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by Shiny S. Patel Opinion and Editorial Editor At clubs carnival, most organizations try to promote themselves while also recruiting interested freshmen. However, this was not the case for the WCSU Men’s More »
Kenneth R. Bardelli Jr. Contributing Writer The Feldman Arena of the O’neil Center played host to nearly 60 employers on April 9th, as the 2014 Western Connecticut State University Career Fair took More »
Kenneth R. Bardelli Jr. Contributing Writer It was a heartwarming sight at the Feldman Arena, Friday, April 11th, as the Western Connecticut State University Relay for Life took the floor to raise More »
By Keith Goldstein DANBURY, Conn – The new Visual and Performing Arts building on Westside is all the hype at WestConn. The project budget to build the new arts center is over More »
Alexis Koukos Staff Writer On March 13, history professors Dr. Jennifer Duffy and Dr. Leslie Lindenauer took students and faculty on a journey through the process of writing a scholarly piece of work, and explained the More »
Q: How do I figure out which girls are single at WCSU without being too direct or stalker-ish?
A: This question is already too direct and stalker-ish. Let me tell you something you already know: the world ain’t all sunshine and rainbows. But Rocky 6 aside, this isn’t a problem. You could have asked your parents on this one. Why take the time out of your day to write and send in a letter for this question? Do you know who I am? I’m The Man of 1,000 Thoughts. I’m like Stephen Hawking without the wheelchair. A more practical version, if you will. Sure, he likes to talk about theoretical holes in outer-space, while I deal with issues actually going on in real life. You know, the stuff that people care about. That being said, I should be discussing troubles that plague mankind. The ones that really matter. Troubles like racism, sexism, this country slowly being turned into a military state, why there isn’t a Mighty Morphin’ Power Rangers Movie equivalent for todays youth, guys wearing salmon-colored shorts, why it has taken Weezer 18 years to maybe create a suitable, cohesive follow up to Pinkerton, capital punishment, interpersonal disconnect in today’s society, the struggle of duality within all of us, living versus existing, doing what you’re told versus doing what you feel, morality, mortality. Fatalities! But sure, I’ll answer your question.
It’s simple, if you want to find out who’s single, or who you have a chance with, ask whoever it is on a date. If she’s interested, she’ll say yes. If she’s not interested, she’ll say yes, ignore your texts, and then stand you up. Don’t you know being confident and assertive for yourself isn’t cool? It might suggest some sort of self respect, and who wants that? Trust me, people react poorly to it. That’s why even if she doesn’t want to, she may yes to you and not mean it. It really puts the whole “free will” thing in a different perspective. Why is everyone making the same choices? It doesn’t seem like much of a choice at all. Again, these are the types of questions we should be talking about, not your dating troubles. That’s for your parents.
That’s it. Ask. Dating is a direct game. Just be aware, in 2014, with a society focused on hos not being loyal and which club to hit next to rub their bodies on strangers, monogamy isn’t on the forefront of the love game, and the thought of it is horrifying and intimidating to a lot of your peers.
by Shiny S. Patel
Opinion and Editorial Editor
On September 11, I woke up in an apartment full of people that love me, knowing that I was lucky to be alive. I also woke up knowing that I have been a victim of cruel racial “jokes,” for almost every 9/11 after 2001; and alas, this 9/11 was not any different. Rather than using this piece to discuss my patriotism, I would rather spend it hypothesizing the ignorance that festers in the minds of my many fellow citizens.
I was called a terrorist on September 11, 2014 by a few Caucasian men that I could not pick out in a crowd. First off, my career goal in life is to be working in the United Nations as a diplomat to solve the unjust subjugation of different groups of people in the world through the understanding of culture and by peaceful means. A terrorist is defined in the Merriam-Webster dictionary as “the use of violent acts to frighten people in an area as a way of trying to achieve a political goal;” so, no, I am not a terrorist. What really angers me to a degree of pure angst and disbelief is the fact that I even feel forced to explain myself; making me a victim of full-on racial profiling and extreme negative stereotyping.
Racial profiling is sadly inevitable, seeing as though there is a strong correlation in the minds of the masses in America, between a potentially Middle-Eastern Muslim and a terrorist. That being said, my Indian heritage is blatantly clear because of my dark hair, brown skin, and my relatively conservative style of dress. More often than not people assume I am either foreign to America, are shocked when I identify as an American, and worst of all label me with an identity I do not identify with. I know that it’s only human nature for one person to judge another, but it is unacceptable to use a quick glance to jump to the extreme conclusion of whether or not someone is a terrorist.
