Chaparral: Summer 2011

A College of DuPage Student Magazine Summer 2011 Volume 18, Issue 2

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Chaparral Student Magazine/College of DuPage

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3

The Value of a Lifetime

“Do as much as you can,

learn as much as you can.”

Jermaine Townes, age 39 Struggled in high school . . .

Served in Desert Storm . . .

Plays for the Chaparrals . . .

Earning top grades at COD.

Proving it’s never too late to start over.

Read more about Jermaine’s story at cod.edu/impact.

Register Now Summer classes begin May 23, June 6 and June 27.

Fall registration begins April 28 and classes begin Aug. 22, Sept. 13 and Oct. 19.

Visit cod.edu or call (630) 942-2800.

4

Chaparral Student Magazine/College of DuPage

Are you...

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Fall semester starts August 29, 2011.

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(630) 829-6300

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www.ben.edu/cod Summer 2011

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9

A COLLEGE OF DUPAGE STUDENT MAGAZINE

SUMMER 2011 VOLUME 18, ISSUE 2 Welcome to the Summer 2011 Chaparral. Our twice-annual magazine explores the world to reveal the writer’s emotions in coping with the environment and people around them.

C O N T E N T S ‘Deathly Hallow’ experience The Harry Potter: Deathly Hallows screening was an experience full of stars.

But was it worth the wait?

- By Leanna Johnson

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Dogged personalities A life with dogs shows that human emotions exist in canines as well.

- By Mitch Reeter

12

The reluctant student A college student looks back at his high school days, at his hatred for students and a teacher.

- By Nick Davison

22

The sound of the violin Whether classical or fiddle, the sound of the violin creates a peace like no other.

- By Vikaas Shanker

30

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Chaparral Student Magazine/College of DuPage

30

C R E D I T S Nick Davison Leanna Johnson Mitch Reeter Vikaas Shanker

12

Vikaas Shanker Chelsey Boutan Molly Hess Vikaas Shanker Vikaas Shanker Joanne Leone Cathy Stablein stablein@cod.edu College of DuPage 425 Fawell Blvd.

Glen Ellyn, Ill. 60137 Castle PrinTech, Inc. 121 Industrial Drive DeKalb, Ill. 60115 Chaparral is a student magazine published through the Courier Student Newspaper and Journalism 1115 Feature Magazine Lab at College of DuPage.

22 Summer 2011

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Chaparral Student Magazine/College of DuPage

By Leanna Johnson

Harry Potter premiere in London provides backdrop for a long wait

I

n th e g r a y i s h l i g h t o f a n o v e r c a s t d a y , I e m e rg e d f r om L e i c e s t e r S q u a r e t u b e s ta t i o n i n L o n d o n 6 s W e s t E n d th e a t e r d i s t r i c t w i t h t h e f e e l i n g t h a t I6 d j u s t s t e p p e d o f f t h e H o g w a r t s Ex p r e s s .

S t ar t i n g e ar l y f ro m m y u n c l e 6 s h ou s e i n s o u t h w e s t E n g l an d , I 6 d t a k e n a t h re e h o u r e x p r e s s c o a c h t o L o n d o n to s e e t h e w or l d p re m i e r e of 4 H ar ry P ot t e r an d t h e D e a t h l y Ha l l o w s . 5 U p o n a r r i v i n g a t V i c t o r i a S t a ti o n , I w a s p l u n g e d i n t o t h e f o rm i d ab l e m az e o f r a i l w ay an d U n d e r g ro u n d s u b w ay t u b e s t a t i o n s i n c e n t ra l L o n d on .

I an x i ou s l y h ad c o u n t e d of f e a c h s t at i o n a s i t p a ss e d 3 G r e e n P ar k , P i c c a d i l l y C i r c u s , e t c . , re l e a s i n g a s i g h of re l i e f as m y s to p f i n a l l y s l i d i n t o v i e w . T h e b u i l d i n g s s e e m e d s m a l l an d n on d e s c ri p t w h e n n o t l i t b y t h e f l as h i n g l o g o s a n d al l u r i n g s i gn s o f a n i g h t t i m e t h e a t e r d i s t r i c t .

D i n g y b r i c k v i e d w i t h t h e m o r e u p d a te d s h i n y p l as t i c as a g l a ri n g re d B u rg e r K i n g s i gn s t u c k o u t f r o m o n e c o r n e r . P e o p l e l o ok e d p r e o c c u p i e d an d p ro b a b l y l at e f o r w or k a s t h e y m o v e d h u r ri e d l y i n an d ou t o f t h e n i p p y f a l l m or n i n g . H a d I c om e t o t h e ri g h t p l a c e ?

Ch e c k i n g m y m a p , I m a d e m y w a y t h r ou g h n ar r ow s t re e t s , t u rn e d a c or n e r a n d … t h er e I wa s.

L e i c e s te r S q u a r e c i r c l e s a s m a l l p a r k a n d i s s an d w i c h e d b e t we e n t w o o f t h e l a rg e s t c i n e m as i n t h e h e a rt of t h e W e s t E n d . I t i s a p op u l ar s p o t f or L o n d on 6 s w or l d - f am ou s m ov i e p re m i e r e s .

W h e r e I e x p e c te d b r i g h t l i g h t s a n d h u g e d i s p l ay s , t h e re w e r e on l y a f e w p o s t e r s h a n g i n g f r o m l a m p p o s t s , th o u g h I h e ar d h am m e r i n g b e h i n d a h i g h f e n c e t h at b l o c k e d t h e v i e w t o t h e p a r k an d t h e E m p i re T h e a t re .

A t t h e o th e r e n d o f t h e p a r k , a n e w l y -

see ‘potter’ next page

â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;potterâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; from previous page built arch on a high platform surrounded by barriers faced the Odeon Cinema. I imagined a huge roll of red carpet spilling over the stairs down to the theater door with posh-looking celebrities and flashing cameras in its wake.

A thin line of people had begun to form around the barriers, though not as many as I expected. >Well, I@m glad we didn@t camp overnight!? I thought, scanning the crowd for my best friend who was supposed to meet me. A shortage of minutes on my cheapbut-sturdy British mobile had made communication difficult at best for two tech-dependent, accident-prone Americans.

Having heard that all the stars would be viewing the premiere at the Odeon, I figured it would be the best to head over to find myself a spot.

With my iPod in tow, I tried to make myself comfortable during the anticipated long wait.

I hadn@t become familiar with the Harry Potter fanaticism until I was 16, and Mum decided that perhaps the world@s most famous boy wizard was not an evil, cultish influence on impressionable kids.

Then I became another fan of No. 7 Privet Drive, Time turners and O.W.Ls. I loved the idea of a totally new world existing right before my eyes, at my train station or even, through my chimney.

The movies brought the story alive for me and I loved Emma Watson as Hermione, with her know-it-all attitude and bushy hair, Rupert@s faces and Daniel as the lovable >boy-who-lived.?

When I found out that the premiere would take place right in the middle of my semester break = a.k.a >journey of self discovery? = trip to visit my Mum@s family, I knew I couldn@t miss this opportunity.

My friend and I tried unsuccessfully to get tickets to see the actual film, but no such luck. Instead, we decided to stick it out, see the sights, and at least go home with a story to tell.

I promised my little sister some autographs from the three big stars for her birthday. I want them on a poster, she said. >Don t forget!?

