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TimesSelect: Deselected

Kristin Francoz — Wed, 10 Oct 2007 23:42:44 -0500

Loathing Las Vegas

Kristin Francoz — Tue, 11 Oct 2005 23:00:00 -0500

My religion professor told us on the first day of class that, and I quote, "Las Vegas is the realization of the Kingdom of God on Earth."

He may indeed prove to me by the end of the semester that this statement is not as completely reckless and contradictory as it sounds, but I still have a few problems in buying it just yet. Purely practically speaking, Las Vegas did not exist to Jesus. He had no idea that the area we call Nevada even existed, much less the American continents. I mean, the world was still flat in the year 30.

What's more, had he known that such a land existed, I can hardly imagine him handpicking said land (Nevada) as his Kingdom. My friend and I were discussing the other day which state we would, if we could, throw out of the Union. Nevada was in the top three, behind only Oklahoma (yes, the Sooner State-I'd sooner drop that one, drop it like it's hot) and Arkansas. Nevada is dry, it's barren, and it is miserable. Plus, even if you can defend Vegas, you've still got to rationalize Reno.

Finally, let's face it: Las Vegas is the very embodiment of sin. Hardly the "City of Angels" found in Nevada's neighbor California, Vegas is a city fallen from grace, so to speak, 113 square miles of our very own "Sin City." Even if you will vouch for its climate, location, or sparkling lights, it is quite another thing to enthusiastically condone what Vegas stands for. It is everything that people hate about America-all in one city. I'm sure it is the venue for committing every one of the seven cardinal sins, and may even have given birth to an eighth and a ninth. Those sins are not only there, but encouraged and binged upon, in an unhealthy-not to mention expensive-fashion.

Just this summer, The Los Angeles Times' Op-Ed section pioneered a new section, called "Wiki-torials." Modeled after the famous online participatory encyclopedia, wikipedia.com, it was an editorial that could be edited and rewritten by any of its readers as deemed appropriate.

As a pioneer in the field of wiki-academics, I am going to redefine and edit this professor's statement. My new definition: Las Vegas is the realization of the Kingdom of Social Bulimia on Earth.

Allow me to expand.

The United States was founded on the Puritan ethic, a thought-process that came to be the basis of both political mentality and social morality. People work hard with the idea of future payoff. They avoid excesses and evils and everything bad, running backward while forming the sign of the cross in front of their faces as they go. They maintain this image for the vast majority of their lives, starving themselves of even a taste of anything that might be labeled as "sinful."

Then they go to Las Vegas for the weekend, and they binge. They binge in a big way. There exists easy gambling, easy marriages, drinking, stripping, and prostitutes-who, incidentally, are both legal and taxed by the state-and restaurants and hotels that charge too much money and exercise too little taste.

They binge, and then they purge. What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas. And then they return to the strict moral diet that is their life.

The starve-binge-purge cycle exists in many arenas of our lives. In food, it is the symptom of disordered eating, and so with luxuries and excesses, it is the symptom of disordered living. Maybe this is just a rant on hating Las Vegas, or maybe this is the realization of a symptom of something bigger. Think about it.

No Excuses for Ignorance

Kristin Francoz — Sun, 27 Feb 2005 23:00:00 -0600

Unfortunately, ignorance and apathy are two of the most lethal and prominent parasites afflicting our society. But here at Columbia, the home of an informed, progressive student body, I wouldn?t have expected to see them.

Recently, I wrote an article about students and their inability to stand up against intolerance. What I noted was that, difficult though it may be at times, it should be as natural to respond to an observed intolerance as it is to respond with a ?God bless you? to a sneeze. I also mentioned a recent act of intolerance I had witnessed, a racial slur etched into the Carman elevator. The article was my response to that intolerance.

My first assumption was that this marking had been made recently. I found out about it a couple of weeks before the article was printed, so I assumed the marking had been up for another week before that, maybe two. I was told upon further inquiry that it had been up for two months.