Honestly, I am more disgusted by the fact that this is a topic I feel the need to address. This is not just an issue that I see in my daily interactions with the regular public, but a problem I find even in places of government regulation: “random” searches at the airport have never been random.
Right now, feminism and African American controversies regarding police brutality have been hot topics in the media, but those issues and even this one are a part of a much greater problem. I am ready for us as a country to give all people the equality they are promised by the Constitution.
From the second that I took my first breath to the day I take my last, I have been and will be an American. My heart beats to the sound of freedom that rings in the air and the rhythm of the “Star Spangled Banner.” I am the face of a misjudged skin color; I am the voice of a muted population, a population that consists of unheard stories. I am a citizen of a country that I call my self proud and lucky to be a part of. The nation was built on the values of freedom, of integrity, of a life independent from hatred and cruelty. Until that philosophy is carried out justly, I will not stand by quietly and I will not lose my resolve.
Although I am a patriot every hour of every day, on September 11, I wore red, white, and blue specifically in honor of the troops that fight for my rights, the government that protects my people, the innocents that died on my home turf. I stand for a country that does not discriminate, and I can only hope that country one day truly stands for what I do.
by Shiny S. Patel
Opinion and Editorial Editor
At clubs carnival, most organizations try to promote themselves while also recruiting interested freshmen. However, this was not the case for the WCSU Men’s Rugby team. They didn’t have to reel anyone in; their table was being flocked by swarms of athletic freshmen looking for a new sport to play. As those freshmen showed up to their first rugby practice, it was immediately clear that quite a few had some sort of familiarity with sports.
Contrary to popular belief, rugby is a much different sport than football; however there are many overlapping qualities. Some of these similarities include a certain level of physical fitness, the capability to withstand a tackle, and stellar ball-handling skills. While most who join have these skills to a degree, each one is taught and improved upon in practice. These practices are led by first-time WestConn Coach Tom Brewer. With 15 years of rugby under his belt (including years of a starting position playing for UConn and even experience on the US national team,) Brewer isn’t here to mess around.
His practices are structured along the lines of stretching, team drills, focused training for forwards and backs, and conditioning. Brewer has placed an emphasis on teaching the new while simultaneously refining the old. He has gotten help with training the backs from team Captain Jon Macavoy and starting fly-half Connor Welles. Captain Brian Antunes and team veteran TJ Morris have stepped up to assume leadership positions amongst the forwards.
As is common in all team sports, there are a few athletes with stand out stories. In the case of the WCSU Rugby Team, TJ Morris and Dylan Moore are in the spotlight. TJ Morris is a senior returning from a debilitating shoulder injury. Despite this setback, he has helped his fellow captains in training the forwards. Similarly, Dylan Moore suffered a drastic injury to his knee in the first game last year and was out for the rest of the season. He has a great deal of experience on the team and more often than not has scored or assisted in many tries. Rumor has it that both of these athletes have been working hard the whole summer and are back and ready to put WestConn on the rugby radar.
The upperclassmen on the team have filled the shoes as benevolent leaders to these new ruggers. With patience and support, these upperclassmen have worked meticulously to make sure that each of the freshmen understands the game. It has been speculated by many of the returning athletes on the team that everyone has stepped up, both physically and mentally, to make this season the best WestConn has seen.
Even the injured team veterans, such as sophomore Samuel Dauphinais, have been showing up to every practice showing their love for rugby from the sidelines. The team morale has been high and the passion that these upperclassmen have shown for the team has been rubbing off on all the novices. The rugby boys are clearly training with visions of future glory. This belief was best encapsulated when I asked Vice President Adam Williams what he was most looking forward to this fall season; with no hesitation he responded, “Winning.” Good luck to our fellow colonials this season; try hard!
by Shiny S. Patel
Opinion and Editorial Editor
After another night of pitiful decisions and a morning that palpitated beats of regret, I went on a walk to analyze the rationale behind the choices I’d just made. All I felt was repentance and shame. As days past, memories of an unfortunately memorable night started to fade away. I stopped getting texts reminding me of the fool I’d made of myself. People stopped trying to weave in my awful night into conversations. The reason for that is because there were a plethora of individuals who had worse nights and hilarious stories to replace mine. I began to realize how irrelevant one bad decision really is in the grand scheme of things. My biggest concern, regarding my bad choices, revolves around the potential that my regrettable stories have to spread to people that I work diligently to impress. However, the spotlight effect is something that few take into consideration but all would benefit from accepting.