Now, I mentally smacked myself. I had assumed I would find my friend and be able to nip to the nearest bookstore or HMV for the dratted poster while she kept my spot. Instead, all I had to work with was a slightly worse-for-wear postcard of the Scottish Highlands.

What had I been thinking?

Minutes ticked by slowly. The crowd had grown and I could see small groups of people huddled around thermoses. I was amazed by the sheer variety of accents I heard. Standard brogues and lilts of the Isles mixed with slightly brassier tones of true Londoners. I could hear

10

Leanna Johnson and her friend pose for a picture while queuing the all-stars of the Harry Potter cast in London.

French, Spanish, Italian, German, and even languages that I couldn@t place.

It was as if the United Nations had assembled, bundled for the cool afternoon in the colorful wool jackets, sweaters and striped scarves of the four Hogwarts houses, as well as Britain@s one essential accessory: the umbrella.

My mouth watered with the aroma of coffee everywhere. I listened to nearby conversations to take my mind off a growing hunger over the squashed sandwich and crisps I knew lay somewhere at the bottom of my backpack.

I suddenly perked up when I heard an American accent. I finally picked out a group of students about my age, laughing and talking together. >Hi!? I said, >I couldn@t help hearing your accent, where@s it from?? >Sydney,? one girl said. >Wow, really? But I thought I@d heard an American accent!?

Another girl waved, >I@m from Connecticut!? >No way! I@m...? And so it started! I soon learned they were exchange students from up north on a weekend break to see the town.

Chaparral Student Magazine/College of DuPage

We had barely exchanged names before the promise of barriers to the front row until the security stopped the cloudy sky was finally fulfilled as the inevitably soft, them. Forming a chain with my new friends, we snaked cold and thoroughly miserable English shower. our way through the tightening crowd.

Within seconds, a roof of umbrellas had appeared When the barriers finally opened, I lost my grip on the above the gathering crowd, its kaleidoscope of color as backpack of the girl in front of me, but managed to slip cheering as the shelter it provided. Trying to forget the in front, only to watch a wall of people run toward me. chill that was slowly creeping onto our clothes and skin, Eager fans had swept the barrier along with them in we passed time singing Disney songs, playing >Desert Istheir frenzy, smashing it against those of us between land? and swapping travel stories. them and the red carpet.

Meanwhile, a man in a small Jarred, scared and not a little bucket had been raised up to the angry, I@d have fallen if there had I exchanged uneasy top of the cinema wall and slowly been any room to move! Secubegan to uncover a huge sign. rity officers waded through, glances with the girl next Soon, we could read >Harry Potter shouting and blowing whistles. and the Deathly Hallows: World >That@s going to leave a mark!?

Premiere.?

I thought grimly, feeling a line of to me and tried to shift Then, there was a smell of petrol pain shoot across my back. and a small pop. They were testBut after the barriers were exaway from the man. ing the pyrotechnics. We all tracted things calmed down and jumped and then clapped as the I found myself in the third row first great stream of fire shot up from the front. Inch by inch, I ‘Jerk!’, ‘Idiot!’ like dragon breath, spreading heat began to move forward, one leg everywhere, a welcome respite through and then the other. from the chill damp.

Pushing my backpack along the ground and slipping in Only, when the blasts receded, we all fell to shivering between a tiny space or crack until I could see everyuncontrollably once more. But, in the fashion of unprething. Scanning the crowd, I spotted my new acquaindictable London weather, the sky soon cleared and a tances, though still no sign of my best friend. I settled in few rays of sun even peeped through, if only for a mofor another long wait. ment.

Hours passed, and my feet ached. When are they comFinally, it was time to let down the barriers. There ing? The man next to me, tall and large with a loud, were three, one on each side and one running down the abrasive voice shifted restlessly, pushing me aside. Since length of the red carpet. see ‘potter’ page 34 Fans farthest away had only to run down between

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Summer 2011

11

It makes more sense with all of the flaws that human dogs lack, and all the joy and love that humans are ca that the canines have mastered, being a people person more difficult without...

DOGGED

PERSONALIT S

By Mitch Reeter

o, I casually say to my mom, What s this one called?

Before me sits a sleek black dog. My mom tells me the dog s name is Tandi. I don t know how long Tandi is going to be here. It could be days. It could be months. I stopped asking that question years ago.

I m not sure how many dogs have come before Tandi. Thirty, maybe?

Forty? I haven t been counting in some time, either.

The dogs come to us from a local shelter, and friends, family and neighbors. Our local animal shelter is the West Suburban Humane Society in Downers Grove. Typical for any shelter with Humane in its name, animals are never put down for lack of space or convenience. Animals stay until they are adopted by a willing, suitable family.

Of course, the patience of this humanity comes with a price: a strain on the shelter s resources. Workers, most of whom are volunteers, cannot personally tend to every dog. Dogs with special needs medication, extra attention or a calmer environment than the shelter s kennel are too much of hassle.

That s where families like mine enter the picture. We have enough people with few distractions to make us perfectly capable of giving a dog the attention and affection it requires.

Instead of offering the dog a 3 x3 cage on cold concrete to huddle in, as

continue on page 14

ns have that apable of is

TIES

This wide-eyed little pooch was one of many diverse breeds of dogs Mitch Reeter looked after with his family.

continued from page 12

would be available at the shelter, we can offer a full house that s quiet, warm, and covered in soft carpeting.

My mother s co-workers and others give us our furry house guests for a number of reasons, from the low price we charge to the high amount of attention and personal care we provide our clients.

Several families have left the same dog s with us multiple times. My auntJs dog Ellie is a 165-pound great dane who has stayed with us four or five times. As a result, she is very familiar with our house. Another frequent guest is my parentsJ friendsJ dog Fern who is at home our home.

Although personalities of the dogs can vary across the map, I believe that there are subtle differences between dogs from the shelter and dogs from homes.

This is probably not surprising because some have been rescued and some essentially are vacationing with

14

us. Tourists and refugees don t necessarily spend time together.

Our vacationers typically are in good health, even if they are Unlike the dogs that we receive from the shelter, the family-owned dogs typically are in perfect health, although occasionally old.

Rescued dogs often times have some sort of personality or emotional anxiety that they learn to conquer in our stable and generally easygoing home. This differs from the Hvacation dogsI whose personality has been solidified in family comfort.

Nothing about the vacation dogs changes. Their lifestyles are consistent and they don t have to hunt down their next meal and bed. For shelter dogs, everything is a question mark. We donJt always know their background, how old they are, what is wrong with them, or where they will go next. My family is used to an expansive spectrum of the dog personalities, habits, quirks, adventures, and fears. We never know what to

Chaparral Student Magazine/College of DuPage

expect whenever a fresh set of paws trots through the front door.

ItJs hard to know what to anticipate when the guest youJre having in your home canJt exactly send you an email with its personal preferences and interests.

On the other hand, I do know what to expect whenever somebody asks about my familyJs involvement in the program.

The same response: HDonJt you ever get sad when they leave?I Not necessarily that same permutation of words, but the same idea.

Sometimes they approach it from a broader perspective, addressing the root of this supposed problem: HDonJt you ever get attached to them?I Occasionally, it wonJt be a question at all, but a prediction of theoretical emotions if the person were in my situation: HOh, I could never do that.

IJd be way too sad to see them go.I I find this amusing not because I canJt relate or because IJm too stoic for such a trivial emotional connection, but just the opposite.

