I AM A BANANA!

KUTZTOWN, Feb. 13—“I am a banana!” The words of Eric Larson echoed in front of Kutztown University’s McFarland Studen Union building, as the voices of three zealous street-preachers rang out to a non-existent student body.

“Whoever should call on the name of the…”

“I wish I could get my PA system, play some Slayer,” says one student as he plays heavy metal music aloud on his phone.

The voices of the preachers carried poorly over the 20 mph winds.

“Your Catholic Church…”

A light drizzle fell on the preachers and the 10 students congregated to listen. The gray sky only made the day feel colder. With the wind-chill, it was only 33 degrees, almost as bitter and cold as the anti-Catholic rhetoric put forth by street preacher Robert Parker.

Parker, in his early forties, had taken a day off of work to preach at the Lehigh Valley Courthouse earlier in the day. He was clearly overweight, with salt and pepper hair that went down to the bottom of his neck. He wore a dark blue coat, and the rest of his outfit was as gray as his outlook on our eternal dispositions. He was engaged in a conversation with Senior Richard Swensky, standing at the top of a staircase 10 meters away.

“I am a banana!” Larsen called out. Larsen is a Marketing major advertising for the Circle K “Bring your own banana” sundae event. He paces back and forth in front of the Student Union, spreading his message just as loudly as the preachers.

“Excuse me, sir,” Ken Stockton, another of the trio, calls to the banana. “Have you found Jesus?”

“I didn’t know he was missing,” Larsen says with a mischievous grin.

Stockton stares at Larsen, trying to process what just happened. His face, at once perplexed, changes quickly to a restrained smile. “You’re going to hell,” he says dryly, as Larsen continues spreading his message.

Parker moves closer to Swensky, as Swensky edges away from the staircase. Parker, now within speaking range of Swensky’s group, grows quieter. The third member of the group, Greg Jacobs, has not yet said a word. He is holding a sign that says, “INSERT WORDS HERE.”

Jacobs, a 5’9” tall, 220 lb man, wearing a gray sweater, skull cap, sweatpants, and worn sneakers, steps forward and takes Parker’s place. His face is worn, old. He has the appearance of a man who led the lifestyle of a heavy drug and alcohol user. He has no compassion on his face, though he preaches the message of God’s love.

Jacobs’ claims he was once a homosexual, and that he turned away from his sin years ago. He is now married to a woman, and has two children and a dog. He works nights, and enjoys preaching by day. He was the man that suggested coming to Kutztown in the first place, simply because he would be bored once he went home.

“You cry out for more channels, faster internet, more stuff on your phone,” Jacobs yells. His voice is dripping with forced kindness. “What’s next? Its gonna do your dishes for you?”

One girl, standing by the north entrance of the Student Union takes the bait. She is part of a small minority today of students that actually pay attention to the preachers. However, she, like most others that have fained interest, does not actually listen to what is being said. She is small, and pale, with shoulder-length black hair. She makes ineffective arguments, taken from a word or two that Jacob’s says, while quietly whispering comments of indignation to those around her. She takes his arguments to illogical extremes, and expects the man to be silenced by her intellect. When he is not, she complains loudly, throws up her hands in frustration, silences herself, and remains standing there, watching, and silently muttering complaints to herself.

Meanwhile, Jacob’s had not listened to any more of her message than she had of his. To him, she was merely a platform from which to speak. He would frequently start a comment to her, and finish it to the crowd, as if she was nothing more than a prompter. She gave him a subject to speak about, an opponent to discredit. They needed each other, and each played their role splendidly. The student, and the teacher. Neither listening to the other.

REPENT AMERICA IN KUTZTOWN, PA

KUTZTOWN, Feb. 17—Repent America (RA), an evangelical open-air preaching group, is hoping to start a local chapter in the Lehigh Valley area, according to Steve Armbruster. Armbruster, a Kutztown Public Safety officer who agreed to be interviewed outside his official capacity with the university, said he is in the process of gathering a group of people in the Lehigh Valley and Pocono areas with the eventual goal of starting a RA chapter.

Armbruster has been affiliated with RA for four years. He has been to several college campuses with the group, and organized events, such as a demonstration outside the Lehigh Valley courthouse last Friday. According to Armbruster, he has “about 7 people and over the next year the eventual goal is to establish a chapter, but we’re not there yet”

Michael Marcavadge, founder of RA, denies plans to start any chapters, and says his website, www.repentamerica.com, will be updated if that changes. He claims that RA is a volunteer-based group with no membership and says “those who volunteer with the ministry are encouraged to spread the Word of God and the Gospel message where they are at, which are independent witnessing activities outside of Repent America.”

