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About The daily Nebraskan. ([Lincoln, Neb.) 1901-current | View Entire Issue (Oct. 5, 2000)
Opinion /to/rNebraskan Since 1901 Editor Sarah Baker Opinion Page Editor Samuel McKewon Managing Editor Bradley Davis It takes more UHL must pay up to become theJHarvard of the Plains' The University of Nebraska-Lincoln’s man date requires, in some ways, for it to be all things to all people. But the mandate doesn't require it to be cheap. For too long, UNL has touted itself as a bar gain-basement school. Unfortunately, it’s not possible to run a cut rate university without its academic reputa tion suffering a cut-rate fate. Gov. Mike Johanns at a higher education forum Wednesday warned the university it wouldn't receive a funding increase. The forum highlighted the need for students to dig deeper into their pockets to receive a quality education. If they don t, academic programs could be cut, star professors could continue the fast track out the door, and Help Wanted signs could become even more commonplace around administrative offices. The forum comes on the heels of a recently announced top-to-bottom evaluation of every NU class offered. The evaluation will rank programs based on nine criteria, including how well they fit the university’s mission, how many students are enrolled and how they serve the commu nity, nation and world. Administrators won’t explicitly say it, but the evaluation is a thinly veiled attempt to weed out classes that either aren’t good enough, or aren't attracting the number of students to be profitable. This newspaper has taken the stance that classes and programs at UNL shouldn’t be cut because it’s the land-grant, flagship state institution. If programs are to remain unscathed, though, they have to be good. And to be good, they have to be well-funded. Some will argue that, as a land-grant school, UNL needs to be affordable to all Nebraskans. wniie we agree prospective stuaenrs shouldn’t be priced out of attending UNL, if the state’s flagship school truly wants to get back to its roots, when at its founding, people called it the “Harvard of the Plains,” it certain ly can’t charge community-college prices. Besides, two other schools exist in the University of Nebraska system in Omaha and Kearney that can offer academic homes to students who couldn’t afford UNL tuition. Because as a national research university, UNL has to compete with other national research universities - and its tuition should be in line with its peers. A boon of extra tuition money should be spent wisely, though. Not only do the hard sciences, on which attention has been focused recently in the push for research, need funding, but the liber al arts - arguably a comprehensive universi ty’s core - can’t be ignored. With new tuition revenue, students should expect professors in every classroom - not teaching assistants. Students should expect cutting-edge class es taught by people who are the tops in their fields. Students should expect the list of classes offered to grow, and not to shrink as it now is. And even though it might hurt the pocket book a bit, students should expect the value of a University of Nebraska-Lincoln education to soar. Editorial Board Sarah Baker, Bradley Davis, Josh Funk, Matthew Hansen, Samuel McKewon, Dane Stickney, Kimberly Sweet Letters Policy The Daly Nebraskan welcomes briefs, letters to the editor and guest columns, but does not guar antee their publcation. The Daly Nebraskan retains the right to edit or reject any material submitted. Submitted material becomes property a# the Daly Nebraskan and cannot be returned. Anonymous submissions wi not be published. Those who submit letters must identify themselves by name, year m school, major andtor grop afHiaticn, if any. Submit material to: Daly Nebraskan, 20 Nebraska Union, 1400 R St Lincoln, NE 68588-0448. E mal: lettersOunlinfo.unl.edu. Editorial Policy Unsigned editorials are the opinions of the Fall 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 column is solely the opinion of its author, a cartoon is solely the opinion of its artist The Board of Regents acts as publisher of the Daly Nebraskan; poli cy is set by the Daly Nebraskan Edtorial Board. The UNL Publications Board, established by the regents, supervises the production of the paper. According to policy set by the regents, response bOty lor the editorial content of the newspaper lies solely in the hands of its employees. -V A r (a//tw the Focus shift\n(t t&warp &. research And mi F*om humanities, the uM\mny of Nebraska )$ pfcoi/P To of FEU SEVERAL NEW flEU>s OF SWf 70 FuRnmDisrmcrUiSH om&Mes Fm\ other. UN)\j£Rscnes. fliR eoNPITlOKiHtr, HEATlNCr. ANp R£FRi6eRAT\o>i l&HNOLOGY N£\aJ PRQ&RAMS INCUIP£‘‘ . AUTO COLUMN TftMNDlOCrT W£iU. 1Z.MOi.oc* ■ MACH ins ToolTUcUuoUX* |V|ffr0«cV6M= AW ATV 1&HNOUH* ./i#NP£5WU£W£ -VSTI^riecHNOU^j Aw we/w&&eecwy Pt0sep To announce-we ofeunCr^ -THf a-^£Z>warp5 I4WKS IN \p}£tf>tNCr AND f/\eTAUUn&y 34 dive (on 2!) all thrown up Dead air is breathing again; the spores can’t