The spotlight effect is the concept that you think people care more about you than they actually do. In actuality, not a single person gives a damn about your life more than you do. I define a “nobody” as anyone who isn’t considered a close friend or family. Your acquaintances are, let’s face it, nobodies. That isn’t to say you can’t wish well for them, but their issues don’t concern you, just how your issues don’t concern them. Think about it, in the hierarchy of your own social pyramid, who do you put on top?
That being said, the nobodies don’t care about what you’re doing or where you’re going or what you have in store for yourself. Your future is irrelevant to them and your past has no purpose for them. Your mistakes are just another daily dose of gossip for others. Gossip comes and goes, and your story is just part of a natural cycle and will inevitably be forgotten. The more energy that is invested in the concern of what others will say about you is energy that is not being used productively. It is human nature to judge, regardless of how conscious the effort is to not. When such an activity is clearly inevitable, I find it pointless to waste time worrying about whether or not I am being judged for my actions. By following my own morals and prioritizing the values I find most important to me, I know I am a good person at heart and if there are people out there who are incapable of seeing that, then their ignorance is no concern of mine.
I am only one in an exponential population, a speck of dust in an expanding universe, a single drop of water in an ocean in which I am invisible. I think, therefore I am, and at some point I am going to be relevant. When I am relevant, I’ll know it, or when I actually find myself in a real predicament, I’ll most certainly know that too. I’ll do myself the courtesy in worrying about it when the time comes. Until then, I intend on using my mistakes to better myself rather than using them to hinder my growth and I suggest that you do the same.
by Shiny S. Patel
Opinion and Editorial Editor
Purple is the love child of my two favorite colors: red and blue. This elegant mixture also represents the combination of the two most prevalent parties in American politics. A red state and a blue state have a majority of one or the other, but a state with an equal population of red and blue creates a purple state. Purple is the ambiguity and proportionality that can define even the most separate entities as one.
Red wine is not red. In fact, opaque plum with just a tint of ruby looks like a glass of red wine to me. Dark burgundy with a thin veil of red radiates through the glass to my eyes. When I turn the nozzle of that box up to refill my glass with Franzia, I see a darker and redder shade of purple pouring within; I see a river of deep amethyst. Purple stands for imprudence and an overwhelming feeling of incoherence that holds hands with impulsiveness. It makes me feel like ignoring all responsibilities forced upon me and acting as recklessly as possible. The audacity of carelessness is what I represent when I am personifying the color purple. It’s called “purple drank” for a reason, I suppose.
Purple is royalty and piety. It makes me feel regal and respected; it makes me feel like a sovereign, a ruler. With an invisible cape of purple that I confidently tie loosely around my neck, I am certain that even I can conquer the world. That velvety, majestic fabric that every person of true regality wears at some point in their life is purple. Purple is what unequivocally defines a man as a king. I mean, King Joffrey’s golden crown had a yellow gem in the center, rather than a purple one, and it turns out that he was a bastard child while he tyrannically ruled on the Iron Throne. Correlation? I think so.
Purple is class and elegance. Purple was the color of that paisley vest tucked under your snug tuxedo jacket when you took your girlfriend, my best friend, our best friend to prom. Her dress was purple, too. All the effervescent jewels, the jewels that crystallized the curve of her hip bone and hugged her body all the way down her back- every single jewel refracted purple.
I adore purple; even the worst sinner adores purple. Purple was the color of King Herod’s robes when he supposedly sent the three wise men to follow the Star of Wonder to lead them to baby Jesus so they would find and kill him. He wore that purple robe in pride and guilt. That power hungry, fearful sinner loved purple.
The unoxygenated blood that flows through all of our veins but more visibly through yours is purple. Do you see the pulsating, branching lines running from the top of your forehead to the bottom of your feet when you glance down at your own epidermis? If you look closely enough, your pale white skin makes the purple on your arms look exceptionally more visible, in the most refulgent way possible. Those lines are purple and they show that you are living and breathing.