According to Marcavadge and Armbruster, the group demonstrating at Kutztown University on Friday was one such independent witnessing activity. Ken Stockton, Robert Parker, and Greg Jacobs demonstrated from 1 p.m. to 2:30 p.m. on Friday, attracting about 20 students. Most ignored them, but some such as senior Theater major Richard Swensky had extended and excited conversations with them.

Armbruster, who organized a demonstration at the Lehigh Valley courthouse earlier that morning, said that “Greg didn’t want to go home, so he asked if anyone wanted to go to Kutztown. He just really wanted to go to Kutztown, so the other guys said okay, and went along.” According to Armbruster, in order to have a RA affiliated event, there are certain rules the demonstrators would need to follow. As of press time, the list was unavailable.

Parker and Jacobs had taken the day off from work to demonstrate, and have both been doing demonstrations for several years. Stockton has been unemployed since early January, and preaches part-time. All three demonstrators claimed to be affiliated with RA.

Feminist Majority Leadership Alliance vs Carenet: A Difference in Opinions

“They are different,” said Christina. “Just… different.”

Cheryl agreed. The three of us were returning from a Planned Parenthood center in Reading, Pa. We were discussing the claims the Feminist Majority Leadership Alliance (FMLA) was making about what they called false pregnancy centers, as well as the claims the pro-life movement made against Planned Parenthood.

“Yeah. I think the FMLA are using polarizing language, like nearly all the rhetoric in the whole pro-life/pro-choice debate,” I added.

The three of us had gone to Care Net Pregnancy Resource Center in Kutztown, Pa, and Planned Parenthood posing as a pregnant couple or a pregnant single mother.

“They just offer different services,” said Cheryl, from the back of the white 1986 Toyota Tercel I was driving. “At one, they really talk to you, and the other is so…”

“So medical?” I finished as she trailed off.

In the beginning of 2009, the FMLA began a campaign to expose what they term “fake clinics.” According to Feministcampus.org, fake clinics will “pose as comprehensive women’s health clinics for crisis pregnancies, but offer no abortion services or referrals, and no birth control options.” They “are typically run by anti-choice organizations with staff and volunteers who are not usually licensed medical professionals.” According to the website, they also intimidate women out of abortion and provide misleading information.

“Fake clinics” using names such as “Crisis Pregnancy Centers” and “Pregnancy Resource Centers,” locate themselves near college campuses or near pregnancy centers that offer abortive services, such as Planned Parenthood. They target young people and low income communities, and outnumber what the FMLA terms “legitimate” women’s clinics 2 to 1.

The day before our trip to Planned Parenthood, Cheryl and I went to the Care Net center posed as Elizabeth Thomas and George, a couple which had been dating for one year and two months. Elizabeth and George had just discovered that they were 7 weeks pregnant only 5 days prior. The couple made an appointment the day before to meet with a representative to talk about their options. The Care Net representative informed Elizabeth that she would need to bring documented proof of pregnancy, or she would have to take a pregnancy test.

“So, what did you do?” I asked Cheryl. “Are we going to do this, or are we going to no show?”

“I left them a message telling them I left my papers at home,” she said, “and that I haven’t told my parents and can’t really ask them to get them for me. I kind of freaked out.”

The couple walked down the main street that runs through Kutztown. They only had to go one block from the university before they arrived. The center was the right side of a duplex house, two stories high, with space for an attic. There were concrete staircases on either side of the divided porch with a green sign on the door that said to use the side entrance.

The pair walked around the side and entered the small, quiet room with a loveseat couch on the right and a desk on the left. There was a small painting of a ship directly across from the door. A staircase was immediately to their left and there were doorways on the far left and right corners of the room, only 5 feet away. Above the couch were two posters encouraging abstinence, one including “Ten Reasons to Keep Your Pants On.” An older woman came out of the entrance on the far right and greeted them. She was short and wrinkled, wearing a peach colored sweater and khaki pants. Her hair was the color of Kentucky clay, and frizzy. She wore large glasses and ambled along with the aid of a crutch. When she was younger, she had sustained a neck injury, she said.

“Hi, I’m Elizabeth?” she said uncertainly. She had mentioned earlier she was extremely nervous. “I have an appointment?”

