The daily Nebraskan. ([Lincoln, Neb.) 1901-current, April 18, 2000, Page 4, Image 4
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 Letter Policy The Daily Nebraskan welcomes brief letters to the editor and guest columns, but does not guarantee their publication. The Daily Nebraskan retains the right to edit or reject any sub missions.Submitted material becomes property of the Daily Nebraskan and cannot be returned. Anonymous material will not be published. Those who submit letters must identify themselves by name, year in school, major and/or group affiliation, if any. Submit material to: Daily Nebraskan, 20 Nebraska Union, 1400 R St., Lincoln, Neb. 68588-0448 or e-mail to: letters(@unl.edu Editorial Policy Unsigned editorials are the opinions of the spring 2000 Daily Nebraskan. They do not necessarily reflect the views of the University of Nebraska-Lincoln, its employees, its student body or the University of Nebraska Board of Regents. A col umn is solely the opinion of its author. The Board of Regents acts as publisher of the Daily Nebraskan; policy is set by the Daily Nebraskan Editorial Board. The UNL Publications Board, established by the regents, supervises the publication of the paper. According to policy set by the regents, responsi bility for the editorial content of the newspaper lies solely in the hands of its student employees. The Daily Nebraskan strives to print fair and accurate coverage; any corrections or clarifications will be printed on page three. 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.