This elevator had been marked since December and nothing had been done? No one had said anything? There are 850 students who live in Carman, probably at least 600 of whom use the elevator several times a day, and this slur had held its place for over two months. The marking was high; it was lightly drawn, and it was somewhat hidden by the glare of the lights. But it had been up for two months.

I cannot believe that no one saw anything during this time. That just doesn?t hold up against the laws of probability. I must therefore conclude that people saw it and did nothing about it. And this conclusion is not one at which I like to arrive.

Our society is built on the idea that we regard not only cheaters but also enablers with contempt. There is a moral obligation to react to injustice. The enabler of the alcoholic who excuses and facilitates his actions is as guilty as the alcoholic himself in allowing the alcohol abuse to continue. When we observe an intolerance and do nothing about it, we are just as guilty. We are the enablers.

The graffiti in Carman was an act of intolerance. There was a racial slur etched into an elevator. That?s a hate crime. It?s hurtful, it?s inappropriate, and it?s illegal. I was informed about it, I checked it out, and I knew I had to do something about it. So I wrote an article about it for the paper. I thought I could at least use this to combat the affliction of ignorance. Anyone can send an article to this paper. That?s what that title ?Contributor? above my name means. I wasn?t assigned this topic, I don?t have a column, I just have something to say.

We?re at Columbia, and we are all capable of writing a 700-word article. If you think you can?t write, there are always other options to approach problems: start talking about it, or inform security or some authority about the matter?make it visible, make it known. Apathy is not something we can control, but if we get the information out there, ignorance can no longer be claimed.

The elevator with the slur was shut down the afternoon my article was published, and remained closed for the rest of the night, delaying many in their travels up and down the 13 floors of the building. NYPD officers were hanging out in the lobby, elevator mechanics were guarding the door to the marked elevator.

Suddenly, the word was all over campus. Did you hear about the elevators at Carman? Everyone wanted to know why police and detectives had made the trek up to 116th. Not because of an article written in the school paper by a first-year?

One person can make a difference.

Gesundheit

Kristin Francoz — Mon, 14 Feb 2005 23:00:00 -0600

The other day I read an article by an enraged alumnus, Robbie Majzner, criticizing the lack of student response to intolerant professors. He was upset that people didn’t criticize their professors often enough, challenge their authority, and letting them get away with intolerant actions and statements. Why don’t people step forward with responses to intolerance?

For one, it seems to be fruitless. There were many sentiments this year against intolerance: all of the opinions roused up by the David Project issue; the controversy surrounding the swastikas in the library—these are all issues of the past semester, events which have caused students to rise up against alleged intolerance and subsequently crush it. It is our duty, after all, as the morally superior Columbians that we claim to be. We say, “We are Columbians, and we are better than that.”

But are we?

I arrived back on campus, and within only a few days was approached by a fellow student who promised me a story. I was instructed to go into one of the Carman elevators and look at the words etched into the doors. On them, I found the words, “I H8 NIGGA”

Shocked, I didn’t even know what to think. People had risen against a professor who had allegedly made anti-Semitic statements and had allegedly discriminated based on ethnicity and religion. The swastikas that had been found on the bathroom stalls in Butler library caused those bathrooms to be closed until they were removed. Both had provoked huge responses. Yet here was a clear case, an indisputably hate-centered phrase cut permanently into the elevator doors of a freshman dormitory. And I had heard nothing about it. Now, several weeks into school, there has been nothing said about this inscription, and I still see it every time I hop into the elevator.

We make such big to-dos about these acts of intolerance that have been occurring on campus, but it all seem to be in vain—because the acts continue.

So why do people not step up and respond to intolerance? Well, for one, it seems to keep happening regardless of how much we rise against it. But also, anyone who steps up and says anything becomes vulnerable to the inevitable onslaught of criticism.

In this age of rapid response and criticism I feel like people are afraid to say anything—even if it’s the right thing to say. Sponge-Bob was recently in a video with several other animated figures, promoting tolerance of all ethnicities, and sexual orientations. He was assaulted for being “pro-homosexual,” and some Christian groups wanted his video to be withheld from sale. In an age when even a speech for tolerance is attacked, how are people supposed to be comfortable expounding controversial opinions?