Purple is life and death. When a baby is born, incapable of allowing a single breath of air into it’s miniature body, that baby is purple right until it cries and takes its first breath. A few months later, the baby does almost nothing but cry until it is so out of breath until it once again turns purple. On a more jovial note, it is possible to laugh so hard that one turns purple. Last Friday, you laughed so hard with a few of our friends that I watched all of your faces turn purple in that moment and it astonished me.
Purple forms a barrier between the earthly and the celestial. It reflects off of the culmination of the layers of our atmosphere; that same atmosphere which is the intermediate border of the sky and space. Trying to describe color to one with dichromatic colorblindness is like trying to describe sounds to the deaf. I can only hope your capable mind reaches beyond its visual boundaries to see what your eyes cannot. Perspective is key in even the most seemingly irrelevant matters, even in describing something as silly as the color purple.
P.S. This piece is published in purple, just in case you were wondering.
by Shiny S. Patel
There are two types of personalities within me. There is people person Shiny who is gifted in the art of small talk and exaggerated enthusiasm even if I truly could not care less about the conversation. Then, there’s dumb Shiny, dumb as in dumbfounded and incapable of speech Shiny. The second personality is released when I am in the presence of someone who deeply intrigues me, someone who I would love to have in my life. Fortunately, this handsome young man didn’t just bring out dumbfounded Shiny, he brought out a combination of both. He took a seat next to me after asking my permission, gave me another smile, and then he received a phone call.
“I understand, good luck with that. Let’s reschedule for another day. Bye!” My heart leaped at this opportunity to talk to him because he was clearly not busy at that moment. Cue my intervention in his life in 5, 4, 3, 2.
“Hi, sorry to bother you but I’m not from around here and I’ve been looking for a nearby coffeehouse. Do you possibly know any off the top of your head?”
And that was all it took. Handsome Young Man was so kind to me and gave me the name of one. He told me where it was and every landmark on the way in detail. I thanked him sincerely and gathered my things in preparation to head over. He offered to walk me there, saying it was relatively close to his apartment. Obviously, I could not refuse. He inquired as to how I had ended up in the city by myself and asked about my day, seeming to think it was significantly more humorous than I had. In the middle of a laugh, a reaction to my stealthy integration into a paid tour, Handsome Young Man introduced himself as Matt. It was simple and easy to remember. Matt.
We arrived at the coffeehouse, at which point we could have gone our separate ways but I had invested so much of my thoughts and hope in making friends with Matt that I invited him to join me. Over coffee, we exchanged details of our lives to each other in fragments separated by the awe of how talented the live jazz group performing was. He told me how he came to the coffeehouse every Thursday night. I also go to a coffeehouse every Thursday night; therefore, it was only natural for me to make a scene in the center of the venue. Matt was understanding and joined me in my overbearing rampage of screaming “WHOA WE HAVE SO MUCH IN COMMON, THIS IS SO COOL.”
At this point it was almost 7 in the evening and we had spent about three hours discussing topics ranging from the Ukrainian conflicts to why rugby was THE best sport in the world (a discussion piloted mainly by yours truly) to the most obscure would-you-rather questions. We shared several views on political issues and controversial topics, but for mutually exclusive reasons. We talked about sports and had both ran varsity cross country/ track all throughout high school. Naturally, this was cause for another “so much in common” outburst. He didn’t run for his college, NYU, but he said he still ran for pleasure all the time. I felt like I was talking to a male version of myself who was not only more worldly than me but made me question things from a different perspective. I couldn’t get enough of this kid.
I brought up how much I loved abstract art in regard to a Picasso piece hung on the wall and Matt immediately got up from his chair and said, “c’mon, let me show you something.” It was more than evident that I had nothing planned for the day so I couldn’t refuse, not that I had even the slightest intention on doing so. We walked down the street for several minutes and took a turn into what seemed, at first glance, to be an incredibly sketchy alley. Upon more careful examination, it turned out to be a narrow passage way between two buildings whose walls were coated in decomposable graffiti. I felt as though each graffiti piece told its own story. I finally understood the Red Hot Chili Peppers and their talk of “street communication.” The sun was just barely making its way down but its beams shone into the alley, striking the caricatures and writing in a way that made them come alive. The rays happened to strike Matt as well, in a manner that was far more stunning.