“Elizabeth…” the woman said sweetly, as she shuffled over to her list on the desk. “Elizabeth. Ah! 3 o’clock. Yes, she’ll (the counselor) will be ready shortly. Just have a seat on the couch and fill out these forms.”

They sank into the plush tan couch. It was the most comfortable amenity in this extremely uncomfortable situation. The forms the woman had handed Elizabeth were a reference sheet asking for her name, address and date of birth, while the other was a statement of understanding stating that most of the people in the building were volunteers, and this was not a medical facility. The old woman sat on the chair opposite them at the desk, occasionally glancing at them. One could not blame her. It was a tiny room, and they were the most interesting things in it.

Minutes later, another woman emerged from the same door the older woman had used. She was about 5’6” and chubby. She wore a black shirt with the flower outlined on it in dark, glossy purple, with khaki pants. She appeared to be in her mid-30s with neck-length blonde hair, and introduced herself as Marsha.

“I’m so sorry for causing you stress over the pregnancy papers and test,” she said apologetically to Elizabeth. “You don’t need to worry about it today. You must be going through so much. I didn’t mean to add to it.”

“That’s okay,” she replied.

Marsha led them through the door she had entered from, down a short, narrow hallway into a room with three chairs that was even smaller than the one they had just been in. As they entered, George noticed a small stand to his right that held pamphlets with the names of various sexually transmitted diseases, as well as some on adoption and one or two Christian-based pamphlets.

Elizabeth and George took seats across from one another in chairs that were nearly as soft as the couch, while Marsha completed the triangle in a simple wooden chair with a thin red pad. She sat facing Elizabeth and crossed her legs. Her body language seemed almost to shut George out, and everything he said, he had to interject.

After some brief introductory conversation, she stopped, and asked Elizabeth how she was feeling. Elizabeth spoke haltingly, so Marsha asked another question.

“Do you feel like you’ve lost control?” she asked, shutting George out even more, if that were possible.

“Well, yeah,” Elizabeth replied, looking to the ceiling then back at Marsha. “Kinda.”

“And who took away that control?”

“Ummm…” Elizabeth looked to George as he shrug began to open his mouth. “The baby?”

“Is it the baby that took control, or did you ever actually lose the control?”

“Well,” Elizabeth paused, “I guess the baby didn’t take the control.”

“Right, and most people are tempted to blame the baby. But you chose to have sex. So did you ever really lose it?” She turned to face George.

“Uh, I guess not,” he answered. “But we didn’t exactly plan it.”

“No, you didn’t plan for this,” she answered back in a gentle, measured tone, “but you didn’t not plan for it either. Do you understand?”

George played dumb. Did she mean use condoms or birth control?

“Casual sex outside of a committed relationship,” she added, “does not work.”

She turned back to face Elizabeth, shutting George out again.

“Well, you have three options.” They took this to mean abortion, adoption, and keeping their fake child. “You don’t get off scott free with any of them. They each have consequences. Its just that, two of them ends with a child, and one doesn’t.”

“Well, what about an abortion?” George asked. “I mean, I’ve always wanted to be a dad, but not like this. Right now, its just what? A little blob?”

She turned to face George again. She maintained a smile, and spoke in a gentle, almost reassuring manner. She talked about the “little person” that would grow into a human being like the two of us. She never discounted it as an option, saying to Elizabeth that she should have no shadow of a doubt if that is something she wants to do.

“You can’t take an abortion back. There is also the adoption route. They both end with the two of you not taking care of a child, but one ends with a life, and the other doesn’t.”

“Well, what about those children that get bounced from one foster home to the next?” George protested. “Those kids that don’t get to have a stable family, or get taken in by one of those parents that take, like, six foster kids and cant care for them all? I would never want that to happen to anybody, let alone my child.”

“Well,” she started, slowly, “you could always do an open adoption. You could even pick the parents, down to what religion they are. All I am trying to say is that if you abort, there are consequences to that, as well as with any other option. But one ends with a life, and the other does not. And ultimately,” she said as she turned to speak to Elizabeth, “its not your choice.”

“Okay, but if we kept it,” George interjected, changing the subjet, “I don’t want to rush into a marriage.”

“I would never recommend that a couple gets married just because they are having a child,” Marsha said with a smile. “You two are too smart and savvy to use that as a quick fix.”

By the end of the session, the trio had discussed open and closed adoption, keeping and caring for the child, and abortion. Due to its finality, abortion was discussed the least. “Its there, and then its not.”