Perhaps this explains the lack of response that alumnus Robbie Majzner spoke about: you put yourself out there—but for what? Are any of us actually going to make a difference?

Well, maybe not. But there are some things that you just do. Like in my anthropology class. My professor will be in the middle of his lecture, in the middle of a sentence even, but if someone sneezes, you can count on his immediate “God bless you.” It’s kind of refreshing, actually. It’s this reminder I get several times a class that you have to do what’s right, right when you’re thinking about it. You just have to. As natural as it is to say “God bless you” when a sneeze is observed, that’s how natural it needs to be to respond to an intolerance observed. It’s not going to stop that person from sneezing—for that, only some serious Ny-Quil or Sudafed can help—but it can bring attention to it, and sometimes that’s all we can do.

You sneezed?

A History of Rooting for the Underdogs

Kristin Francoz — Tue, 09 Nov 2004 23:00:00 -0600

A spectre haunted Columbia—the spectre of Bambinoism. All the powers entered into an alliance of academia to exorcise this spectre: RA’s and Alice!, midterms and papers, veteran seniors and naïve freshmen. But to no avail, because it was here to stay.

Yes, the World Series came like a tidal wave through this Morningside campus. But was it those last four games or the seven preceding them that really shook us?

It was a Tuesday night and Carman 13 was glued to the TV set, as was probably most of the campus, watching the Red Sox pull off yet another victory in their match-up against the Yankees. “How?” one asks. “How did they do it?” I am from San Francisco, a Giants fan, and I am not going to lie. I have no affiliation whatsoever with either the Red Sox or the Yankees, no East Coast pride requiring that I watch the contest between these two neighboring teams. Hell, it wasn’t even the Series yet.

This college is filled with people from all 50 states, U.S. territories, and over 150 different countries, some coming in with strong affiliations and others with none at all. Yet we joined together that night, aligning ourselves with one side or the other, or perhaps with neither, and enjoyed the tense game (a welcome short nine innings after the 14-inning game of the night before).

Let’s take a minute, shall we, and think about just why this underdog success story so captured our campus of stress-ridden college co-eds. It was more than a battle between cities, more than a rivalry between the Yankees and the Red Sox; it was history—history being made, and history finally playing itself out.

We’ll start with the Curse of the Bambino. In 1918, the Sox won the World Series—a moment of glory—with the Great Bambino himself, Babe Ruth, on their side. They traded him, however, to the Yankees, and later sportswriters claimed that he had cursed the Sox to a hundred years without a series. Until that Wednesday night, this curse had been lived out.

But, just as Reagan broke the curse of Tecumseh when he was reelected in a zero-year election, could the Sox in turn break the curse of the Bambino? That’s what we were all wondering: can they somehow defeat the same “powers that be” that let a crucial ground ball bounce past Red Sox first-baseman Bill Buckner in ’86 against the Mets and facilitated Aaron Boone’s out-of-nowhere home run last year in Game Seven of the American League Championship Series against the Sox?

So that’s part of it. But I think this goes beyond that, far beyond; I think this really dates back to the beginnings of our country. We are a nation of underdogs, historically, and it is because of this that a little bit of each of us wanted to see if the Sox could actually pull this one off.

We were comparing our scrappy army of the Revolutionary War to this team in its struggle to stand up against the monster power of the 26-time winners of the World Series, who have dominated baseball for the last century much like the imperial Great Britain dominated the seas. This was a battle between the Patriots and the Loyalists, the Rebels and the Tories. The Red Sox were David, the Yankees mighty Goliath.

And why did we, poor college students caught in the middle of midterms, follow this baseball match-up when there were far better ways to be spending those four hours (or six, in the case of two of the games)? It was procrastination, yes. But here, also, I believe it goes beyond that.

If David can beat the odds and win over Goliath, if the Americans can defeat the British superpower for independence, if the Red Sox can miraculously come back after trailing 0-3 to win the set and make it to the Series—if all this can happen—then school, or anything, for that matter, becomes a relative piece of cake. We are the underdogs in the world of academia, we undergrads, and especially we freshmen; it’s just nice to know that we can win sometimes.

