and she once again lay claim
to my knees.
Finally, after 12 hours of hard
labor, my wife was dilated enough to
give birth. I won’t go into all of the
gory details. What I will say is that
eveiy man should “give birth” once
in his lifetime.
It really is a miraculous experi
ence. I know my knees will remem
ber the event for a very long time.
MacDonald is a freshman
electrical engineering major and a
Daily Nebraskan columnist.
Cliff
HICKS
Against the wall
Bardlet wonIswieldimre power
I can tell you the secret of the
world if you’ll let me. No,
honestly, I sat down and figured
it out. When you stop to think
about it, it really isn’t all that
complex. You’ll have to endure
with me for a bit here first,
though.
Several incidents led me to
this conclusion — a discussion
with someone else over whether
or not a word was appropriate,
racial epithets being thrown
between two parties when I was
nearby — all of that mixed in
with a midlife crisis, a few
arguments with some friends and
the occasional appreciation of
women of great beauty.
All of that’s reallv academic.
though. The deal is that I’ve
discovered a fact that people have
known for many, many years, and
none of them seem to be able to
consciously perceive this fact.
Words have power. No wait,
that’s not the clever bit. Shall I
tell you the clever bit? All right.
I’ll tell you. The clever bit is this
— they don’t have to.
Incredibly simple, isn’t it? You
seem a bit confused. OK, let me
go through the whole thing and
show you exactly how this secret
works. It’s not that difficult, trust
me.
Each time I open my mouth or
put pen to paper, I am invoking
the power of words. To communi
cate, I string together a number
of sounds or symbols to form
something that people have
agreed means something.
But what if you didn’t follow
that rule? I’m not talking about
destroying an entire language
with a wave of your hand, but
rather, selectively choosing which
words you give power to. It’s
something you may have thought
about few a brief fleeting moment,
but never really thought about,
hmm?
Let’s take for example, a
common swear word — “shit.”
This word, which in all technical
terms is used to describe either
the process or the result of
defecation, has become one of the
most common swear words
around. Little children have their
ears shielded and it’s not allowed
on public television (or it least, it
wasn’t the last time I watched it).
Why? Because somewhere
along the line, someone decided
the word was inappropriate.
Ponder, if you will, what would
occur if there was no such dung
as an inappropriate word. 1 can
hear conservatives shivering from
here.
Seriously, what if we as a
society collectively decided there
would no longer be “swear”
words? Any word you can create
has only as much power as each
one of us gives it. So, to be blunt,
these words mean nothing to me.
Swear all you like, I don’t give a
damn.
What could you do if there
was nothing to swear with? All of
your anger and frustration would
be spouted in words that are fully
acceptable. I was talking with
someone who told me that people
would just invent new swear
words, but then I countered,
telling them that those would be
acceptable also.
TTiere’s no way to beat that, is
there? Whatever words you want
to use are fine by me, mid what
can you do about it? Tty to offend
me? At that point, it becomes
laughable because all you’re
doing is trying to get my atten
tion, which 1 don’t have to let you
have.
From this, follow that line of
thinking to epithets of any kind.
It’s not the word people find
repulsive — it’s die idea behind
it. So what if we remove the
word, or bathe it in the light of
acceptance? Thai the idea no
longer has anything to hide
behind, does it?
I realized that some people
have already done this —
whether consciously or subcon
sciously. I’ve heard, when I
wander around town, two blacks
refer to each other as “nigger”
and not have any form of degra
dation intended. Thus, the word
is, at least partially, disarmed.
l aon t want to imply tne word
has no power at all, but some of
the power that it once had has
faded. Is it possible to declaw the
word and struggle with the ideas
behind it? Are you starting to
realize the immense amount of
faith you put in this thing we call
language every day without even
realizing it? Are you beginning to
realize how much untapped
power lies within it?
Even right now, I’m using
language and the word to
communicate this idea to you.
You don’t have to grant me this
liberty, but you are by reading the
words that I have written and
submitting to the common ideas
each word contains.
I am a writer by trade and live
off the power these words afford
me, and the power that you, the
reader, afford me through them.
So it is here I remove the smoke
and allow you to see the tricks of
my trade.
Now that I’ve shown you how
it’s all done, what do you intend
to do about it? Can you learn to
not find any single woftt offen
sive? Do you think you’re up to
it?
Or will you fall into the
multitude of masses who surren
der a bit of their control each day
by saying “I find that word
offensive.” They are, I’m afraid,
only words folks. They teach us
that in kindergarten. Sticks and
stones and all that...
I don’t honestly believe that
the world will be changed by just
these few sparse wards I throw
down onto paper to try to
communicate my point — but
there’s always that chance that
they will inspire someone to carry
the idea further.
A few well-placed words can
change the world — “we the
people,” “four score and seven
years ago” and “once upon a time
... “ so maybe these words can do
the same. But just like people can
deny the power of words they
don’t like, so can they deny the
power of these words.
Maybe when I’ll die, I’ll be
buried In a country that has
learned to accept its freedom.
Until then, I’ll just have to live in
one that limits it with the power
it surrenders to its language.
Words, words, words...
Hicks is a sophomore news
editorial and English major and
a Daily Nebraskan staff
reporter.