The couple was led out and told that for any referrals, they would need to bring their documentation so they would not put themselves in danger of pregnancy fraud. Marsha asked if they would like some pamphlets, and the couple accepted an envelope with three pamphlets with abortion information, one about marriage and relationships, and another about adoption.

“So, did you find Marsha intimidating, Cheryl?” I asked as we were driving along Route 222 South, back towards Kutztown University. Back from Reading, and Planned Parenthood.

“No, I didn’t think she was intimidating, but she definitely did share her beliefs on why she is against abortion. Christina, what was your name back in there again?”

“In Planned Parenthood?” she asked. “Alicia Kaas.”

Less than an hour prior, George and Alicia had been in the Reading Planned Parenthood. Elizabeth arrived shortly after them, but this time she was the single mother facing a difficult decision.

The clinic was near central Reading, located in a heavily Hispanic area. George and Alicia walked into the windowless clinic, closing the heavy metal door behind them as they stepped into the small foyer area. There was a locked door and heavy glass plates looking into the dim waiting room. They pressed the buzzer and stepped into the waiting room. The receptionist area was immediately to the left, encircled by thick glass plates with a small slit to speak through. It was more reminiscent of a prison than a medical facility.

“Excuse me,” George yelled through the slit in the glass, his voice startling him. The room was as silent as death and as somber as a funeral. “Excuse me, do you offer counseling appointments to discuss pregnancy options?”

“Are you here to terminate?” came the abrupt reply of the large, black woman behind the glass. She was dressed in an off-white dress with a tan sweater jacket over top.

“Uhh, no. We just found out my girlfriend is pregnant and wanted to just talk to someone about our options.”

The woman slid a small yellow piece of paper through the slit and asked Alicia to fill it out. She filled out the small information sheet, and we took a seat. The waiting room was small, with a three steps going to a second level with additional seating. There were posters all around, advocating condom usage and warning about sexually transmitted diseases, as well as some abuse hotline advertisements. Three women sat directly in front of the receptionist, just feet from the door, and a young woman with dyed blonde hair and acne was sitting in the additional seating area. Nobody smiled, and everyone’s eyes were glued to the floor with the exception of a few furtive glances thrown towards the couple.

Elizabeth walked in and asked the same question George had, though not nearly as loudly. She sat down a few seats away from us. Her bright green shirt stood out in the drab environment. George felt out of place. He was the only male in the clinic, and the arrival of the trio had exponentially raised the non-minority population in the room. Within minutes, Elizabeth was called by the nurse. The young woman seated nearby began to curse, and got up to argue with the receptionist. Two minutes later, Alicia was called in and George followed her in. They were led into a tiny room, barely suited for two, let alone three, people. There were more “safe sex” posters on the walls.

“Hi,” started the nurse. “I just want to tell you, I can’t give you a lot of options until you come to a decision yourself on what you want to do. I can let you know what’s out there, but I’m not allowed to tell you what to do.”

“Okay,” said the couple in unison.

“I can tell you what you can do,” she continued, “but we’re not here to…necessarily counsel you on what decision you should make. We’re here to counsel you on what you can choose.”

The nurse was a young blonde woman, with short curly hair. She wore a typical blue flower patterned nurse’s shirt. She explained that pre-natal care was not allowed at centers where abortions were also performed, so she was limited in how much she could offer Alicia. She spoke equally to George and Alicia. She said she could give some information about where to get pre-natal care, or some services that handled adoption, but their clinic only offered abortion services.

“When it comes to making a decision like abortion, that’s something that you have to be 100% completely sure that you want to do. If there’s any shadow of a doubt in your mind, or any of us here feel that it may not be your decision, or not the decision you want to make, its our job to report that to the doctor, and the doctor makes a decision.”

She continued, saying it was the same at every clinic that performed abortive services, as required by law. She was willing to explain what adoption was, and explained open and closed adoptions, however she also reassured the couple that they did not actually deal with the service. The meeting lasted only 20 minutes, and Alicia left with three sheets of paper: a sheet listing the prices of various abortive services, a sheet listing local OB/GYN doctors, and a sheet with the names of a few local adoption services. As abruptly as it began, the meeting was over. The couple left, passing a slightly larger crowd on their way out than had previously been there.

“So, Cheryl, how’d it go?” I asked as Christina and I opened my car doors and climbed in.

“Well,” she answered as she climbed into my back seat, “it was informative.”

“Did they push an abortion on you?” I inquired further.

