Editors

A solitary candle was lit. A soft glow filled the room as dusk settled over the campus. A quiet time, a peaceful time, a holy time. A chance to be still and listen to the reflections of our college chaplain, Bob Chapman, during this globally celebrated season. "Our culture celebrates this holy season in a frenzy, accumulating and acquiring more. Instead, we should be uncluttering our lives to make room for grace," said Chapman. We talked about presents, or was it presence? Gift giving seems to be the traditional practice of this season. But Chapman believes that we should be making room in our hearts, not in our closets. After all, what greater gift is there than to be present to someone else? "There is more to the season....broader implications...beyond gifts. This is the opposite of what we should be doing," said Chapman.

The Hebrew tradition has a special word, shabbat, which means to stop and rest. Chapman highly recommends this. He mentioned that he has personally begun to do things differently. He takes early morning walks, allowing more time for reflection. He has also decided not to travel out of town this holiday season. That made me wonder about the expectations of family and friends who live elsewhere. "That’s part of the frenzy," said Chapman. "To go against this is almost sacrilegious." What could we expect to find if we were still? Chapman responded with a suggestion that all students return to campus after the hectic fall semester and discover that the quiet will speak to their spirits. With so much going on at this time of year, with the pressure of expectations and mass consumerism, Chapman’s reflections are "worth exploring." For those scholars who have examined the major world religions.... it is the same, a message of peace.

While the majority of my classmates are attending fraternity and sorority meetings and sports events, I am going to work. While they are enjoying late night talks with their friends and roommates, I am helping my children with their homework, feeding them and putting them to bed. I do not always have the freedom to go to a soccer game or to see a foreign film on campus, but this is the life I have chosen. I keep up with campus happenings through the Marlin Chronicle. If it weren’t for the school paper, I would know very little that has happened on campus. There should be a space in the paper for future events, so those students who do not live on campus could make arrangements to attend upcoming events and possibly become more involved. I know that if I had enough notice to make arrangements for my two little girls that I would participate more in school activities. This does not make me less proud or less supportive of my school. I am very proud that I am a student at VWC. I am working towards a goal that I have had for a long time and I can only hope that younger students see me as a role model. Better yet, I would like to think that I am providing inspiration to my own peers not to give up. It is never too late to start something, or in my case, finish something that you want.

It is difficult to get back into the groove of studying when you have not done so for almost twenty years and math should be considered a foreign language for older students. But I am having a good time and am enjoying the challenge. Whenever I feel like throwing in the towel, and believe me, it is an ongoing struggle, I think of two things. First, what kind of example am I setting for my own children? If I quit, will they think that they can give up when an obstacle is put in front of them? Just last week my 10-year-old daughter came home saying that she was going to quit school because they made her run a mile in P.E., and they did not care that her heart had jumped out of her chest and she was dying. This is the same child that told me if I missed another class, my year and a half left could easily turn into three years. The second thing that I think about is a verse from Cat Stevens: "We’re only dancing on this earth for a short while." Does anyone ever realize that when they are 20 or even 25?

Most people in their twenties think that death comes only to old people in their fifties. They are young, and nothing is going to stop them. They don’t make plans because the future is endless. That kind of thinking could work in their favor if they could only channel it correctly. I look at the students in my classes, and realize that I am somewhat a minority. However, there is a rise in the number of older students returning to school. I like to think of it as a silent beginning to a new era.

I’m just like every other college kid. I go to classes, do my homework and party. Okay, maybe not like every other college kid. But like you, who love playing soccer, surfing or diddling on your computer, I love shooting pool. And for you, who love only beer, I too have a drink of choice. My dress is no different than yours: jeans, sweaters, comfy shoes and cute socks. I wear makeup and in the morning almost always attend my first class with my hair soaking wet. Throughout the day, I check myself in mirrors and the reflective glass of windows and doors across campus, but I’m not looking to see if my hair is sticking up, nor am I debating over whether or not my jeans make my butt look fat. In fact, vanity and conceit have nothing to do with it. From the time I was nine years old, to the day before this Thanksgiving, I’d been checking to be sure that no one else could tell I’d been molested twice in my life.

Since then, that number has increased to three. Thanksgiving Day may have appeared to happen in the normal Richter family tradition feasting, fine china and family. But there were two people at this particular gathering who weren’t giving thanks. I sat at the table, gritting my teeth, two seats down from the guy, flirting non-stop with my younger sister, who had, just 12 hours earlier, explored the expanse of my sleeping body. He was my brother’s good friend from college and my sister’s crush-object for nearly two years. He was a long-term friend of the family, though he and I had never talked. And now he was attending my family’s Thanksgiving meal, at my sister’s request. I watched as he passed the candied yams to my mom. It took everything I had to resist the urge to turn that searing hot dish upside down into his lap.

I wondered how he could so easily enjoy this dinner with my family when all I could manage to think about was the nightmare I had awakened to as the clock glared 4:37 a.m. I stirred from my sleep as his body tensed around mine, breathing heavily. My flannel sleepwear had been displaced, my body exposed from the waist down. His hands forcefully probed the perimeter of my underwear. He moaned my name. Was I awake? Was this really happening? I was paralyzed with fear. "What are you doing?" I asked. "I’m just really attracted to you right now," he whispered. I pushed away his roaming hands, telling him to stop. He became more aggressive, more intent. He was still talking, justifying his actions. I couldn’t really hear him because of all the thoughts in my head. This was my house, on my couch, in my living room. A family friend? Why was this happening? What do I do? Nobody would believe me.

He pinned my lower body with the weight of his leg and pried my arms from my chest with persistent fingers. In my mind I was begging him to stop, but my mouth would no longer cooperate. My eyes flooded, but no tears fell. Why was this happening to me again? I squirmed. I gripped his wrist with my free hand, wiggling my legs free of blankets and his limbs. "Get off of me!" I growled through grinding teeth. I shoved him away, at the same time freeing myself of his grasp. I fled the scene, but I knew my battle wasn’t over. Lying in bed for the remainder of the morning, I stared at the ceiling. Like two similar situations I’d already faced, the memories were all too vivid. I wanted to hide. I felt guilty, like I’d provoked it somehow. Like I could have avoided it if I had done something differently. Like there must be a neon sign on me that says "Hey, boys! Abuse me! Take advantage of me! After all, I’m just a girl!" Sitting through dinner, I wanted to hurt him. I wanted everyone to know what he had done. After 11 years, and three of the most traumatizing experiences I’ve ever faced, I’ve decided to stop asking, "Why is this happening to me?" Instead, I’m asking, "Why am I hiding?"

"I’m from Guyana, so we have different holiday traditions. We cook a ‘pepper pot’ for three days. we also make rum cake and black cake. You must have all three in your house for the proper tradition." --Tyrika Macey, Freshman

"I go to Ohio and spend time with my family. We love to separate dinners, at my mom’s and my dad’s. It usually lasts the whole day." --Jason Story, Sophmore

"I have three older brothers, and we all get together to open presents. My mom still makes us wait on the stairs until she gets downstairs." --Andy Burke, Junior

"We go to church on Christmas Eve. We also get to open presents on Christmas Eve. We also argue about the presents that no one likes and watch football." --Stephen Adair, Senior