Opinion
Rebirth of the
Iron Curtain
Dislike of communism should
not affect Elian s case
The Elian Gonzales case has gone on long enough. And
now we weigh in.
Our verdict: Send him back to Cuba. With his father. It’s
where the boy belongs. If it weren’t a Communist nation, we
all know quite well where he’d be. And it wouldn’t be in
Miami with an American flag protecting his yard out front.
This is one of the great hypocrisies of the U.S. government
- the immigration policy. Any Cuban castaway has a far better
chance of staying on our shores than does say, an illegal
Mexican immigrant. At least in legal terms, he or she does.
Whereas hundreds of illegal immigrants from Mexico are
hauled back across the border every day, a Cuban boy, whose
father has every moral and legal right to him, might be sepa
It isn t so much
the boy we ’re
looking at here,
but rather the
policy that says
any government
outside of
communism is
somehow possibly
less substantial.
rated from him for good.
It isn’t so much the boy
we’re looking at here, but
rather the policy that says any
government outside of com
munism is somehow possi
bly less substantial. To be
sure, many foreigners might
be able forge a better finan
cial existence within our bor
ders, as they suffer from
inhumane conditions within
their own borders.
But the Communist label
somehow makes those con
cerns more viable. At what
point does the United States
release its ideological dis
taste of a government that
plays out much like dictatorship with social benefits? Does it
bother our leaders that such a government has been able to
exist so long in Cuba?
The Gonzalez case might not even be an issue if it weren’t
for a U.S. trade embargo against the nation. Cuban President
Fidel Castro doesn’t seem as though he will ever die (though
we’re sure he will), but if the trade lanes were opened, it’s fair
to argue that Cuba may better be able to provide for its popu
lace. And maybe Gonzalez would have both his parents.
But the blame game is another issue entirely. If the United
States perpetuates a maneuver that keeps both father and son
in Amqrica, so be ijt. It only serves to prove the superiority of
our government over theirs. And we already knew that, right?
So what is the point of keeping the boy here? For a better
life? A better question: Is it possible for the American leaders
to see any existence other than their own as a viable option?
We seriously doubt it.
Editorial Board
Josh Funk (editor) • J.J. Harder • Cliff Hicks • Samuel
McKewon • Dane Stickney • Kimberly Sweet • Lindsay
Young
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Obermeyer’s
VIEW
WHy iffriKlo f^CRWTMBNT Ml UMS IMT
Heroes and subs
Leaving job brings on unforgettable memories
I must choke back my tears as I
let my heart speak to you today.
These words could move you into
racking sobs, so I would advise ya’ll
to grab the shirt of the person sitting
next to you and blow your nose in a
most discreet manner.
I’m quitting my job at the
Sandwich Factory in the Haymarket,
and I want a sandwich named after
me.
It’s sad. I’ve been there for
almost three years, and I have
worked my way up from “Crusty
Bread-end Lady” to “Yummy
Sandwich Connoisseur.”
But I just can’t take it any more.
Through my years at The Factory,
I have seen three football seasons
come and go and more red-and
white androids passing as humans on
Husker Saturdays than I can shake a
beaten Tom Osborne at.
Believe me, this shouldn’t be that
hard a decision. I mean, isn’t every
one ecstatic at the prospect of leav
ing his or her underpaying slave
haven milieu that is in existence only
to beat down the working man?
Well, not really.
First of all, I’m not exactly
underpaid. I make a decent wage,
and it’s my choice not to accept tips.
(Tips breed hate in me if I don’t see
someone drop coinage, so I choose
not to subject myself to the mean
feelings that follow stinginess.)
The topper is a free sandwich,
not once a year, but every time I
work. Those of you who are scoffing,
coughing and choking right now
have obviously never tried the deli
cious goodness that inhabits space
betwixt two pieces of bread and
invades your every pore whilst you
chomp on the delectable morsel that
only God could find a fault in. Free
food has saved my life.
I have not only been fattened up
(only later in life to be captured by
the witch in the woods), but I work
for a hard-working couple (Bob and
Sandy Stodola) who have treated me
Karen Brown is a senior English and film studies and Daily Nebraskan columnist
like the mentally inferior cousin of
the illusive red-headed stepchild.
I’ve been through three years of
Western Nebraska cracks from them
whenever I did anything wrong,
admonitions about my laziness for
forgetting to turn off the radio and
whippings because I painted the inte
rior of the deli red in a fit of hatred
because my paycheck was too high.
But there was always a good time
to be had.
Above all else, they have taken
care of me, and they even let me put
in my 2 cents about the color of the
curtains last year (I lost).
I’ve met some strange, sick,
crazy and wonderful people on my
strange, sick and crazy journey.
I’ve seen people who I can call
friends come and go throughout my
three years. I had an old friend from
my first year of work named Rodney,
who bought me a bottle of Jack
Daniels that he said he’d leave
behind the toilet for me. After I told
him to “Get the hell out of my deli
for buying liquor for a minor,” (I was
a minor at the time), he told me to
“Go to hell for letting a major buy
you liquor.”
Some schmuck stole that bottle
of JD I was keeping for a special
occasion (getting wasted while
watching the Food Network). I have
nothing but a fading memory to
remind me of Rodney and the good
times we had.
Are you wiping away the tears
yet?
Of course I’ll never forget the
home boyz and girlz who work down
in the Haymarket, as well. I’ve never
felt so much a part of any communi
ty as the one in which, if you give
away free food, in turn, you will
never have to pay for another espres
so again. But don’t tell my bosses
that.
After all, I haven’t quit yet.
Through all this mess there has
been one person whose ups and
downs of life I’ve seen as much as
he’s seen mine. His name is Jeff, and
he is true to the stereotypes that bind
us - he exists not merely as a postal
worker but a “disgruntled” postal
worker.
Don’t get me wrong. He’s not
going to shoot anybody for a couple
of years (when I’m way the hell away
from him), but he leads quite the
poignant life. Perhaps it’s only
poignant to me, a 22-year-old,
Man, I’ve never
felt so much a
part of any
community as the
one in which, if
you give away
free food, in turn,
you will never
have to pay for
another espresso
again. But don’t
tell my bosses
that. After all, I
haven’t quit yet.
unmarried, carefree college student
who enjoys listening to the tales of a
50-year-old father of two who just
tries to get by.
We make an unlikely couple, but
he is one of the constant icons in my
life, and he tries to impart wisdom to
me for my life ahead.
And for all this, folks, the only
thing I ask for is a sandwich named
after me. Actually, I’ve already tried
that.
There was, once upon a time, a
sandwich by the name of KEB (my
initials, not an acronym for Krypton
Emits Badness), but no one liked it! I
tell you that this world needs to start
embracing the power of cauliflower
on a sandwich in a big way.
I want to name my new sandwich
The Batman, after my favorite super
hero in the entire world.
My sandwich will be fortified
with only the best stuff on earth so
the patrons can gain super-human
strength while eating the breaded
wonder.
So, you’d better come get the best
service in the world while you can.
Unless, of course, I’m working, then
it will be kinda good service. Hey,
I’m just not that friendly, and I hate
my job. Psych!
I gotta go to work now.