IJm very sentimental. I form emotional attachments with knick-knacks around the house and old furniture, investing so many memories and feelings in my surroundings that throwing away a used Post-It note almost registers as a sacrifice.

I admit to becoming attached to the first dog we ever hosted. A Hurricane Katrina rescue dog, she had been carried up from the South to the shelter, along with many others in the same situation. The shelter couldnJt handle the surge of animals, so this dog was sent to us.

Each dog that Mitch Reeter cared for had its own personality and qualities.

We had the opportunity to name this ginning of their name cycle. For something that defines one, which is unusual. The shelter had slapped on the so much of the animalJs identity, a name sure can be imname of HMariah,I to the animal, but that was simply personal. for the sake of having something to register her in their We didnJt think the name Mariah suited this dog. She system. was intensely energetic and had an almost explosive The name, like those of many of the anonymous dogs personality. She did everything to the extreme. in the facility, had been arbitrarily chosen from a big Mariah greeted people on the street by jumping up with book of names the shelter has on its shelf. her paws on their chest, whole body trembling with exAs soon as the shelter reaches the end of the book, the book is turned back to page one to name dogs at the becontinue on next page

Summer 2011

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to the dog as the name Mariah, so she eventually learned to reccitement. She awakened my ognize and respond to it.

Among countless other brother and me in the morning Foster care for animals isnJt by jumping on our beds and furisomething that should be totally ously licking our faces. romanticized. Many things in our entertaining and lovable By the time I stepped out of the house have sustained some sort bathroom to get dressed, I alof teeth-mark related damage at habits was one that wasn’t ready had two showers that day. some point or another. A few of Her walk was a sprint. When our doors look like props for a her tail wagged, the entire postehorror movie, with countless, as lovable, though rior half of her body did, too. jagged, violent scratch marks on Even her sleeping patterns had a the inside, like something was admittedly just as certain fierceness to them. She being held and tortured behind tore through the house like a race them. entertaining...ninja poop. car around a track one minute, Torture? No. Boredom? Yeah, and then hopelessly collapsing probably. into her bed in an almost comaCarpeting has been torn off of tose state. our stairs. Screen doors have been forcibly removed.

For these reasons, we thought Mariah sounded too Curtains have been pulled down from rods. Woodwork delicate and too prissy. She deserved a more exuberant all over the house looks like the mangles and deformed name. As big fans of the TV show HFuturama,I my pencil of a nervous seventh-grader. brother and I suggested the name HLeela,I based on the And then thereJs the smell. Ah, yes. The smell! strong lead female character. This name was just as new continue on page 18

continued from previous page

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This black dog Mitch’s family cared for, snuggles on a sofa. Dogs found a quiet, loving place in the Reeter home.

16

Chaparral Student Magazine/College of DuPage

Mitch Reeter took care of this â&#x20AC;&#x153;little bat dog,â&#x20AC;? along with many others as his house acted as a temporary home.

Summer 2011

17

of his life. A typically social dog who was not fond of using the uncomfortably brisk outdoors as a restroom, Incredible, almost exotic fumes of animal urine, feces Waldo preferred to poop in the comforts of our home. and fur permeate our home. We obviously do our best However, he seemed to notice that this angered the huto keep it under control by cleaning up, wiping down, mans who also lived in the house. His solution was to and vacuuming any of the contaminants that cause the poop in inconspicuous places. problem.

In the crevice behind a couch.

This is usually enough to deal with the smell. Our Underneath that table. house has its good months and its bad months. The facOver in that corner of the basement where people tors that lead to good months are simple. The dog does donJt go. Did they notice? Will they even find it by the not violate the carpetJs hygiene, is end of the day? Nope? Great. Mission accomplished. being taken out regularly enough Air freshener and scented candles fought the fumes as to manage the urge, or is at least effectively as a water balloon against an M1 Abrams restricted access to carpeted Main Battle Tank. Our family eventually rooms using closed doors and managed to wrestle the odor the removable gates that can into submission by rebe inserted and sealed in doing the doorways. basement.

If the dog makes a courWhat do you tesy nature call on the know? All it hardwood floors, we can took was total deal with the situation obliteration of painlessly. Relatively so, the walls, ceiling, that is. and disposal of However, during half the stuff in those bad times, a thick the room. odor hangs over About eighty pereverything like fog in cent or ninety pera bad swamp movie. cent of the time, we Bombarded with the like the dogs. They are Elvis frequent presence fun, well-behaved, ins Reet leeps on of something unteresting or, at the very er ca red f Mitch Re pleasant, the air least, comedic.

As for or we e re la ter â&#x20AC;&#x2122;s floo and furniture retain the that remaining fraction, zy, s r ome . Someti stench long after cause has been well, everyone is bound to times m they es the do removed. run into problems someseem gs th a ed cr The basement is and always has been the primary sotime. azy. t cial domain of my brother and me, and where any Arnold was the first dog cleanup process often was done haphazardly. With poor we ever had that caused us ventilation, rugs and carpets that were already old, and problems constantly, and the first dog we had to return supervision by two people who are less than passionate to the shelter. He was very tall and very strong, but had about cleaning in general, a vicious stink accumulated, no emotional stability whatsoever. and settled in.

Although he was never violent with any of us, he One of the biggest contributors to this unholy attack caused huge amounts of destruction with his incessant on the nostrils was a dog we had for a considerable anxieties and height that allowed an incredible reach chunk of 2010 G Waldo. A tiny but sturdy little rat terand table gnawing capacity. rier/chihuahua mutt, Waldo had a totally outlandish We were uneasy leaving him alone in a room for ten personality. minutes. IJm not sure if we had him for more than two Among countless other entertaining and lovable weeks before we became overwhelmed and returned habits was one that wasnJt as lovable, though admithim to WSHS. tedly just as entertaining. For this habit, I coined the Gretchen was another problem-dog. Short, young, and term Hninja poop.I covered with pretty golden fur, she was as cute of a dog During his ninja poops, Waldo used more cunning in as they come. The demolition she initiated when left his stealthily hidden excrement than in any other aspect alone wasnJt nearly as cute. I wonJt go into details about

continued from page 16

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Chaparral Student Magazine/College of DuPage

Mitch Reeter cares for Tiny (left) and Casey as if they were his own dogs. Here, they are relaxing in doggie beds.

exactly what she did, but she was responsible for about half of that list of damages I mentioned earlier.

Another dog we have had, Kermit, required an exceptional amount of patience. To this day, I still describe him as autistic. I donJt mean to offend anybody with this description, or to use the term in a casual or jokey manner. This dog truly displayed behaviors that resembled those of a person with some sort of disorder.

He was perpetually uneasy, even after he had stayed with our family for several months. This is unusual, as even the most timid dogs start to feel comfortable after a few weeks. All and any loud noises or sudden movements were cripplingly frightening to him. He refused eye contact.

Kermit didnJt seem to understand the concept of amusement, and would even stand in one place staring at a wall six inches away from him for more than ten minutes at a time.

As is often common among autism patients, he demonstrated some very quirky and illogical behavioral patterns. He wouldnJt walk down a sidewalk if he saw that there was a car parked over it because the driveway was too occupied. Similarly, he seemed to distrust cars parked in the street, and cower from them like they were monsters deep in slumber.