“Well…” she paused. “No, not really. It seemed like they were a little bit, but… Well, lets just say that if I went in and just said I wanted one, they wouldn’t have batted an eyelid. What about you guys?”

“No, not really,” Christina replied.

We drove around the area, looking for another pregnancy center, preferably one that did not offer abortive services. Finding none, we drove back towards Kutztown.

“So, what do you guys think about the fake clinic claim?”

“Fake?” Christina replied. “I wouldn’t say fake. They are different. Just… different.”

HOMELESS MAN IN RED LIGHT DISTRICT TELLS HIS STORY

AMSTERDAM, Jan. 17—“Here we go guys, this is Chris,” our new guide said as he pointed to a tall, muscular, dark haired Russian. “Dr. Chris, they hired me for 2 hours.”

I was travelling in Amsterdam on holiday with two friends of mine, Brandon Gething and William Felegi. We flew out of Dublin and landed late at night in Amsterdam. We were asked by customs what our business in the country was, when Gething replied, “To try to not catch an STD.” We had met our guide, Tony Azevedo, the following day in the Red Light district. He had taken us into a tattoo shop to introduce us to some of his friends.

He was about 5’6”, weighed 130 lbs, forty-five years old, had an eight-pack stomach, a salt and pepper mane that consisted mostly of the salt, and while he was not shaggy-looking, it was obvious he had not shaved in days. He looked and sounded like he could be George Carlin’s brother. He spoke four languages fluently, and had been deported from the United States in 2002 for suspected murder. He spoke quickly, with strong gestures and a slight New York accent. His gray shoulder length hair hung neatly in its natural wave, and he walked the way a man would should he have all the world in his possession, with no possibility of losing it. He had found us wandering the district, and I hired him for the day.

Azevedo, known as Old School, had been homeless for almost three years, and had been making a living giving tours to tourists, and selling drugs. He had been born on the Portuguese island of Azores, immigrated to the United States when he was five, and was denied citizenship when he was 18 because of his criminal history. He moved to Amsterdam in 2002, after living 8 months in San Miguel, Azores. He was forced to leave Azores due to discrimination. He said because it was such a small island, everyone knew he was there only because the United States no longer wanted him. He worked four-and-a-half years in construction in Amsterdam, but quit when his Muslim boss tried to force religious modesty protocols on him one day when Old School was working with his shirt open.

His two passions were cocaine and prostitutes. He made 150-400 Euros every day between drugs, tours and donations. He would spend some on cocaine, and the rest on lunch and the girls in the district. He slept in a shelter two nights a week and with a friend once a week, just to shower and shave. The other four days, he would break into boathouses on the canals and try to keep warm. He never complained and would rather sleep outside most nights than give up his lifestyle.

“Will you at any time be bringing paying customers?” Chris says as he laughs and shoots us a selling smile. He works with two other artists, Johnny T and “Uklain from Ukraine.” Their shop is underneath the street, and covered floor to ceiling with pictures of tattoos they’ve drawn. They mumble to each other softly in Russian as we look around the room. The shop is lit by two red lamps that cast an ominous glow. Chris looks charming, a natural born salesman, but Johnny T and Uklain are huge, very muscular, and absolutely unsmiling.

“How you like your new hat and sweatpants?” Old School asks. Johnny T cracks the faintest of smiles and calls him a good man. “That’s on the house. I stole ‘em off Jesus. They told me “take one,” I stole six of each. C’mon, I love robbing Jesus. I love it. He loves us everyday.”

With that, the entire group breaks out in laughter, releasing all the tension I sensed building. We said our goodbyes, I shook hands with Chris and the incredibly tight-gripped Uklain, and followed Old School out the door. Outside, the air was cold and wet. The sky was gray and it had been raining intermittently, while the city of canals had taken on a dreadful chill. It was late afternoon, and would only be getting colder throughout the day.

Old School led us to the nearest group of prostitutes in the district. Hiring a girl in Amsterdam is like going window shopping for new shoes. There are four parallel streets that stretch for about four blocks, with several side alleys. The four streets are in pairs, with a canal separating each pair, creating an open area about one hundred feet wide with nothing obstructing the view across the twenty-foot wide canal. Sex shops, adult video stores and brightly lit theaters with apartments above them line the sides, making each set a self-enclosed area of licentiousness. At night, a red-orange glow illuminates the streets. The girls wave from their windows, wearing very little clothing, while smiling sweetly. Occasionally one will open their door and say something in Dutch or English to potential customers that pass within earshot. During the day, most windows are empty, but after 8 p.m., one is hard-pressed to find a room without a devilish beauty inside.