He had short brown hair and sideburns that reminded me of Ringo Starr, but in his good years. The more I stared, the more his green eyes transformed into effervescent emeralds right before me. He had lips so pink that looked better than any lipstick shade and these perfectly lined, snow white teeth with the exception of one crooked tooth on the top row. He was well dressed, like he was a walking model for J-Crew or some other high end clothing company. Have you ever seen that picture of Zac Efron and Dave Franco crossing the street in suede loafers, khaki pants, and blue collared shirts with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows? Well, Matt dressed as though he belonged right next to them.
Right across the street from the alley, there was an interesting sculpture accompanied by a water fountain, next to which we sat down after buying hot dogs from a street stand. It was 9 at night and I was getting anxious because I knew I should be going soon. I wasn’t planning on staying until the last train but I hardly wanted to go back home either.
Matt yawned and I knew it was time for us to say our goodbyes. It was too late and we both had our own realities to get back to. I said to Matt, “well, Matt, this was such a great day but I really should get going. Thank you for everything, I’ll write about it.”
“Yeah, it is getting late. This was such a spontaneous day, I’m glad you had fun; I did too! Stay safe and take care. Hope to run into you some day, pun intended.” I laughed and we gave each other an awkwardly long hug, considering that we were kind of strangers, and stood there for a moment before continuing in opposite directions.
I took the subway to Times Square and sat there people watching for 45 minutes as I reflected on how wonderfully my day had gone. I looked at the bright lights, the pools of happy faces, and the buildings that towered over me and realized that the Concrete Jungle really was what dreams were made of. With that thought, I went back to Grand Central. Outside of the station, there was a young man performing a cover of “Float On” on his guitar proudly to the public that hurried past him. I gave him the last of my $7 and caught the next train back home. Sometimes, I can still hear his voice singing that sweet song of serendipity.
We had never exchanged phone numbers, I don’t know his last name, and the one good friend I have at NYU has never heard of him. I doubt I’ll ever see Matt again, but I take comfort in knowing that I am in fact a better person after the mere couple of hours I spent with him. Matt lived a life of perseverance and positivity that made him the confident young man he was. He was fascinating and it opened my eyes into seeing that every stranger has a story to tell and a personality that could possibly enhance your own. Matt has given me the courage and reason to be friendly to all those I encounter, in hopes that one of them could turn out to be what he was. Wherever you are, Matt, know that I am still terrified of birds, I haven’t stopped thrift shopping, and I have been to New York City alone four more times since the day we met. Thank you for being the companion I was looking for.
by Shiny S. Patel
Opinion and Editorial Editor
I like to star gaze at the golf course right next to my parents’ house on any warm summer night. I try to convince myself that I’ll only spend a maximum of two hours stargazing but I know that’s a lie. That’s because I spend all night connecting the stars in the sky to spell out our future together. And as the hours go on, the stars shift and tell a new chapter in the story that is our life. I am an avid stargazer but it is so hard for me to point out all the constellations in the sky because I only see us. Orion the Hunter could never kill our love. If it wasn’t for the sunrise erasing the elaborate book I began to write in that moonlit night, I think I would lay out on that golf course forever.
by Shiny S. Patel
Opinion and Editorial Editor
I woke up at 7:00 AM due to the sun rays that tickled my eyelids and demanded I wake up. The excuse of “much-needed recuperation” from the so-called stressful school and work week was not reason enough to spend the entirety of yet another Saturday in bed simply to avoid interaction with the world. Reluctantly, I crawled out of my bed and pulled on my black leggings with a plain-white tee and a denim oversized shirt with beaded fringe on the pockets and lining of the collar. With that, I undid my braid from the night before and put on my signature golden headband to settle my waves down. I was going for a “didn’t-even-try-and-look-presentable-when-I-woke-up-this-morning-but-I-still-look-cooler-than-you-but-I-actually-took-90-minutes-to-get-ready” look. Always gotta dress to impress. After perfectly applying my makeup, I put on my tan boots, grabbed my satchel with a solid $44 inside and ended up at the train station.
I bought a round trip ticket and found myself sitting on the train en route to Grand Central station. I sat watching crowds of people from every part of the personality spectrum flood in with every stop of the train. Those people were rich businessmen on their way to work, couples looking forward to a cute city-date, and friends who clearly planned this trip for some time in advance. Meanwhile, I sat on the train alone, taking up enough room to show my disinterest in the company of others. I’m not too sure why I did that, though, because secretly, I was hoping to make a new friend by the end of my day.