He sensed some evil in bicycles; Barking at passing bicyclists was the only time he ever displayed recogniza-

Summer 2011

ble aggression. He was intensely stubborn about changing any routine. For several weeks, he developed a strange obsession with my room and was constantly trying to enter it, even though he never did anything inside it but stand or sit, completely motionless. This was problematic. My room is on the second floor of our house.

Although Kermit had no issue with ascending the stairs, he initially was petrified of walking back down them, a necessity for when we need him to go outside. Forcing him down the stairs was difficult. A fully grown, highly muscular bloodhound, it took the strength of multiple family members to get him down, as we simultaneously pushed and pulled his body.

This enamor with my room led to one incident that was terrifying at the time, annoying at the end, and hilarious in retrospect. Because of the problem with getting him downstairs, we learned to use a gate to cordon him from the entire second story of our house, We kept on the half of the first level that didnJt have the flight of stairs to the second story.

Of course, this means he still had access to the back door. In what seemed to be one his moments of unprovoked paranoid terror, he made a break for it out the back. My family and I pursued fervently. The tricky thing about chasing a dog, especially a big, strong, fast dog like Kermit, is that there really isnJt an ideal mode

19

continue on next page

A typical dog his size could eat the amount in less than a minute. of transportation available to do so.

His odd personality and mannerisms were often frusA car is fast enough to keep him in sight, but being trating. He wouldnJt come when called, but would acable to actually grab the dog is out of the question, as is knowledge the fact that heJd been called, and stare at following him into a neighborJs backyard. This can be me from the next room or the top of the stairs. This redone on foot, but while agile, most people arenJt fast quired me assertively drag him by the collar to wherever enough for the raw speed needed to keep up with the I needed him, needlessly making me look and feel like animal. the bad guy.

A bicycle isnJt much help either in terms of agility beIf he got too spooked or uneasy on a walk, the outing cause acceleration takes too long for eventual top became pointless. He would tug incessantly on the speed. leash, demanding to go home. The emptying of his bowIn the case of Kermit, even while using all three, my els was the last thing on his mind. To this day, IJm still family and I didnJt stand a chance of catching him. He not sure what was the first. got away.

I remember these dogs. I remember them because of We drove all around the area to look for him, calling how weird they were, or in some cases, how weird they his name, and asking pedestrians if theyJd noticed a terare. Stories like these will stick rified black bloodhound chargin my mind for a long time. ing through the area. We But not every dog is a story. thought Kermit was never to be Some dogs are just normal.

I remember these dogs. I seen again.

They might be nice, or playful, Or at least until we pulled into or shy, or cute, but for the most remember them becaues of our driveway to see him push part, theyJre low-key but memour front door open, which orable. must have not been entirely how weird they were, or in Molly, a beagle we had for a closed during the panic. And few weeks in fall 2010, was a once he was in the front door, dog we also cared for once besome cases, how weird they he was on the stairs, and once fore the prior spring. She had he had triumphantly climbed been adopted and returned. are. Stories like these will those, he was right around the I didnJt even remember having corner from the eternal divine her the first time around so I glory that he perceived in my got used to her as though we stick in my mind for bedroom. had never met.

His private El Dorado.

The second time around she a long time.

He had just dragged my fambecame extremely memorable ily and me on a frenzied chase because she cautiously followed through the neighborhood, me from room to room while leaving me tired, muddy and late for work. My bike was doting on my every move, but also because she treated casually discarded on a strangerJs lawn because he my dad with total disdain. couldnJt breach the two-centimeter-wide plastic gate Molly growled and barked at him as though he had a keeping him from the stairs. Lovely. gun drawn and there was a cop nearby whose attention His eating habits were distinctly bizarre, too. I canJt reshe could get. He didnJt even need to enter the room, in call what we fed him, how much, or how often he ate, some cases; merely the sound of him stirring in the next but I remember the little ritual he performed while room was enough to get her riled up. doing it.

He didnJt do anything to provoke this, either. He He cautiously approached his bowl, eating one bite, didnJt pamper her, but he certainly wasnJt abusive to maybe two if he felt brave. Then he would enter our her. He fed her and occasionally walked her, but mostly family room, scanning his surroundings and assessing he was indifferent to her presence. the layout. Moving into our front hall, heJd peruse the She alarmingly protective of me when Dad was in the living room, and then glance upstairs to see if anything same room. We hypothesized that she perceived my dad or anybody were there. to be some kind of threat to my well-being a false perFinally, heJd return to his bowl, eat another bite, and ception, by the way . the cycle would repeat itself. Eating one modestly sized Whatever her motives, this peculiar behavior lead to bowl of dog food could take him ten to fifteen minutes. one definite result Gdistinction. Although I draw a blank

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â&#x20AC;&#x153;

â&#x20AC;?

20

Chaparral Student Magazine/College of DuPage

Mitch Reeter took care of all sizes of dogs. Some were from animal rescues while others were pre-owned. about her first stay at our home, this second, perplexingly hostile visit will give her a long-lasting notoriety in my mind.

In many cases, it/s the poorly-behaved and the weirdos who seem to mean more to us than the nice and calm.

It/s not uncommon to hear a fan of dogs like myself say something along the lines of, -You know what?

Dogs really are just like people!. Well, let/s not get too crazy with it.

The fact is that dogs aren/t like people, and maybe that/s why we love them.

Maybe they do fight, but for mutually understood reasons. They want the same toy. They want the same food. They don/t like being bothered while they/re sleeping. Dogs don/t go into wars with one another because of fear, speculation, and prejudiced judgment.

Maybe they do hold grudges, but not for superficial

Summer 2011

reasons. They don/t judge each other because of their body, their face, how nice their collar is, or whether the dog prefers to eat or to play. Any dislike they have for one another or the humans is based on the perception of a threat.

And what are their motives for loyalty, for affection?

Not status. Not lust. Food, shelter, maybe a place to sleep.

Not everyone is a dog person. I understand that. With all of the flaws that humans have that dogs lack, and all of the joy and love that humans are capable of that the canines have mastered, wouldn/t being a people person be more difficult?

The fact is that dogs arenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t like people, and maybe thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s why we love them.

21

The

RELUCTANT

‘

student

‘ I was a troublemaker at Downers Grove South High School and Mr. Caldwell had borne the brunt.

M

By Nick Davison

y former high school history teacher Brian Caldwell and I had developed a considerable history of disputes and quarrels.

I was a troublemaker at Downers South High School and Mr. Caldwell had borne the brunt whether it was throwing his classroom garbage can down the stairs or forcing him to make an example out of me for classroom discipline.

My entire sophomore year was filled

’

with trips to the dean s office, detentions, referrals, and a suspension all mainly through Mr. Caldwell.

I abused the school system frequently that year, although I previously had been a shy and introverted model student who just wanted to do his assignments and be left alone.

However, once I crossed the threshold of high school, I discovered a world where the rules had consequences.

I learned quickly that students ad-

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Nick went to Downers Grove South High School and found many things - a broken disciplinary system, a conduit for mischievous satisfaction, and a consistent and effective craving for attention.

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mired and respected someone who stood up to an authoritative figure. I fell into a horrible pattern of belligerence, valuing the respect that I increasingly earned.

Students began to talk to me, seeking my opinion and generally noticing me. There was something fascinating about how they would talk about one particular instance of misbehavior for days; it drew me in like a moth to the flame.

Once I began misbehaving, I adopted the persona that came with it. Grades rapidly declined, drugs turned into a lifestyle, and a trip to the dean s became a daily occurrence.