“At one time, one guy used to own all the windows. Another time, one guy used to own all the sex shops. And one guy used to own all the sex shows,” Old School tells us. He walks over to one of the girls, a skinny, tanned girl with fake breasts, and hands her a small wad of cash. “I love you, just like heaven,” he says to her, gives her a hug and gestures for us to follow him onward.

“You know her?” I asked

“I know about forty-percent of the girls here. I do odd jobs for them sometimes. Buy them water, buy them cigarettes. Sometimes we talk. They give me half price, they know I’m homeless.”

We turned right off the main strip, and into an alley. It was tight, about three feet wide, with door sized windows every four feet, most with the shades drawn, but some with a scantily clad girl on the other side. As we walked, Old School starts telling a story about a twenty-eight-year-old American man with a wife and two kids that he met. The American paid twenty Euros for the tour, and asked only where the transvestites were. “HOMO!” Old School yelled as he finished his story, and took a sharp left out of the alley and onto the second main street in the district.

We stopped for a brief moment while Old School unpacked a cigarette and fumbled for his lighter. I took this opportunity to ask him more about why he went to prison, and how he was deported.

“I was robbing a safe. I got caught. I’m not that good,” he said with a smile that could charm a snake. He had already alluded to being a violent criminal, but there was something about him that could put one at ease. “And then in prison, I killed a guy. I sharpened a toothbrush into an ice pick. I put it through him, and broke his neck. He was a Muslim rapist. I did justice. Justice. So they got me, but yeah, they couldn’t prove anything. I was part of a gang. So I just optioned out, said let me get the fuck away from all of this. I figured Europe would be good.”

Old School leaned in and started to whisper. “Man, it’s full of fucking Muslims. They’re everywhere. It sucks. You don’t see what I see.”

Old School’s racism was not what was funny about him, though. It was the stream of consciousness analogies and descriptions he came up with. He finished his extremely explicit rant about what a Muslim does in Africa, and we began walking again. He took another drag on his cigarette.

“But listen, I believe in law and order,” Old School said as he stopped and turned to face us again. “You go rob a bank, you get caught? Jail. You don’t get caught, you get fifty grand, so you’re in good shape. You gotta pay. Like they said, you do the crime you do the time.”

His face suddenly became grave, nothing like the face we had seen just a second ago. It was hard, colder than the air, seeming to suck every ounce of heat out of it. “I was a young lad, raised by different people,” he began. “Went to prison in 1982, for armed robbery, attempted murder. There, I became a gang member.”

He looked around. A sick smile came to his lips, one of pure hatred, and sadistic delectability, as if he could almost taste his memory. “Special ops, they called it. Some of us didn’t have to get tattoos, ‘cause we had to do special things.”

As he punched his last word, his face grew warmer, and we saw once again, the cheerful rogue who had fled just moments before. He began speaking again, though deliberately, with a tone that men use when it is time to be honest with one another.

“Listen, I believe that if you kill a pedophile, you did justice. Cause they all repeat. Look, I don’t like to kill people. I don’t even like to fight people. I believe in teaching. Used to teach in East New York, Brooklyn. For free. I’m into teaching and giving, not taking. When you take a little child’s life like that… scum.”

He turned around, and pointed to a house down the street in the opposite direction we were travelling, and as quickly as it began, it was over. “Over here, there’s a building you must see. I have to show you. Really bent now, you can see it good. What’s going on? Awesome picture, eh?”

He was pointing to a corner house across the street and about a hundred yards down to our right. It was four stories high, brown brick, and the façade was almost completely covered by windows. But, the many windows were not the point. About thirty feet up, the building was leaning forward past the one next to it by at least a yard. It began leaning forward after the first floor, and by the fourth, it looked as if it were looming over the street, the way a cat does over a mouse, as if it would pounce on the next tourist to venture too close.

We had travelled with Old School for only twenty minutes so far, and he had already made us laugh, and almost fear for our very lives, with rapid and seamless transition. We had gotten tips on dealing with prostitutes, staying away from street dealers, and the layout of the entire Red Light district. We had met three large Russians, and a prostitute. I had asked only a handful of questions, and we still had two-and-a-half hours to go.

