Hello from Normandale Community College.
HOWDY
I'm writing this in the computer lab of Normandale Community College. It's so nice to use a computer hooked up to an actual network. It's so fast, unlike the computer at my job which I have to restart 50 times a day because if I accidentally open two applications at once, it freezes.
I got sucked into a pretty good debate on homosexuality on Crall’s blog. Check it out if you're so inclined. By "inclined" I don't mean inclined, wink wink. I mean inclined to have your synapses awakened.
COLUMN
It's probably cheating to fill half my blogs with my columns, but that's the way it goes. The following is my debut column for the school newspaper: Non-Traditional Values. My former column, Neocon Carne, bit the dust when my political apathy set in. The faculty adviser to the newspaper suggested that I create a column offering the perspective of a non-traditional student, and I think that was a great idea. Enjoy, or not. Your choice.
As I’ve written before, I’m a non-traditional student; i.e. middle-aged, bald and directionless. As an angry white male I’m conditioned to rail against political correctness but in this case I accept the toned-down moniker gratefully.
What may not be widely known—or cared about, I’ll concede—is that I’m already a college graduate. What’s more, I was non-traditional the first time around, too.
Over a decade ago at age 27 I forsook Nebraska for the “big city,” lured by the sales pitch of a recruiter from the illustrious Brown College. Her business card said “Admissions Representative” but I may as well have been kicking the tires of a slightly-used Yugo. Promises of a comprehensive education and fulfilling career—coupled with her very short skirt and low-cut blouse—were something a man entering the early stages of male pattern baldness and a raging midlife crisis couldn’t possibly resist.
Brown College is a Brady Bunch school, meaning they air their television commercials during reruns of 1970’s sitcoms in the middle of the day. For some reason these schools believe they’ll be the catalyst for shut-ins—living in their parents’ basements, splitting time between video games, television and online porn—miraculously discovering the necessary inspiration to peel themselves off the sofa sleeper and obtain a veterinary technician degree.
A good rule of thumb is to be leery of a college where, if a graduate from each discipline were deposited on a desert island, it would make a good reality television show. In the case of my graduating class a disc jockey, fashion photographer, French chef and refrigerator repairman would have vied for the prize. Who will be voted off? Who will earn immunity? The true winners would be commuters since there would be four less unemployable people holding “Brown graduate: Please help” signs at the side of the road.
When I attended Brown College it was located on Lake Street in Minneapolis, not an area prominently featured in Chamber of Commerce literature. A body was found in the parking lot once. On one occasion, a man breached security and sold laptop computers from a cardboard box (I declined the offer, unsettled by the thought of a Best Buy truck driver bound and gagged, his cargo stolen). It was not uncommon to hear gunfire outside the school.
The nine-month program cost $6,000 and the graduation commencement was fittingly held on April 1, 1994. I didn’t attend the ceremony, not wishing to draw attention to the fact that I’d been lying to my first wife by telling her I was a U of M student. It took 10 years of pleading to convince Brown College to send me my certificate. If I was going to be paying student loans for the next decade, I wanted something with calligraphy on it, by God.
My Brown College radio broadcasting education didn’t get me far in the Twin Cities. I worked overnights for an oldies station—playing Frank Sinatra, Ella Fitzgerald and Satchmo—but grew disillusioned when 3 a.m. phone calls revealed that most if not all my listeners were insomniac seniors whose kids never called them. The calls diminished over time and to my horror I realized it was nothing personal, they were simply dying. Thus I abandoned my short-lived stint in radio for an administrative career.
Just over a year ago I realized I had untapped potential and decided that returning to college—a real college—would be a logical step towards finding my place in life. I chose Normandale because the admissions representative didn’t try to sell me a used car nor did she rely on a push-up bra to seal the deal.
Recently I nearly transferred to a different community college for the sake of convenience. I went so far as to stand in line for 10 minutes at their SOAR event before running out the door; that’s all it took to convince me that Normandale is where I belong. It’s clean. It’s welcoming. The instructors are outstanding. There’s no gunfire except from the shoot ‘em up games in the Student Center.
When I arrived at Normandale the first day of this semester I paused a moment and mentally kissed the ground. I walked the familiar corridors and saw a face or two I recognized. I perused the bulletin boards advertising countless organizations available for students. I observed conspicuously nervous freshmen, the low-rise jeans of girls half my age
and the balding pates of fellow non-traditional students. And I knew I was home.
I realized at that moment that I fully intend to participate in my commencement ceremony, whenever that may be. I will covet that piece of paper not just for the calligraphy but for the fact that it will represent an accomplishment and an institution that I can truly be proud of.