Little did I know that all of the respect or glory that came with this newfound attitude was not at all worth it.

Throughout those years of misconduct I always looked for a reason or excuse to justify what horrible act I committed in class.

For some reason, Mr. Caldwell felt the brunt. Maybe it was that he was a new teacher, or that our class had an array of vile students, or some combination of the two.

24

Nevertheless, I put Mr. Caldwell through hell on a daily basis as fellow deviants egged me on to higher levels of desperately seeking attention.

I remember when he tried to control my behavior by seating me at his desk. I was so heavily immersed in my bad seed mode that there was no way seating me next to him would help sustain me.

While sitting up there, classmates snickered and chuckled, and even suggested that I throw his papers off his desk.

Mr. Caldwell heard this and told me not to listen to them, that they wouldn t be suffering the consequences; I would. Looking for the respect and attention from my peers that I so desperately sought, I flung all of his ordered papers into the air and across the room. I was sent to the dean s and given a two-hour detention.

Mr. Caldwell made a valid point. I took all the punishment, not the class, but at that point in time I was too ignorant and too naive to listen to him. As things escalated I battled him.

I left class early on the days I showed up, I sold and bought drugs right under his nose, blew off assignments, distracted other students, and openly dominated the room with my opinions and actions. I remained un-

Chaparral Student Magazine/College of DuPage

intimidated, by threatening others or swearing at them.

What would she make of this @ my first suspension?

It usually worked.

As I left the deanCs, the calmness returned and I began But there was one instance where it did not. A young to relax. A two-day suspension wasnCt bad at all. man named Saleh was amused by my behavior and Then a rage filled my mind over who had ratted me egged me on. One day he had enough of my attitude out. I thought about who had seen me with the ball. I just like most of the class. He told me to shut up and sit came to the conclusion that Mr. Caldwell saw the down. posters and remembered that Cody and I were throwing I threatened him; he shrugged it off and said I was all it around. I was so enraged and angry with him. talk and no action. I stood up, which startled him conMr. Caldwell had always been my nemesis, and now he sidering he sat very close to me, and flipped over my had a victory over me. I was determined to not let him desk, tossing it in his general direction. get away with it. News of my suspension spread I threatened him, promising that after class I would through the school to the students I once called friends. get him. Mr. Caldwell heard the noise of the desk and On our way to U.S. History they were curious to know questioned what had happened. I came up with a flimsy what action I would take. I remained level headed and excuse, collected my desk from the ground and sat back assured everyone that I would do nothing unless I felt down.

Mr. Caldwell wrongly accused me of something or misIt wasn t until the spring of my treated me without a reason. sophomore year that things I was determined to stay out of began to grow even worse. trouble, considering I already had I realized that no matter While in French class I decided received a suspension that day. to take a nap. We were playing People still fed me suggestions what you do, what kind of a game involving a squishy, for things I should say to him. small ball.

Upon entering CaldwellCs class I insane erratic behavior My French teacher, Madame was immediately forced to move Menke, noticed my head was my desk next to his by his comdown and decided to give me a mand. I hadnCt even done anyyou commit, you must rude awakening by throwing the thing yet, but he thought it ball at my head. would Abe better for everyoneB if constantly one-up yourself This severely pissed me off. I I sat up in the front. yelled at her and was taken into I argued calmly, with obvious and others to stay in the hall for a lecture, but my anger building, but it was no use, anger still went unsatisfied. On Mr. Caldwell wasnCt going to give. the spotlight. the way out of the class I disI approached him and let out a cretely swiped the ball from her slew of profanity and insults. desk and brought it to my next I annunciated every insult and class, U.S. History with Mr. Caldwell. was almost shouting by the end of it all. I could tell he I tossed the ball around with another disruptive stuwas shocked, almost speechless. He barely mustered the dent named Cody while Mr. Caldwell lectured. After courage to tell me to go to the deanCs, which I gladly Cody whipped the ball at Mr. CaldwellCs head after a redid. quest to stop, the ball remained on the teacherCs desk.

At the end of the day I had turned a meager two-day At the end of class, Cody grabbed the ball and popped it, suspension into a week-long vacation. The dean called producing a squishy blob splattered into a puddle in the my mom right there in her office and got her voicemail. hallway outside of Mr. CaldwellCs classroom.

They used a truly wicked tactic of making me talk on We left for the day, snickering about the mistreatthe message explaining what had happened and how I ment and torment we had unleashed on Mr. Caldwell was suspended. Making that phone call was one of the for the day. most difficult things I had to do.

The next day I noticed posters in the halls and in After I gave my say on the phone, the dean took the French class looking for the missing ball. I shrugged it phone and added her explanation. I waited until the end off until I walked into my French class that day. of the day in the deanCs office.

Madame Menke pulled me into the hall as I entered the My mom worked near the school and was going to room. She said that she was sure I had stolen it. I was pick my sister and me up as she often did. While waiting sent to the deanCs and issued a suspension. At first I was in the parking lot, she checked her messages. nervous because my mom was already upset with all my detentions, phone calls home and general misconduct. continue on next page

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Summer 2011

25

Nickâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s sisters Stephanie (middle) and Natalie helped him realize the true source of his anger in high school.

continued from previous page

When my mom finally met up with me after the day was over, she was in tears. She told me I was a better person than this, and even threatened to send me to military school.

Once she took such an authoritative tone, I blew up with rage and an argument began. Looking back, this should have been a swift wake up call for me. I knew how deeply my school behavior was impacting my mother, but still continued to do deviant things.

After a light punishment and a two-week vacation due to the fact that my week suspension ran right into spring break , I was back in school waiting to see the reaction I got from my peers for my prior behavior. I was almost shocked that none seemed to care, or even remember.

That is when I realized that no matter what you do, what kind of insane erratic behavior you commit, you must constantly one up yourself and others to stay in the spotlight.

This realization caused me to continue challenging my

26

teachers, insulting some classmates and acting out. I really wanted the respect of my fellow peers so desperately that it almost became a need.

I would thrive on their attention. As much as I hated some of them, I became dependent on them. Once my sophomore year finished, I felt that I left the school for the summer on top.

The summer brought a relaxing time to spend with my family to begin to mend bridges that I burned while in school.

My parents never condoned or approved of my behavior, but my sisters enjoyed it. I would always share what awful thing I had done with them over laughs.

Neither of them acted this way in school, and I could tell they were excited to hear about what kind of mischief I would cause.

I also owe my sisters a great deal, because while in high school they would help cover up my many phone calls home while I was in detention. When I was looking at a progress report with a line of FCs, they would help me organize and apply myself to fix them.

One summer evening I was sitting on the porch with

Chaparral Student Magazine/College of DuPage

my sister, Stephanie. We were discussing some of the AbestB stories I had from sophomore year. Her tone had changed from one of approval and cheerfulness to a sort of distaste for my behavior.

She asked me one simple question, which exploded into a self-searing mission: AWhy do you put on a show for these students?B It was something I couldnCt answer, so I tried to deny, acting as if I enjoyed misbehaving. Steph didnCt buy it.

She cornered me with more questions like: AWhy would you put on this show for them and take all the consequences? Do you enjoy being a puppet to them?B I had heard similar things before, but not from my sister, not from someone so close to my own age. When a teacher, parent or dean would ask me that, only phrased differently, I would blow them off and not listen.