Student Has Angst over Work

KUTZTOWN, Jan. 24--Sara Canter sat on her brown armchair, her head in her hands and on the verge of tears. Next to her on the lamp table stood a large bottle of Robitussen, a half-ounce bottle of Vicks Sinex nasalspray, and a half-empty box of Sudafed. It was 12 p.m., and she had to be at Kutztown University’s One Card Office to work her 2 p.m. to 4 p.m. shift.

“Well, Sara,” said her fiancé Robert Roberts, “can’t you just call off?” Sara’s eyes welled up with tears. “No Bob, I can’t. Three people already called off today, and I just can’t let my boss down like that.”

She took out a tissue and blew her nose like a conch shell, then dabbed at her eyes. Canter had always been a reliable student worker. She had not missed her shift in over a year, and she despaired at the idea of being beaten by what she called “just a small cold.”

“Well, I think they will understand if you’re this sick. I’m sure they don’t want to catch what you have, even if it is going around.” Roberts moved over to Canter’s armchair and gently rubbed her back while she while she let out another blast into a fresh tissue.

Canter had woken up the day before with a sore throat and swollen glands. She had spent the day in bed and had looked no better for it. This morning, Canter got up at her usual time of 7 a.m. to have breakfast with her fiancé. Normally she would have a bowl of Frosted Mini Wheats, but this time she simply stared listlessly at a piece of toast. She moved around their two bedroom trailer slowly and deliberately, as if each step required a conscious effort. She drugged up and went to her 9 a.m. Video Editing class and made an appointment with the Health Center directly afterwards.

“Yeah, but Bob, that would mean that only one person would have shown up today to work. And I can’t, I just can’t do that. I called a girl and asked her if she’d be willing to work for me though.”

Canter had returned from the Health Center at 11:45 a.m., after a 40 minute wait to see a nurse. She had said the lobby was “completely full of students, and that everyone must be sick.” The Health Center made a follow up appointment with her for 1 p.m. with the doctor.

Canter has always prided herself on being reliable. Her father left when she was a baby, and her mother had died when Canter was 14 years old. Since then she had lived with her aunt. Canter said her aunt would use the money collected from Social Security, meant to assist caring for her and her brother, to go to Atlantic City. The task of caring for her brother fell to her, as well as earning all her own spending money. The only thing she did not have to pay for, she says, was her food, and there was not much of that either.

Canter says she worked hard so nobody would feel bad for her. She resented people’s pity when they found out how her life was, and so would often keep it private. Her hard work paid off when she went to college. Her employer said she was the most reliable teenager he had the pleasure of employing, and her teachers enthusiastically wrote her letters of recommendation. Her reputation as a person that could be counted on had grown very dear to her. She did not want to be beaten by being sick.

At 12:45 p.m., Roberts drove his fiancé to the Health Center and tried to find a seat in the lobby, attempting to accomplish the impossible task of not sitting too close to one of the many disease-ridden shades inhabiting the room. Twenty minutes after arriving, Canter was called in to see the doctor, and by 1:30 p.m., she was out again with an oddly relieved face.

“I’ve got the flu,” she said with a weak smile. “The doctor told me that I really shouldn’t go to work today. I shouldn’t even have gone to class.”

She called her boss and told him the diagnosis. Her boss told her there would be nobody to replace her today because the person Canter called was also sick. Canter thought for a moment, then said “well, would you rather I did come in, then?”

Laughing emanated from the other side of the line, and they said goodbye.

Students disturbed by loud construction next to dormitory

KUTZTOWN, Dec. 4—Sentiments about early-morning noise due to construction are divided among residents of Kutztown University's Deatrick Hall, depending on the side a student resides.

The construction of the residential complex next to 600 student residence hall ranges from an un-interfering occurrence to major nuisance depending on what side of the building the student is. Students living in rooms facing the interior of campus hear very little in comparison to students facing the exterior, whose windows are right above the site. “Its right outside my window,” freshman Business major Samantha Goldenburg, whose room is facing the construction, says with obvious annoyance. “I hate it,” says sophomore Art Education major Will Greider echoing her sentiment, whose first floor residence also faces construction. “It wakes me up every morning. They should hold off until at least 10:30[a.m.].”

Construction has been progressing since early October, and generally starts around 7 a.m., according to students in Deatrick. “They’re up early,” says freshman Engineering major John Linn. Jennifer Leo, freshman Special Education major, also remarked about it starting early. “I hear it when I wake up at 7:30 a.m.,” says the Leo, whose room faces construction. “Its really a nuisance hearing it in the morning and all day long.” Students are also saying that the construction can be distracting when trying to do schoolwork in their dormitory.