I was going to the city to aimlessly wander in hopes of convincing myself that I am a spontaneous human being who does not need an itinerary in order to have a fulfilling time. As I told that to myself, I couldn’t help but remember my to-do lists, or should I say, my daily itineraries, on my table that I forgot to check before leaving for my day trip. I sat on that train with my earphones in as the Red Hot Chili Peppers told me to meet them for some street communication. What better place to communicate than the streets of New York City?
By the time I got off the train, it was noon and I had the whole day ahead of me seeing as the last train back to town was at roughly 2 AM. The first thing I did was go to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. The last time I’d been there, my international French best friend from across the hall had given me a guided tour of the entire French gallery, telling me the history behind every French artist and how the scenery in the paintings had impacted his own life. This time, since he wasn’t by my side, I had to find someone else to give me a tour of another section I knew nothing about, because heaven forbid I try and learn something on my own.
A few minutes of overwhelming solitude in the epidermis of the art gallery of the Italian Renaissance, I saw that moving on in the gallery would be a waste of energy to me without any company assisting me in sorting out my sentiments on each piece of art. I wanted someone with slight credibility to decipher the art for me in order to give me some sort of direction for my opinions. As if Fate or the universe had read my mind, a tour guide walked past me with her group of overly enthusiastic Indian tourists curious to learn about the paintings that lined the halls. I nonchalantly shifted my path and became one with that group. Ready to whip out my perfected Indian accent, under the circumstance that the tour guide realized I didn’t belong in the group or if a tourist decided to call me out on my evident mooching of their paid tour, I followed that group confidently as to not draw any attention to myself. After hearing stories of Annibale Carracci and his influence during the Italian Renaissance, among many other artists of the era and culture, I decided learning about one culture was enough for the day. Plus, the Indians were perfumed in cheap cologne in failed attempts to mask their natural scent of curry and spices, and quite frankly, it gave me a headache like no other.
I left the museum at approximately 2 PM and sat on the steps outside it as I browsed my phone to find the quickest way to the main campus of New York University. I bought a $5 subway pass and went from Upper East Side to NYU. Here, I decided to simply look lost and disoriented yet approachable and calm in order to strike the attention of a passerby in hopes to make a new friend. After a half hour or so, I realized my efforts were not working. I walked towards a semi-isolated bench, or at least as isolated as one can get in NYC, as I emitted defeat. I decided to sit for few minutes before asking someone for a nearby coffeehouse that plays some live jazz. The second I sat down, however, the breeze wafted the smell of Old Spice in my general direction. I got a good vibe from that. I felt a gentle tapping on my shoulder and I could have sworn I got whiplash from how quickly I turned my neck in anticipation of my first human encounter of the day. With inspiration from Big Sean, I looked up, and before me stood a handsome young man.
With an earnest smile quivering on his lips and what seemed like genuine intentions, he asked me, “do you mind if I sit here?”
Not at all, handsome young man, not at all…
by Shiny S. Patel
Opinion and Editorial Editor
You sound like perfection to me. You are the beating silence of the night that simply transcends description. You are white noise that helps me fall asleep, the fan that buzzes and carries me into my REM cycles, that’s you. You are when I press my head up against your chest and I hear my blood coursing through my body. I cherish you because you remind me that I am living. You are the cracking of my back that has people cringing when they hear it because it is repulsive to them but it feels sensational to me, and that’s how you make me feel, sensational. You are the silver triangle in a smooth jazz performance that whispers to most but sings out loud to me. It’s a subtle kind of sexy. You are a lullaby, the “hush little baby don’t say a word,” that’s you too. You are my Frank Sinatra, even though you can’t sing; and I would fly with you anywhere, any day.
You are every modern art sculpture that everyone thinks they understand but I know my interpretation of you is the most accurate. You are the palette I use when I’m painting because I usually like the used palette way more than I like the finished product. You are each individual brushstroke in Van Gogh’s Starry Night because that painting would never be my favorite if it lacked just one of those strokes. You are not only the stars that are not visible to the naked eye, that you can only see if you use a telescope, but also the stars that are so far away that not even the telescopes could show them to me; I just have to believe they exist. You are the near and the far and everything in between; infinity is what you are. You are the darkness in my every blink and the light that calls me back from even the deepest of sleeps. You are a well fitted suit and the perfectly tied tie that just barely hits the belt buckle. Damn. You are the crisp line that defines the white foam from the dark Guinness that the bartender just poured. Something about that definite line is so beautiful, you, you are so beautiful.