I could not fake my way through a conversation with Steph. She knew me far too well.

We talked for hours outside about the issue at hand.

Through our conversation it helped me resolve that I didnCt need the approval or respect from these students.

My anger was misguided. I realized my enemy was not the teacher, but the students. I was so different from all of them, and it angered me.

I went back junior year with a new anger. I still hated the school with a burning passion, and knew I would not stop my aggression until I was expelled. That was my new goal.

I had English class in the morning with my teacher Glen Spitler.

The room was full of preppy kids all chattering about summer parties, beer bongs and texting. Instantly, I hated them. They all knew each other; three fourths of the class seemed to already be friends.

When attendance came up, one girl Allison would joke with Mr. Spitler that some of the girls who were not there yet were late due to parking because the lots were under construction.

On the third day, she would say AOh sheCs still parking!B and everyone would chuckle. By then I had enough. Once she said that, I banged my fists on the desk and yelled some profanity at her from across the room.

Everyone stared at me for a moment, considering this little outburst occurred right in the middle of attendance. Mr. Spitler paused, looked at me, and just continued down the list.

On the first day of classes I was thrown out of my math class for an argument I had with the teacher. I was in the deanCs office on day one.

Dean Michaels joked that it had to be some sort of record because they hadnCt even had the detention room and schedule set up at that point but I already had four hours to serve.

Summer 2011

Steph (right), Nick’s sister, sat him down and asked him, “Why do you put on a show for these students?”

I had to serve them in the waiting room to the deanCs office. Within the first week I had around five or six teachers complain about me to my dean or counselor.

I was called in to meet my counselor in the first week, and she asked the standard questions: AIs everything okay at home? Is anything troubling you? What will make you cease this behavior?B I cut her no slack. I told her that there was nothing she could do and every day was only going to progressively worse until I was expelled.

As my counselor, she knew what kind of things I had done in the past, and didnCt want to take any chances. I thought she was frightened, which gave me a sick satis-

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Nickâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s freshman year through junior year yearbook photos (from left) give an insight into how he changed through high school as mischief and a disregard for authority pushed him to act up during classes.

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faction.

The following day she called me back into her office.

She gave me an offer that would end my bad behavior and set me on a positive path. My counselor told me that I would be able to graduate a year early if I took a summer course, and only if I got my act together, didnCt misbehave and pulled my grades out of the toilet.

I agreed and worked with her for the entire year to ensure that I would achieve this goal.

She was kind throughout the whole process, even though I gave her no reason to help me. I had caused her, and my other teachers, quite a bit of grief.

Throughout the year she offered kind words and encouragement. But I always felt that wasnCt what I needed. My sister understood this, and it took her talking to me to open up my eyes and make me realize and

28

understand what I was doing.

The school and its entire staff werenCt able to help me.

As Mr. Caldwell put it, there are few students who learn how to manipulate the school system, but once they figure it out, it is hard to stop them from doing whatever they want.

I learned a lot about that school my first year there, and after my first trip to the deanCs office I realized how broken the system was, and kept exploiting it over and over again.

In high school I was never one to do anything without thinking ahead. I learned very quickly what actions led to what punishments. For weeks on end I would not bring a single book or folder or paper with me to school.

I would go to class and sleep or get thrown out. My grades dropped significantly and at a fast pace. When I checked online at my progress reports, I saw a line of straight FCs and knew I had a limited time to pull them

Chaparral Student Magazine/College of DuPage

â&#x20AC;&#x153;

Detention soon became study hall; suspension and ditching class became vacation.

â&#x20AC;?

With the way I viewed it, none of the punishments was negative.

up to passing grades. It was rough, but never impossible to do.

Whenever there was a detention, each student was required to do school work or get thrown out of detention and have to reschedule. I would sit for two to four straight hours and do makeup work.

If I had a paper due in class, I would make it a point to get sent to the deanCs to avoid turning it in. Sometimes I would act up in class just to miss it because I knew it granted me extra time to complete an assignment.

I ended up passing every class with the exception of PE, because that class was based on participation and had no assignments to turn in.

Detention soon became study hall; suspension and ditching class became vacation. With the way I viewed it, none of the punishments was negative. They only hurt my parents and I didnCt care because I took them as a positive.

It was because I realized this system flaw that I was able to pass my classes and graduate an entire year early.

I wasnCt a stupid student or an ignorant scholar. I looked at textbooks at home; I understood assignments even though I never listened in class.

I was just lazy. I didnCt want to do anything except play video games and hang out with friends. This caused me to slack off, but when the time came for serious business I always did my best to succeed, even if succeeding meant passing with a AC.B From my perspective, I was putting in little work, gaining respect from my peers and absorbing the satisfaction that came with misbehaving and exploiting the flaws of my schoolCs broken system.

I had a constant urge to bait my peers and professors.

My health teacher, Mrs. Hoel always tried to talk with or discipline me.

I controlled the conversation by making outlandish remarks, which helped in the long run. It was something

Summer 2011

Now a college student, Nick looks back at his high school life, realizing how his actions impacted others.

advantageous to do in high school. When on the frontlines of a talk with my teachers if I could emotionally upset or distract them, it was a victory, even if I got punished.

When I yelled or argued with them it seemed to impact them on a much deeper level than it did me. I knew the consequences of my actions, yet I still acted out.

I drew them in by disrupting class and acting up. It always worked; they always took the bait and humored my insubordination. It was thrilling for me to do so and always gave me some sort of satisfaction.

Although my counselor thought of a way to stop my rampage through the school, I cannot credit her for helping me find my way. My sisters, Stephanie and Natalie, both played a huge part in putting me in my place and helping me achieve what I needed to in order to succeed. My parents never gave up on me, which is something I did right away in high school. With their support, I turned around my life.

High school was a crazy time. Once I understood how the school system worked I was able to effectively manipulate it.

Looking back I understand how bad my behavior really was, and what it did to my parents and myself. It was fun at the time, but I always knew that the behavior exhibited in high school could never last and was unacceptable.

Once I learned that the attention and respect I sought from my peers was no longer necessary it became easy to disconnect from my bad behavior and begin to change for the better.

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The

SOUND of the

VIOLIN...

...resonates with a passion and identity

By Vikaas Shanker

I

knew the sound.

It was perfect that day.

It was the sound I had worked to achieve for a whole summer.

As the basses ended by plucking a tense D-minor arpeggio, I held the last A-note while the rest of the orchestra faded to silence.

I was playing my own creation. Individual emotions poured into a varied mix of scales and resolution. Although it was nowhere near the technical perfection of Bach, Vivaldi or Tchaikovsky, it was me. It was Shanker.

Like a refined voice, the open-A resonated through Neuqua Valley High SchoolKs auditorium in a 442 Hz brilliance of my 50-year-old Arcellaschi violin.

The sound whispered into the silence of my ear. Then I opened my eyes.

My solo at the summer orchestra concert in 2005 was one of many IKve played in front of large crowds or audiences.

I went straight into my ending solo, swinging higher with a D-minor jazz scale until I hit the high-A. Swaying along as my various jazzy interludes sprung from the stage to the audience, I let the music consume me, probably much more than it did the audience, or fellow orchestra members.

This solo was different. It wasnKt the symmetrically perfect BachKs IPartita No. 3,J VivaldiKs famous IFour SeasonsJ or TchaikovskyKs gritty IViolin Concerto in D

Vikaas, 16, performs a duet with his visiting cousin.