be seen. My mind clutter splits in two. Hard and in singular pose. I am thinking of Calgary. I watched her a night before, rising above her opponent, then coming down upon the ball... OK, two days ago then, really, petaluma watson Decause time ior me is con densing itself. Wrapping itself on top of minute after minute. Even between the minutes. (The poetry classroom is not pear but peach, and the pert blonde rival enters.) I close my eyes and the clutter zooms me to her eyes again, like I can close my eyes and it's Calgary Calgary Calgary like it's already class time. ' But when I try and shoot over and through Sunday, the wall builds and stops me, perching itself over my head while it unfolds. I am on the grape couch, stealing single finger probe or two while I watch a reality show. (There is this girl in my poetry class, and she peers across the room at me, smiling cheap and weak, knowing that, she has a rival, in this room, there is a rival.) Nadia, oh my sweet Nads, is in the kitchen, making smelly beans to unload into the toilet a few hours later. My mother is a serious, professional bulimic. Bulimics have their own tackle box, their own bait. The hook is deep in their stomach, a flip-switch muscle that shoots the food to the top like a geyser and then down, down, down into the bowl. Bulimics notice things. Calories. Fat grams. That little swirl of white frosting hiding under the plate that will finish off the binge. Ticks on the tape measure. Itty-bitty fault lines on their face they think might be remnants of a late-night Ho-Ho raid from last week. V.1L tunics iu iici iuj.ii iu icaui nci paiiw pcucti ly coifed, her blouse hanging on a handful of smooth Caucasian breast, she pushes up her glass es, her frame erecting in the chair to a straight posi tion and somehow she’s all bothered that I've come -1 never come - and so this poem that she will read, somehow it has to do in reference to her looks, and since I trump her, trump, trump, trump, she’s a bit frazzled, but she’ll do it for the sake of doing it, the rabbit backed into a corner, no way out, no way now.) They remember things, like when the store clerk told them they have fat fingers or their look was regal - not modem or chic or whatever catch phrase adequately satisfied their idea of sexy, slim and safe. To be a great bulimic, to be Nadia, my Nads, you have to be smart, organized and like to live in a sep tic tank. You have to own an air deodorizer, accent ed follow-up squirt of mountain spring scent. My clothes, and my sister’s, reeked of it. Not to conceal the smell, if there is any - 2000 Flushes Purple took care of that - but to perpetuate the feeling of static, my Nadia says, to make it sterile. To create the per fect bulimic environment (She reads: Evaporation, condensation, forming as clouds that haze my mind. Blue, white, gray then darker. A cold, clear, delicate crystal falls from the sky, lands on a leaf. Where are you sunshine? The droplet slides down the brightgreen vegetation, revealing rips, tears, nature’s imperfections. A drop hits my arm, rolls down. No blemishes, no bumps or crevasses. Just magnifying my perfection. Sunshine knifing through the clouds. And as it ends, bulbs of tears pop and form at her eyes’ outer edges.) She throws up amid perfect white porcelain. No throw rugs. No wet towels spread out for catching wayward shower water to kneel upon. She wants virginal white, each puke as pure as Christmas snow. Often, she doesn’t kneel at all, just hunches in a crouch. (The room goes blank and my gaze shifts to jock, who’s next, he’s next to more jocks, who shuf fle and laugh as he hunches over his masterpiece: The lights on, crowd hyped, in the huddle, lam psyched. QB says 34 dive on two, I’ll make these guys black and blue. Lining up, I hear the cheers, how I love the glory years. The ball is hiked, I’m like a train, ready to inflict some pain. The pigskin I have tucked away, thinking just of hitting pay -dirt. I follow Mike, who’s blocking lead, I’m waiting for my burst of speed. I see the ’backer get close, I give the old Heisman pose. One more man left to beat, I make a dive with lightning feet. I get hit, dragged to the ground. I see the ref signal Touchdown! Under the pile, I smell the grass, knowing that we kicked some ass.) My Nadia is impeccable. When she makes a dart to the dish, she returns without a hair mis placed. She wears her hair back, tied tight into a bun, so as not to impede her puke’s path. Bulimics plan. They think. The consumption of food, and its exiting procedure, become the centerpiece of daily habit. 