I'm writing this in the computer lab of Normandale Community College. It's so nice to use a computer hooked up to an actual network. It's so fast, unlike the computer at my job which I have to restart 50 times a day because if I accidentally open two applications at once, it freezes.
I got sucked into a pretty good debate on homosexuality on Crall’s blog. Check it out if you're so inclined. By "inclined" I don't mean inclined, wink wink. I mean inclined to have your synapses awakened.
COLUMN
It's probably cheating to fill half my blogs with my columns, but that's the way it goes. The following is my debut column for the school newspaper: Non-Traditional Values. My former column, Neocon Carne, bit the dust when my political apathy set in. The faculty adviser to the newspaper suggested that I create a column offering the perspective of a non-traditional student, and I think that was a great idea. Enjoy, or not. Your choice.
As I’ve written before, I’m a non-traditional student; i.e. middle-aged, bald and directionless. As an angry white male I’m conditioned to rail against political correctness but in this case I accept the toned-down moniker gratefully.
What may not be widely known—or cared about, I’ll concede—is that I’m already a college graduate. What’s more, I was non-traditional the first time around, too.
Over a decade ago at age 27 I forsook Nebraska for the “big city,” lured by the sales pitch of a recruiter from the illustrious Brown College. Her business card said “Admissions Representative” but I may as well have been kicking the tires of a slightly-used Yugo. Promises of a comprehensive education and fulfilling career—coupled with her very short skirt and low-cut blouse—were something a man entering the early stages of male pattern baldness and a raging midlife crisis couldn’t possibly resist.
Brown College is a Brady Bunch school, meaning they air their television commercials during reruns of 1970’s sitcoms in the middle of the day. For some reason these schools believe they’ll be the catalyst for shut-ins—living in their parents’ basements, splitting time between video games, television and online porn—miraculously discovering the necessary inspiration to peel themselves off the sofa sleeper and obtain a veterinary technician degree.
A good rule of thumb is to be leery of a college where, if a graduate from each discipline were deposited on a desert island, it would make a good reality television show. In the case of my graduating class a disc jockey, fashion photographer, French chef and refrigerator repairman would have vied for the prize. Who will be voted off? Who will earn immunity? The true winners would be commuters since there would be four less unemployable people holding “Brown graduate: Please help” signs at the side of the road.
When I attended Brown College it was located on Lake Street in Minneapolis, not an area prominently featured in Chamber of Commerce literature. A body was found in the parking lot once. On one occasion, a man breached security and sold laptop computers from a cardboard box (I declined the offer, unsettled by the thought of a Best Buy truck driver bound and gagged, his cargo stolen). It was not uncommon to hear gunfire outside the school.
The nine-month program cost $6,000 and the graduation commencement was fittingly held on April 1, 1994. I didn’t attend the ceremony, not wishing to draw attention to the fact that I’d been lying to my first wife by telling her I was a U of M student. It took 10 years of pleading to convince Brown College to send me my certificate. If I was going to be paying student loans for the next decade, I wanted something with calligraphy on it, by God.
My Brown College radio broadcasting education didn’t get me far in the Twin Cities. I worked overnights for an oldies station—playing Frank Sinatra, Ella Fitzgerald and Satchmo—but grew disillusioned when 3 a.m. phone calls revealed that most if not all my listeners were insomniac seniors whose kids never called them. The calls diminished over time and to my horror I realized it was nothing personal, they were simply dying. Thus I abandoned my short-lived stint in radio for an administrative career.Just over a year ago I realized I had untapped potential and decided that returning to college—a real college—would be a logical step towards finding my place in life. I chose Normandale because the admissions representative didn’t try to sell me a used car nor did she rely on a push-up bra to seal the deal.
Recently I nearly transferred to a different community college for the sake of convenience. I went so far as to stand in line for 10 minutes at their SOAR event before running out the door; that’s all it took to convince me that Normandale is where I belong. It’s clean. It’s welcoming. The instructors are outstanding. There’s no gunfire except from the shoot ‘em up games in the Student Center.
When I arrived at Normandale the first day of this semester I paused a moment and mentally kissed the ground. I walked the familiar corridors and saw a face or two I recognized. I perused the bulletin boards advertising countless organizations available for students. I observed conspicuously nervous freshmen, the low-rise jeans of girls half my age
and the balding pates of fellow non-traditional students. And I knew I was home.I realized at that moment that I fully intend to participate in my commencement ceremony, whenever that may be. I will covet that piece of paper not just for the calligraphy but for the fact that it will represent an accomplishment and an institution that I can truly be proud of.
posted by Admin Worm at 1:27 PM
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