Summer 2011

Vikaas performs at his surprise sixteenth birthday.

Major.J Despite my classical music training since fourth grade, IKve been pulled away by the informal and fun nature of bluegrass fiddle and jazz music.

In sixth grade, I remember laughing when hearing about the extracurricular ensemble, Pioneer Fiddlers. All I thought of was a bunch of hillbillies dancing on bar stools, chuckling, while a fat, bearded man with a cowboy hat ripped an out-of-tune, sloppy mess of notes.

And of course I went to the first session.

After getting the music and realizing that bluegrass mostly was fast notes based on scales, but with fewer rules than classical music and more freedom, I was hooked.

IKve been scoffed and laughed at by fellow violinists for my love of the self-proclaimed imperfect brashness of bluegrass music.

Being an Indian-American, I fit the bill as the person least likely to get involved with it. I never really liked the twangy, boisterous sound of Indian karnatik music.

But thereKs something about learning your first fiddleoriented song and still enjoying to play it years later when itKs ridiculously easy.

ThereKs something about jamming out with friends by improvising instead of taking out the sheet music.

YouKre scolded for not playing staccato when reading Bach, but you can do pretty much anything when playing the bluegrass IDevilKs Dream.J I remember playing that song with my violin through

31

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Vikaas plays in his first high school concert.

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my legs, holding my bow backwards!

My favorite fiddle piece is called COrange Blossom Special.D ItEs an 80-year-old song that was popularized by famous fiddler Bill Monroe.

It starts with the basses mimicking a moving train with a plucked, popular tune B the kind youEd hear in a carnival.

Then the train horn sounds with a fiddle playing sliding, double-stringed notes.

The train gets faster and fasterâ&#x20AC;Śuntil the fiddle downscales a transition and reaches the theme B a syncopated, furiously fast string-crossing tune.

With Pioneer Fiddlers in sixth grade, I learned the easier version of this tune and struggled with it. My friend Andreas and I would practice together, trying to outdo each other: CYeah, well can you play this fast?!?D Scramble!

But when I heard eighth graders Katy Barth and Brandon Nelson play the advanced real version, I loved it.

I saw fire in their eyes as they dug into the strings without regard for the casualties of bow hairs.

I wanted to be that train conductor.

During practice, I focused on COrange Blossom SpecialD instead of the orchestral music. I set the metronome to a lower practice speed, and gradually sped up.

It didnEt matter that I wouldnEt be selected to play it until the end of the next school year, I was hooked.

When that time rolled around, I was creating my own renditions of Orange Blossom and other tunes like CDevilEs Dream,D COld Joe ClarkD and CCripple Creek,D for fun.

Pioneer Fiddlers was my gateway to a greater interest

32

in violin.

After my parents saw my unnatural liking for it, they hired a private teacher for me. I started preparing solos for classical music while fiddling on the side.

But whatever I played B a Vivaldi solo in front of a thousand people, or Charlie DanielEs CDevil Went Down to Georgia,D to impress some friends, the call and response of my violin, bow and fingers in harmony was a rib-tickler.

The crisp tension between the rosined horse hairs on the 20-year-old violin bow and the synthetic core Astring on my 1959 Arcellaschi violin puts me at peace.

I bought my violin when I was trading up from a 3/4th size to a full size. As long as a violin is made with good quality and good wood, the older it is, the better it usually plays.

After I started to outgrow my older, gargoyle-scrolled violin in high school, my parents and I went to Kenneth Stein Violin to trade it in for my full-size violin, my artistic companion for the rest of my life.

The violin selection process wasnEt a 30-minute affair; it literally takes hours to play on and find what violin fit me.

The violin I was trading in had an approximate $2,000 value, but played like $7,000. The sound was crisp like a standard rental violin, but it had a tenderness to it, especially when I played the lower D and G strings. It would really play out, too. It was a light-yellow color with a decorated, scroll on top that looked like a lion. It was made in 1908, but the name of the maker was scrupulously scratched out.

The truth was that most of the full-size violins I did try out didn t even match up to my 3/4. I played on about 20 different violins and liked only two; the $5,000 Arcellaschi, and another $7,000 violin that sounded as if a romantic, Beethovenesque monster created it.

I took both of them home to compare for a week. The Arcellaschi naturally melded with my fingers and arm. A full, bright sound came out from the violinEs soundbox that could take the heaviness of fiddle treatment and would wake with a sweet chirp when Mozart called.

Vikaas as a senior before his final quartet performance.

Chaparral Student Magazine/College of DuPage

Physically, the Arcellaschi is made from a dark, orange colored wood with deeply flamed sides and a single, flamed back. However, it plays loud with a bright, mellow sound. Although others were cooler looking violins, this one matched the delicate intensity I play with.

The maker of my violin is a dead mystery. I only know that Galileo Arcellaschi lived in Bergamo, Italy, during the first half of the 20th century. It was a time of political upheaval as Italy was reunified.

I know he survived both world wars and fascist Italy because he made my violin in 1959. I ve never met him, but I know him through his creation and extension of my creativity.

Arcellaschi probably crafted my violin to be played classically. I love fiddle music, but I still continue my classical music training. Playing the violin is not only a release for me, itKs a point of improvement. I hated schoolwork in high school, but I loved practicing. Technically, getting better at reading Shostakovich, Brahms and Schubert is almost as good as shedding bow hairs with bluegrass, Irish jigs and jazz.

I entered into local solo and ensemble contests and participated in state-level competitions and orchestras in high school. The violin was an integral part of me, and I gained my best friends through orchestra.

I started learning to play violin when I was nine. In fourth grade, everyone had the opportunity to try out for orchestra and band instruments.

But by the time I entered the orchestra room H an enclosed multi-purpose room stage H I already had an idea of what I would play. I was going to start on any of the stringed instruments except the cello.

Sometimes I wish I started on cello. The romance and movement of Yo-Yo Ma has taken me like no other violinist has. But what really took me away from it was my own ego.

Whatever my older sister would do, I would do the opposite. I didn t want to be in her shadow. I wanted to be unique. If she listened to the Billboard top 100 songs, I would listen to Disturbed and System of a Down. If she shopped for clothes at Express in the mall, IKd go to Sears or JCPenney to shop for jeans.

She played cello for two years and quit as she took up chorus in middle school. I wanted to play my own unique instrument. And as I entered middle school, I ended up quitting chorus instead of orchestra.

IHa! I m my own person,J I thought.

After I tried out the different stringed instruments, I didn t really know what to choose. But the orchestra instructor, Mr. Provost, told me my small fingers would be

“

more suited for the smallest instrument, the violin. He didn t tell me that if I were to continue, it also would be the hardest instrument to master.

I probably would have still picked it because it seemed like the opposite of the mellow sound of the cello.

I never practiced on my rental, half-size violin when I was in fourth and fifth grade. And I wasn t even very good compared to other classmates.

Students who chose to play a string instrument would get a pseudo-grade for orchestra, which was based on technique and practice.

Mr. Provost gave us a practice sheet to fill in every month and have it signed by our parents. My mom knew I didn t practice, but she still signed it while chiding me about it. Violin wasn t a very big part of my life at that point. If anything, it was more like an annoying foreign language I had to learn.

But when I started middle school, I somehow became better. I don t remember if it was the thirty minutes of practicing every two or three days, or that the music just started making sense.

