Another Typical Tuesday

It's another typical Tuesday.

I rush out of the second-floor Coleman building classroom, where I've just spent an enjoyable hour. As always, I'm going to be late for work. My morning class, Written Communication, never gets done early (not that I'd want it to, since it's my favorite class), and it's some distance from the second floor of the Coleman Center to the ground-level Welcome Center on the next block, where I work. I weave through classmates and strangers in the hallway and reach the elevator short of breath. On the way down in the elevator, I fix my jacket and other accoutrements for going outside. It's still the cold season of the year. Too soon for my fumbling fingers, the bell dings and the doors open. I zip my coat and put on my gloves as I walk quickly toward the door of the wheelchair ramp. Both elevator and ramp are necessary, for I roll a large black suitcase, full of books, behind me.

It's another typical Tuesday.

With a sinking heart, I realize that the weather is fair and relatively warm. As I cross the Coleman/Kumm courtyard, I brace myself for the crowd of smokers who will surely be out in this weather. I draw closer to the crosswalk and see them standing like sentinels guarding the sidewalk against the weak of lung. Sadly, such a weak one am I; an athsmatic, whose disease is aggravated by cigarette smoke. Still, I steel my resolve, pull a fold of my scarf over my nose and mouth, and surge forward. As I frantically race through the crowds of laughing, chatting, smoking students, the bitter, tobacco-filled air wafts around me and seeps through my fuzzy makeshift gas mask. I hold my breath until the last smoker is behind me. I breathe too soon. In my wild career through the cloud of smoke, it built up in front of me from the force of my going. It clings to me now, floating into my breath and setting me to coughing. I clap my hand to my mouth. It makes a much more efficient gas mask than my scarf. I inhale deeply and hold my breath again. Again, I breathe too soon. The smoke is stuck to me even as I turn the corner, coughing, hardly daring to breathe again. When I finally do breathe again, the nicotine smell is gone. The smoke has dissipated into the air. Still coughing and trying to clear my throat, I open the Welcome Center doors, with a glance at the "Tobacco-Free Campus" signs posted in the windows. I greet my coworkers with a smile, roll my suitcase to my little cubicle, and sit down at my desk. I'm still coughing.

It's another typical Tuesday.

After an hour of work, I rush to another class. This class is mostly discussion, and as such, is dreaded by all its students. This time, we discuss for about an hour and are given the other hour to research. I'm off to the library, marching through the skyway from the Business Education Center to the Academic Resource Center. I and my group spend more than an hour on the computers, trying to make some sense out of a slew of newspaper articles and an ambiguous topic. The others leave for lunch. I stay, searching and writing and searching some more. Finally, I can't take it any more. My brain hurts and my stomach growls. I walk back down the skyway to the entryway stairwell of the BEC, where a faint, stale smell of tobacco lingers. I don't know where that smell comes from. I've never seen anyone smoking near those doors. I sit down at the small table at the top of the stairs, determined to rest my mind by simply experiencing the tangy, chewy sweetness of a creamy-peanut-butter, blackberry-rhubarb-jam sandwich. As I eat, I greet the occasional classmate or professor who passes through the entryway stairwell. Soon I join them, going back into the BEC and down the elevator to the basement.

It's another typical Tuesday.

With other early-arriving classmates, I stand at the door of the locked classroom until a kindly janitor takes pity on us and lets us into the room with chairs. I wearily sink into the cushioned swivel chair and take out my necessary papers. Students trickle in. A few minutes after the class is supposed to start, the professor enters. None of us minded the delay. We have a test this afternoon. First, we ask any questions we need to ask about the homework and such. As usual, I'm jumping into every discussion, no matter how tired I am, trying to be the teacher's assistant. Should I keep my mouth shut? Is it possible? Oh, well, now the test starts. The room is immediately silent, except for the scratching of pencils and the clicking of calculator buttons. The occasional whispered question interrupts the quiet, but everything is still muffled in test stress. A few finish early and leave. Then I finish early and leave. With relief, I pack my suitcase and drag it back to the elevator. I love the class, but after a long day of school and work, I'm glad to be on my way home.

It's another typical Tuesday.

I fight the buffeting wind on my way to the bus stop. I left just in time to catch the next bus. There it comes around the corner! I pull out my student ID card and hold it up for the driver to see. I push the pulling handle of my suitcase down and drag it onto the bus by its other handle. I look around for a seat. A score of long-day-of-work faces stare at me. I hitch myself and my suitcase toward the back and--oh, rapture!--I find a seat. I relax, letting my face go somber, like the faces of my near neighbors. Other passengers talk, listen to music on headphones, or read. Most, like me, simply stare blankly out the window, the better to see their stop when it comes. Finally, we reach my neighborhood. Someone else pulls the cord, and I pull myself (that is, my accoutrements) together. Soon I'm tumbling down the short steps and out onto the sidewalk, making sure that I'm a good enough distance from the bus before stopping and pulling out the pull handle on my suitcase. Once, I was almost run over because I stopped too soon. I trudge wearily, but gladly, homeward. I drag that ubiquitous suitcase up the steps into the front porch and unlock the front door. With an immense sigh, I call out, "I'm home!" Whoever's home comes to greet me, and I shed my accoutrements gladly. I relax until I remember what homework I have. It usually takes me until late at night to finish everything. Then I drag myself through the ritual of getting ready for bed, set my alarm an hour later for Wednesday, and pull the ancient cord to turn off the light. I daydream until I really dream.