Linn, whose room is on the opposite side of construction, says it only bothers him when workers drop something, then the loud clang wakes him. Freshman Electronic Media major Travis Harley also says that the construction doesn’t really bother him. He says that he sometimes hears loud booms in his DMZ oriented room in the morning, but is otherwise unaffected.

Similar events are happening at other colleges as well. The College of Charleston, in Charleston, S.C., was petitioned by the Student Government Association to halt construction on campus during finals week, according to MSNBC, but the administration refused citing large costs as the reason. Instead, they offered ear plugs to affected students.

In the same fashion, university president Dr. F Javier Cevallos said Monday that KU will also buy and deliver ear plugs to the residence halls. The Facilities department also issued a statement saying they could not delay the start of construction until 10 a.m. because their work day is designed to maximize usable daylight hours and a delay would remove approximately 2 hours. This, says Facilities, would compromise the start of excavation for the new residence, and would further strain an already tight construction schedule. Facilities also said that they are already struggling to keep the schedule due to the amount of rock that must be excavated.

Sandy Muth, a custodian in Beck hall, commented that the noise was extremely loud in the beginning of the semester when construction was behind her hall. The excavation of the rock merited several complaints from students about the distraction it caused and the early hour, she says.

This does, however, seem to be a problem that affects a very low percentage of students. Construction noise just seems to affect residents of Deatrick who reside in the back of the hall where the construction is.

There's Something in the Watercolor

KUTZTOWN, Nov 27--“Various Watercolors,” in the Bears Den Art Gallery can be described with two words: bold and detailed. Andrew Kish III clearly has a meticulous streak that allows his watercolors to nearly come alive on the walls.

The exhibit is characterized by bold colors, like the deep orange in “Made in the U.S.” which depicts a chained gate. The piece uses various shades of orange and brown to show a rusting gate that has been chained shut in the sunset. Junior Speech Communication major Josh McKee said that it looks like there is dirt and disorder outside the gate, while inside is the freshly swept concrete of America.

The exhibit also contains meticulous detail, such as the individually painted bricks in “Bedroom Window.” The piece is simple, showing just the side window of a brick house. However, it has a great deal of depth, and the quiet appearance captures the viewer and moves the eye around the work.

“Winter Storage,” depicts the front of a barn with a second floor residence. It has a three-dimensional character that gives it the appearance of separately tiered pieces of paper on a single sheet. Viewed from far away, this piece looks like it has physical depth, the illusion of which does not dissipate until it is inspected from just inches away.

Sophomore Psychology major Kelly Henitz said, “I think its amazing how much detail he got out of watercolor.” Henitz’s favorite piece is “Made in the U.S.,” saying, “you can even see the rust.” McKee noted that even the threads on the screw are easily distinguishable.

Sophomore French Education major Jona Werkheiser noted the bold perspectives that Kish took, such as in “American Parkway.” The piece views a telephone pole from the perspective of a person looking directly up at it standing at the base. “Its one of those things you always look at,” said Werkheiser, “but it’s a new perspective to look at it. Its something you wouldn’t think would be art, but it is.”

Werkheiser’s favorite piece is “Old Bones,” a piece with interweaving tree branches entering from the left set against the sky. “I just really like how its set against the sky,” Werkheiser says. “I like the way the sky looks.” Werkheiser went on to note the bright colors in “Made in the U.S.,” and the usual association of chain link with darker and drabber colors.

McKee said that his favorite piece is “Jersey Stairwell,” saying that it “you can see each individual stone, the cracks in the plaster, and you really get the feeling your in the stairway.” McKee noted that from a distance, the piece appears to have the resolution of a photograph.

Freshman Communication Design major Geoff Reynolds agrees adding, “If you can get the details to where it looks like a photograph, that’s a good thing.” Reynolds inspected the watercolors for over fifteen minutes noting the quality, detail, and amount of work that went in to individual segments of the pieces. Reynolds was particularly impressed by the individually painted bricks in “Bedroom Window,” saying that such a feat “takes a lot of time to do.” His favorite piece was also “Jersey Stairwell,” because “you can see where the water leaked into the window [of the stairwell] and dried over time. It has the appearance that there actually was water there.”

Reynolds also noted that the composition is unique for a college student. Reynolds feels that Kish made a bold move in composition by breaking away from traditional are patterns and using a more modern approach. He says that such composition is rare among students because they still exist, to some degree, in the confines of their class art projects.