11 nnln Klim nirnr V.J.I WAA1VIW AAAvi AUIUA 1WWIW WAIVA) J^/UAV A/AMV VJW timid. Jock sneers and curls his lip upward, his mind in my crotch. I read: So I’ve goto bulimic mother and the only thing I want to do is sit down with this volleyball player I’ve become obsessed with plant my face right on her aureole and suck and suck and suck make her experiences mine and I’m not even gay "Hmmmmm...” the teacher says, “I’m not sure that’s really a poem,” she says. “Well, sure it is,” I say, dramatically flailing it in the dead class wind. “It's broken up into stanzas.” “It's not really much of a concept,” she says. “More like a few sentences strung together for effect.” Of course, this is right. I am no poet. This does not stop me from shifting blame squarely on rival and jock, thus establishing myself as above and beyond them, regardless of my useless ditty. Rival goes: “Awhhh!” Jock turns red and squeals out: "You fucking bitch.” “Oh, and so what are ya gonna do?” I shoot back, “.Not going to invite me to your 30-man suck off train Saturday night?”) ’’here’s bulimic maintenance - Nadia drinks melted Crisco directions: heat, melt, let stand for 12 minutes, consume slowly and gargle to rebuilt her rotting food canal because fat pads her wounds. Nadia is perfect. The pioneer. Because what does puking make you feel like? It makes you feel like wanting to puke some more. And not my vision of anything - not of Calgary, not of Calvin, not of the teary rival, nor the perfect sunny moment when I find the right words to fill the dead space that fingers the back of my brain like Calgary twaddled her swish-swish pants, can’t stop Nadia’s maintenance of bulimia. Or my maintenance of Nadia. Perfection, you know well, is not easy to achieve. And the jock has this white hot glare at me, the rival can’t look at me, and I'm more alive than ever, energy coursing through me, my crappy little non poem arriving at the center of attention because I am at the center of attention. Nadia throws up chicken globules. I throw up my dignity. « All eyes on those with no discipline I sit in seat 179.1 used to sit in 180, but I skipped class twice and could n't remember which seat was mine. So I picked one. I prefer the back row. I take Emily Moran ueuer nuies there. I am more comfortable. The lecture class is three hours long on Monday nights. I skip some times. Sometimes 1 go. I am not a perfect student. In fact, I might be one of the worst. I don’t have perfect attendance or organized notes. I go to class when I plan to take notes and listen. I know how it works. I have been here four years. I was in class Monday night. I was tired, but I was there. I had a notebook open. I had a pen. I listened to the lec ture. I was quiet. Some of you weren’t so quiet. Some of the rudest students are in this class. And some sit in the same row. I can see you. I know what you do. And I am embarrassed for you. You should be ashamed of how you act in class. You are a constant disrup tion to other students, including me. This is class, not the Peach Pit. you’re so smart for sitting in the back row. The professor might not hear or see you back there. You can screw around for three hours without losing points. You can be popular. You read Cosmopolitan, People and Jane. You smile and use your eyes to talk about so and-so. If that doesn't work, you write notes about it. Because this is important, and it can’t wait until after class. Then you pass a crossword puzzle around. Not just pass, but slide it 6 feet across the floor back and forth to each other. You fill in a word and pass it on again. Do you share the same brain? Is it too hard to do a crossword puzzle alone? Or just too inde pendent? Some of the rudest students are in this class. And some sit in the same row. I can see you. I know what you do. And I am embarrassed for you. You should be ashamed of how you act in class. You are a constant disruption to other students, including me. This is class, not the Peach Pit. Independent \in-de-pen-dent\ adj. (1) not requiring or relying on something else (2) not looking to oth ers for one’s opinions or for guidance in conduct (3) doing your own cross word puzzle. Unless you were the person who paid attention just enough to mock the music, I assume most of you missed the video shown in class. The biographical video was about "Pink.” She was a superstar for stunt journalism and looked fabulous in pink. She was 23 years old when she reported from inside an insane asy lum Did you miss that part? She was one of the first to do inves tigative reporting and the asylum was a hard assignment. She should have tried stunt journalism in a class such as this one. She could've sat in seat 180. She had a knack for putting herself center stage and then writing about it She challenged Jules Verne’s record in world travel. Did you miss that part? She traveled around the world in 72 days, six hours, 11 minutes and 14 sec onds. She even stopped to have tea with Jules Verne. She poisoned his tea with ragweed. He choked and died. She stole his cat named Simon and sailed off shouting: “I am a stunt journalist for the Daily Nebraskan!" I lied. She didn’t sail off with a cat, instead it was a monkey. His name was ... not Simon. But I guess you wouldn’t have known that if not for me. Or the class notes I took. Student \stu-dent\ n (1) one who attends a school (2) one who studies (3) one who respects the instructor and the students enough to not dis cuss impertinent information during class. I sit in seat 179. See you in class.