It's been another typical Tuesday.

Definition of peace

There are two different kinds of peace: peace with others and peace within oneself. Peace with others might be defined as “The absence of war or other hostilities,” or “Freedom from quarrels and disagreement; harmonious relations,” as thefreedictionary.com says. Under this category falls peace between nations, between family members, and between humans and other beings. We talk of living at peace with God, at peace with nature, and at peace with situations, in this way. Peace between nations is a cause for which many people have striven, as evidenced by the many quotes I found about it. People have taken many sides on the issue of world peace. Some say it is impossible, others that it is imperative. For example, Bill Clinton said in 1997, “The real differences around the world today are not between Jews and Arabs; Protestants and Catholics; Muslims, Croats, and Serbs. The real differences are between those who embrace peace and those who would destroy it; between those who look to the future and those who cling to the past; between those who open their arms and those who are determined to clench their fists.” Herbert Hoover said that peace between countries had to be preceded by peace within oneself: “Peace is not made at the Council table or by treaties, but in the hearts of men.”

Peace within oneself might be defined as tranquility, repose, calmness, or a lack of stress. This kind of peace can also be possessed by a place: e. g. “the peace of a mountain resort,” an example from dictionary.reference.com. It is this kind of peace—stillness, quietness, and calmness—that people are arrested for disturbing, and that people want after a hard day’s work. It is this kind of peace that a guilty conscience does not allow. As George Eliot said, “I could not live in peace if I put the shadow of a wilful sin between myself and God.”

Summary of Ge Vang's Thursday presentation

College drinking in La Crosse is a problem. So says Ge Vang, Western Technical College’s AODA counselor. Mr. Vang came to our class yesterday morning and presented us with much information about college-age drinking in this city. He began with a YouTube video of a Milwaukee news story about the La Crosse river drownings. In that video, the news anchors interviewed several students who claimed that a serial killer was luring their peers down to the Mississippi and pushing them in. These students loudly proclaimed that they were drunk, but that being drunk wasn’t enough to get them down to the river and falling into it. According to the police and other authorities in La Crosse, though, the only link between the eight recent drownings was a high blood alcohol level. All eight victims had blood alcohol content at nearly three times the legal driving limit of .08. Ge Vang also presented a slideshow of statistics on college drinking in La Crosse and in Wisconsin as a whole. The slideshow pointed out that Wisconsin ranks number one in the country in the number of alcohol users, DUIs, and binge drinking. In La Crosse, it said, twenty-four people have drowned in the Mississippi in 30 years. Many more statistics referred to the numbers of young people who are killed or injured because of alcohol use. After the presentation, Ge Vang gave us time for questions and answers. He stressed the importance of knowing one’s limits when consuming alcohol, and putting safety and health first.

A Fake Letter

Have you ever felt the pangs of hunger and known that you could not satisfy them? Have you ever looked into the face of one whom you love and been forced to deny them a slice of bread because there was none in the house? If so, then you know the plight of hundreds of families in this county right now. Usually, when a poverty-stricken family runs out of food, they can find relief at the local food pantry. Now, though, there are so many hungry families that the food pantries themselves are running out of food. Our college is taking action. On Friday, March 27th, there will be volunteers in the cafeteria with boxes to collect non-perishable food items for all of our local food pantries. When you come into the cafeteria on that Friday, with your stomach growling, please don’t just complacently feed yourself. Bring cans and boxes of non-perishable food, and feed the hungry families of La Crosse County!

A Good Accountant

A good accountant must be ethical, accurate, and dedicated. These qualities are hard to maintain in the handling of other people’s money, where temptation to fraud and negligence is strong. However, the consequences of poor accounting decisions can be grave, for both the accountant and those he or she serves. For example, if an accountant acts unethically and falsifies accounting records, a failing business might be misrepresented as a successful business, and investors would continue to invest in it. They would then lose their investment when the business finally failed, and the persons responsible for the fraud could be faced with monstrous fines and long prison sentences. The accountant’s reputation would suffer, as well; he would find fewer clients who would trust him with their money. Inaccuracy in accounting also has negative consequences. If an accountant makes a mistake as simple as putting an extra zero on the end of a dollar amount, then the business’s accounts will not balance and their checking account might become overdrawn, which could result in bounced checks and high bank fees. Accounting also requires dedication and hard work. If the accountant is careless, and misplaces important papers or procrastinates on a task, then the business might endure late payment fees or be unable to collect payment from a customer. I have reaped the consequences of procrastination in my personal finances. When I neglect to record and plan my financial activity, I find discrepancies in my records, and have piles of papers to analyze and file. Even worse, I don’t know if I’ve misplaced or forgotten something important, or if someone has stolen from me while I wasn’t paying attention. To search out the documentation of financial transactions, to proofread and correct every single stroke of the pen, and to get everything done on schedule, requires much time and effort. A good accountant, though, will devote himself to the task in order to serve the best interests of his clients.