The Other Side of Campus Life

I went out on campus to check on an event, but then got side tracked by the lowering of the Texas State flag for the passing of a student.  It was one of those surreal moments with so many players in the scene and so many emotions.

His family was present and clearly devastated.  I can't begin to understand their loss.  From a visual estimate, the student was likely the baby of the family.

When the tower clock chimed 10, ROTC students in uniform paraded onto the mall and performed the lowering with military precision and stoicism.  But really, they're just students too.  How do they feel knowing that they were lowering the flag for the death of someone their own age?  How many times have they performed or will they perform this ceremony?

Another student in khakis and a t-shirt stood in the far corner of the mall and at the last clock chime, began playing taps on the trumpet.  My colleague in Student Emergency Services informed me that this student first played this song of mourning a year ago when his own friend passed and a flag was lowered.  He has volunteered to play at every flag lowering since, even if that involves missing class.  When a family of the deceased paid him for his troubles, he felt uncomfortable and immediately gave the money to charity.  When he plays, is he thinking of his friend?  Was that death as senseless as the one commemorated today?

The flags are on the Main Mall in front of the Tower in the busiest part of campus.  It is a beautiful day and students are out in full force.  Candidates for Student Government elections are campaigning 50 yards to the West.  Our campus is 50,000 students strong and it seems that most of them are rushing either to or from a class.  Set up continues for the event on the South Mall 50 yards in that direction.  I take a deep breath and head that way.  The solemnity of the moment is lost in hustle and bustle of daily activities, but my heart still aches a bit when I envision that scene and know that it is far too regular an occurrence.

Google: Susan

I met the student who will be serving as the peer mentor for the F.I.G. class that I am instructing next fall. We began with some general chitchat and then I asked her if she had any questions about me or my position at the university. "No," she told me. "I already googled you."

Pocket Susan Advice: It's easy to forget just how much information is on the Internet, because it has become an unremarkable part of our day-to-day lives. It doesn't hurt to google yourself every so often to see what's out there for public viewing. Once with your full in quotations like "Pocket E. Susan" and then with your name and any other keywords that might be pertinent such as Susan, Pocket, and university.

Awkward Turtle in the Workplace

My "office" is one of many units within a larger department so there are a lot of people in my department that are colleagues even though I don't really work closely with them. Since my start in August, a few people have been hired in to different position throughout the department. (Texas, thank goodness, has not had the severe hiring freezes that face a lot of colleges and universities across the country.) I try to be friendly and supportive to these new people to help them settle in more easily. And as is usually the case, no good deed goes unpunished.

"Allison" began work in October. Our jobs are on completely different ends of the spectrum but our offices are just down the hall so I made it a point to say hi and ask how she was settling in every time I passed by. She seemed to have a little bit of trouble fitting in, but I figured that she was just nervous.

A couple of weeks passed by and Allison asked if I would like to go out to lunch one day. It was a very formal invite so I thought perhaps it was business rather than social, but wasn't really sure.
On the appointed day and time we headed out to a local restaurant and we began to chat. I'll paraphrase it and condense it into a short dialogue. While you read this, try to stretch it out over an hour and then you'll have some understanding of my experience.

Allison: So where did you go to college?
Me: I went to Wittenberg for undergrad and South Carolina for grad school.
Allison: Why did you decide to go?
Me: To Wittenberg or to college in general?
Allison: To college.
Me: Well, I didn't really think much about it. My parents expected me to go. I went to a college prep high school. All my friends went to college. So there wasn't really any option.
Allison: How did that make you feel? Angry? Sad?
Me. Ummm... yeah, like I said, I didn't really give it much thought....

Our salads arrive and I shovel it in, hoping to avoid further interrogation. I ask a few light questions and Allison answers, but then our table falls to silence. Just when I feared that the silence would get awkward, Allison takes up the initiative.

Allison: You know a lot of women are waiting until they are older to get married and have children.
Me Thinking: I am neither married nor do I have children. How does this relate?
Allison: But what no one tells them is that if they have a baby, it is much more difficult to advance in their careers. I was reading some statistics [insert random source here]...
Me: Oh wow, that's interesting. Guess I'll have to keep that in mind when I get to that point. Haha...
Allison: Yes, it's important that someone tell young women about the situation before they reach a glass ceiling.
Me: umm... true

Further comments from Allison include an opinion on what type of man makes the best husband (an engineer), statistics on a woman's fertility rates after she turns 30, and the benefits of organic food.

Pocket Susan Advice: Bless her heart is a fantastic expression. My time in SC and TX with real southern women has taught me that "bless her heart" is a miracle expression. You can say anything about someone, I mean, absolutely awful, horrible things and as long as you follow it with "bless her heart" then you're okay. Example: Alison is awkward and makes me extremely uncomfortable, but she's just trying to fit in ... bless her heart.