You are the sensation of touching and feeling. On a warm and sunny day when my friends drive through town and I stick my body out of their sunroofs, you are the wind that pushes my hair back out of my face. You are what I feel when you scratch my back after a long day and you are the blush in your cheeks after I kiss your nose. God, I love kissing your nose. You are my body pillow named Parker that I cuddle with and it feels so right, I don’t even care if it’s weird. You are a ten minute massage; ten minutes is not enough and I can’t get enough of you.
If I was capable of coming up with the perfect recipe for any meal or drink, it still would not taste as good as you do. You are in the first sip of water I have after my 11 mile runs; you quench my every thirst. You are the cold can of beer on a hot day at the beach. You are the taste of authentic Italian pastries with a bottle of Chardonnay. You are that understandably overpriced chicken penne a la vodka I got from that five star restaurant in New York City. Peculiarly, you are also my grandmother’s goat curry, oh man I haven’t had that in years, since before she passed away. From what I remember, it tasted like heaven. You taste like heaven.
My nose is annoyingly sensitive. There are only a few smells it can handle without acting up and you are all of them. You are the salty ocean breeze. You are Old Spice, the smell of any attractive man. You are the aroma that fills the air when I am in the midst of cooking a fancy meal. The temptation that fills the spaces of my best friend’s car after he finished hot boxing is you, too. Nothing calls my name like that irresistible feeling of temptation.
You give me a reason to write. You are that gentle but exhilarating pause between the period and the next word that I write down after crippling hours of writers block. You are when I press my finger to each key of my laptop. You are why everyone in the library despises me because I am typing away in an undeniable craze while everyone else is trying to study in quiet. What the quiet means to them, is what you mean to me. You are why I finally invested in an electric pencil sharpener at my desk because you wear the tip of my pencil down so fast. You are the graphite of the Ticonderoga #2 pencil that has left the actual pencil but never stuck to the paper. You are the underrated and the necessary. I do not know who you are, what you are or even where you are, but I know you exist. You give purpose to my writing and I never want to stop writing about you.
Kenneth R. Bardelli Jr.
The Feldman Arena of the O’neil Center played host to nearly 60 employers on April 9th, as the 2014 Western Connecticut State University Career Fair took over the gym floor. 62 different booths housed various companies ranging from the Federal Bureau of Investigation to Boehringer Ingelheim. This year marked the 19th time that Western has hosted this event and this year’s event helped connect more than 400 students and alumni to potential employers.
The Career Fair, put on by the Career Development Center here at Western is effective tool in career development for all students ranging from freshmen to alumni. Dr. Anthony Ciarleglio, Director of Cooperative Education here at Western Connecticut State University and one of the primary orchestrators of the Career Fair, weighed in: sharing that this event has been “…getting better every year.” Dr. Ciarleglio was pleased with this year’s event making mention of the attendance and how it was much higher than usual. When questioned about why so many students were attending this event, Ciarleglio made note that “…from the student’s point of view, it’s one of the rare times that employers are coming to them.” That is the benefit of a Career Fair after all and Western’s is on par with national average.
Although Dr. Ciarleglio didn’t have a source for the statistic, he did state that “nationally 50% of candidates receive interviews following the event. out of that 50% 65% get jobs or dinternships (offer of employment).” This is promising for Western’s students, seeing as the wide variety of agencies and corporations in attendance can cater to nearly every major. Federal Agencies like the FBI, Federal Bureau of Prisons, Drug Enforcement Agency, and the Connecticut State Police were in attendance looking for Justice and Law students to fill positions and internships available at the agencies. For many of the Liberal Arts students, private sector corporations like Cartus, Victorinox, Boehringer Ingelheim, Praxair, and Icon International were in attendance looking for everything from Technologies Majors to Creative and Professional studies.
` Overall, the three and a half hour event yielded exceptional potential for many of Western Connecticut State University’s graduating seniors as well as current students of all ages. However, this is not where the Career Development Center’s job ends. Although this is the largest event that the Center puts on each year, there are many other services and workshops available to current students as well as alumni in room 227 of the Midtown Student Center. The services include:
All of these services are provided for free by the professionals at the Career Development Center. Although you’ll have to wait until next April for the Career Fair to come around don’t be hasty about stopping in at the Career Development Center and getting a jump start on your future today.