I suddenly could see the intricacies of a D-major scale. My fingers hit the guiding tapes on my violinKs fingerboard without fail. I actually wanted to join extracurricular orchestras like the Pioneer Fiddlers and Select Strings, instead of feeling compelled by my urge to be different from my sister.

Instead of trying to figure out the next note on the page or focusing on my posture, I was concentrating on playing to the style of the composer with flawless execution.

It was at that point where I realized that my interest in the violin and music came not from my sister, parents, friends or orchestra, but from me.

After graduating high school and moving onto the University of Illinois in Urbana, I quickly lost interest. I wouldnKt pick up the violin for a couple of days. Then that became weeks and eventually months.

I donKt know why it happened, but I think the drastically different lifestyle didnKt push the violin into my priorities. The violin, case and all, just stood in my dorm closet, and then under my bed when I moved into an apartment.

I checked on it every other day, just to make sure it was still there H as if I were hoping I would want to play it again.

The furies of engineering studies swamped my schedule. At one point, I tried to gather some other violinists I knew on campus to form a little fiddle core, but that

”

The Arcellaschi naturally melded with my fingers and arm.

Summer 2011

33

see ‘violin’ page 36

‘potter’ from page 11

he looked to be in his mid-30s, I wondered what he was doing here but didn?t want to ask.

When it began to drizzle again, a young couple in front of us put up their umbrella right in the obnoxious man?s eyeline. He sprang into action, shouting and swearing until, with no warning, he tore the umbrella out of the boy?s hand and threw it down.

I exchanged uneasy glances with the girl next to me and tried to shift away from the man. =Jerk!>, =idiot!> and several other choice words directed at him by the crowd seemed to get through, and he subsided. And then the celebrities finally began to arrive.

On and on they came, spilling over the carpet and down to the theater. At first, we saw just guests and relatives of the crew, all dressed-up and whispering excitedly as they made their way down the celebrity walk.

Next came the soap and reality show stars I couldn?t name, and the newly-famous contestants from =X-Factor> and =Strictly Come Dancing,> two of Britain?s most talked-about programs.

Finally, the real celebrities arrived in individually and in couples, waving graciously to the energetic crowd.

My arms cramped from holding out the tattered post-

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card and pen. My ears were ringing with the screams around me, not the least of these was that same loud, obnoxious man who persisted in lurching forward to greet each passing star. He also made an annoying, and rather humiliating habit of using my shoulder as leverage to take pictures. After several attempts to shrug him off, though even that was difficult now, I gave up, and bore my new role as a camera stand in seething silence. Despite these downsides, I got the autographs of Harry Potter author J.K. Rowling, and actress Bonnie Wright and was quite pleased with my efforts.

Some stars, including Helena Bonham Carter, refused to give autographs, while Ralph Fiennes and the girl who played Fleur Delacour were only able to greet one row of fans before disappearing into the lighted theater.

But still there was no Emma, Rupert, or Dan! Judging by the enthusiastic screaming coming from the other side of the park, it was obvious they were still making their rounds.

Through the trees, we would catch glimpses of them posing for cameras or taking an interview from different TV stations. We all waited with bated breath, shifting from one sore foot to another and giving our neighbor a slight push to gain a little breathing room.

Time passed. It was seven...eight...nine? I wasn?t keep-

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ing track anymore. All I wanted was to sit down somewhere and sleep for days. It was miserable, wanting to stretch your legs but being unable to budge an inch.

I am not claustrophobic, but the sensation of being pressed against so many people was just unsettling.

Every time the obnoxious man next to me shifted, his hand brushed against my waist and I would jump and glare at him suspiciously. But of course, I had no reason.

He really couldn?t help it. It made me wonder though...I mean, after all, being packed so tight in a crowd like this, it seemed an easy opportunity to cop a feel...or pickpocket...or...Shoot!

My backpack! Bending down awkwardly, my fingers strained for the handle. Grabbing it, I tried to hoist it through the tiny crack of space left in my standing room. But it was no use. Letting it fall to the ground again, I apologized as I maneuvered my way back up to the night air. =Well,> I thought, =if I can?t get to it, hopefully no-on else can!> There was a roar from the crowd nearest the arch, Here they come! Several men dressed as Death-eaters came first, and then…the obnoxious man surged forward, shoving at least five people in front of him. =Emma, Emma!> he screamed. Well,

that explains a lot, I thought. Making their way down the steps, the three stars disappeared into the theater, apologetic smiles on their faces as the cries of the crowd rose to a frenzied pitch. The doors closed. They had gone without signing a single line. Stunned, I stared at the few indistinguishable squiggles scrawled across my postcard. Well, that?s that, I guess. Feeling once more for my backpack, I caught the handle and with an effort, jerked it up, ignored the several glares cast in my direction and joined my new friends to find my way out. It took nearly 15 minutes to force our way through the still-excited crowd, most of whom seemed ready to wait until the film was over and the stars would be able to smile and sign.

I suppose I could?ve stayed, got those oh-so-important autographs for my sister and maybe even bumped my elusive best friend, but enough was enough. I had been standing for 10 hours in freezing rain and wind to watch posh celebs walk into a heated room to promote a film I couldn?t even see.

I was numb, starved, sore and in desperate need for something much stronger than coffee…though I?d probably have settled for tea!

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‘violin’ from page 33

was just too much work.

By the third year, I didn.t touch my violin at all. In my free time, I hit the gym to play some pickup basketball games, or hang out with friends around campus.

My closest friends didn.t play any instrument, or stopped playing a long time back. I was getting more involved in trying to grow spiritually and religiously.

Whenever I.d visit home on weekends, and the topic of my violin, or my little brother.s double bass would come up, my mom always encouraged me to play. But I didn.t have that drive anymore. I didn.t have a passion to be that train conductor again.

I dropped engineering due to lack of interest, and started studying journalism at College of DuPage. At the same time, I started to gain more interest in the violin again.

Randomly, I would take it out and pluck a little tune I memorized, then put it back. But it wasn.t until I joined the College of DuPage Chamber Orchestra that I truly broke out of the musical funk. I forgot how much fun it was to rehearse with an orchestra.

During the first rehearsal, my violin was way out of tune. It took me a good five minutes to get all the strings right, and adjust the bridge. I played an easy oneoctave D major scale and felt cozy.

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But then I looked at the music and my eyes stretched open. Sight-reading the pieces was difficult at best. I missed notes that I would.ve laughed at in high school and had trouble counting measure rests and syncopated beats.

I had been the best at following the conductor and staying on beat in high school.

After it was done, I felt humbled. I was one of the best violinists in my high school, but now I was middle-ofthe-pack and missing routine notes. Younger violinists were playing better. I didn.t feel bad though.

Maybe it.s because I found a career path that I.m good at and that I like. Before college, I was happy when playing violin. But maybe I play violin when I.m happy. My time at University of Illinois wasn.t the greatest.

Two concerts later, I still don.t feel as polished as my high school self. But I feel more mature. I went through an off-phase in my musical development that even tempted me to sell my violin.

I don.t get annoyed anymore when musicians around me aren.t hitting the right notes or keeping tempo. I don.t expect the perfection of my jazz solo years ago. I just enjoy the music I create.

I.ve grasped a greater understanding of what my violin means to me, and it.s more than hitting the right note.

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Chaparral Student Magazine/College of DuPage

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