Students of all ages and residence halls, unite!

Kristin Francoz is a Columbia College first-year.

Finding a Spot at Columbia

Kristin Francoz — Thu, 30 Sep 2004 23:00:00 -0500

The Class of 2008 has now been on campus for over a month, and we’re starting to pass some major milestones in our Columbia lives.

I went to Butler yesterday, and I’m not going to lie: I passed my first all-dayer. It’s like an all-nighter, except you give up your life instead of your sleep. (In the time I was there, someone came, left, took a train to Jersey for dinner, took the train back, came back to the library, and I was still there when he left for bed.) For two excellent reasons, this was a landmark moment.

Reason number one: the first time I visited Butler, I’ll admit I was a little intimidated. I walked in and was like, “Where’s the library? I don’t know where to sit.”

So I didn’t. Instead, I bought some coffee and headed back out the door. On my next venture, I took a friend with me. He showed me “his spot.” I pulled up a chair and settled next to him. A few days later, when I went on my own, I pulled my chair right up to the same spot, settled in, and did my work. I claimed the spot. I now officially have a “spot” in Butler library.

Is it weird that claiming my spot in Butler makes me feel more “Columbian” than knowing where Hamilton is (which I now do), or wearing the Columbia sweatshirt (which I now have), or singing the fight song (which I now almost know)? In fact, I am feeling less like a first-year all the time. I sport the Columbia gear, I do the Columbia work, I walk the Columbia walk. Okay, so I still get lost occasionally on my way home through Central Park (It’s harder than it sounds, okay?). I no longer wear the fine green New Student Orientation Program badge, but I have been known to pull out my old high school jacket or class ring.

My only qualm is this: is it necessary that we have to declare ourselves as “first-years” every time we use our meal points? Am I the only one who finds this outrageous? Picture this scenario: I’m running late to my first class of the day, too late for John Jay. I head over for a quick bagel and some coffee at Cafe (212) (which I still call “two-twelve,” and will continue calling “two-twelve” despite constant laughs). I’m going through the line, standing next to people I don’t know, and as I hand over my card and they are ringing it up, the transaction goes wrong. “First-year or Dining Dollars?” the cashier asks, for all to hear. “Oh, first-year,” I say, loud enough to make it over the counter. I feel like the entire room stops, turns around, and looks at me as these words come out of my mouth—this horrible vision of a slow-motion, deep-voiced “fffffiiirrrssttttt-yyyeeaarrrrrrrr.” Now, obviously I can’t sit down; frankly, I don’t even know if I’ll be able to put sugar in my coffee or toast the bagel. I am out of there as soon as I can get around the railing and push open the door outside.

But suddenly my day was redeemed: on my way out of Lerner, I was stopped by an upperclassman in a hooded sweatshirt. He introduced me to a program that, I feel safe to say, might be my favorite on campus—showing pre-frosh around campus. When all seems lost, and you feel like you will never escape this life of first-year-dom, then come the pre-frosh! Someone lower on the scale of social hierarchy than we are! For a visual, here are the first-years (hand at knees), and here are the pre-frosh (hand scraping the ground).

I gave up a few hours of my life the next day entertaining them, giving them a tour of the campus and “Morningside Heights”—which I think they might have known better than I do. (Have they memorized the Columbia Web site?) On a side note, how funny is it that pre-frosh are paired with first years, who have been here for all of four weeks, and know close to nothing and nobody at Columbia. I just found my spot at Butler. I don’t even feel qualified to call the West End “The ’Stend” yet. And here they are asking me about my major, my feelings on the “academic atmosphere” at the University, and the name and history of every building we pass. I could lie, but mostly I just laugh. Silly pre-frosh.

So I have two brief pieces of advice for you fellow members of the Class of 2008: first, have a pre-frosh stay with you—it gives a refreshing dose of confidence. And second, get yourself over to Butler and claim a “spot” for yourself.

Kristin Francoz is a Columbia College first-year.