I know my Dad won't think it's a good idea to publish this, but I'm feeling sad about this news, and I want more people to know about it. Below is my response to a message from the BU Dean of Students. I encourage anyone who is interested to weigh in as well.
Dear Kenneth Elmore:
In the 2006-2007 academic year, four Boston University students have died. I am disappointed and heartbroken to receive the same, barely-edited, boilerplate email from you on every occasion. Obviously, Boston University is not doing enough to keep its students safe, and these deaths deserve more than an email and a statement on the availability of resources. You and your staff must make a public effort to start a dialogue with students about safety issues, and begin to change the culture that leads to these accidents.
This is not a public relations issue, nor is it merely, as your emails suggest, a matter of consoling ourselves after yet another tragedy.
I urge you to address this more responsibly. Students' lives evidently hang in the balance.
Sincerely,
Amanda Keil
(CFA '07)
--- Dean of Students <dos@bu.edu> wrote:
Fellow members of the Boston University community:
Today, I must write to you with terribly sad news. Early Saturday morning two Boston University students died in a tragic, accidental fire in an off-campus residence. Our thoughts and prayers go out to the families of these students and those who knew them - we share their grief and sadness. Our community has suffered two great losses and I can only imagine the feelings of the families and loved ones of these young students; I wish to extend my deepest condolences to them. Our thoughts and prayers, too, are with another BU student who is being treated for injuries suffered in this fire. At the request of these students' families I am not releasing their names at this time.
I encourage you to take advantage of the broad network of available University professional and peer resources, as needed. Support for students, faculty, and staff is available throughout the campus. Tomorrow, University chaplains are available from 1:30 p.m. to 4:30 p.m. in Marsh Chapel's Robinson Chapel for anyone who feels the need to gather for group or personal prayer and reflection. In addition, we have counseling services available through the Behavioral Medicine Clinic at Student Health Services.
You may speak with a member of the counseling staff by calling (617) 353-3569 or by going to 881 Commonwealth Avenue, West. Residence hall directors and resident assistants from the Office of Residence Life are also available at our campus residences, and can be contacted by calling or visiting a residence hall office. As always, I am grateful to the chaplains, counselors, residence life staff, and other members of the community who made arrangements to provide support today.
The death of any member of our community is a tragedy that saddens us all, no matter the cause or reason. Our campus should join together to seek support and sympathy during this difficult time. Please let me know if I or a member of my staff may be of assistance. This tragedy has received a great deal of media attention; I encourage you to let your loved ones know that you are safe.
Sincerely,
Kenneth Elmore
Dean of Students
dos@bu.edu
617-353-4126
Sunday, February 25, 2007
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
Destino
Grab a hanky, roll your eyes, and clutch your sides: Amanda's feeling maudlin and philosophical again. (In actuality, I thought of this story weeks ago; it takes me some distance to go from thinking to writing.)
One day, while passing on my daily trot to work, I had a thought. It's worth mentioning that the trot itself is not too shabby.......
.........and almost looks like a city. And brings me to the historic Fort Point neighborhood, which hosts Boston's artist community.
Anyway, something made me think of a conducting student I once knew named Tom Whatshisface. He was a large Welshman with all the joviality of Jove: a fair round belly, hands like bear claws, and a doughy face that was always ready for a laugh. One day over a cuppa in the caf (or, more likely, a pint in the pub), he told some of us youngsters about his path. It started with a stipend to study composition in Poland. From there, he made his way to a teaching position in Greece, which he gave up to follow a girl to Norway, where he continued his music studies and cultivated an interest in Arabic liturature (!). He picked up and went to the Sudan for a while, studying and travelling, eventually going back and forth between Wales and Holland (was it for another girl?), and then Wales and the States, where his conducting studies had finally taken him.
I listened with greed. My semester abroad had given me a hunger to not only see the world, but live in as many places as possible. I wanted to know his secrets- how did he manage to accomplish so much, live in so many places, have so many lives?
We met over lunch and he gave me more of the details. But he told the story without joy, and with a distant look. The cosmopolitan life is not as easy as it sounds, apparently, and there were bumps in the path: one of the girls got pregnant along the way, and the subsequent marriage and divorce and leftover child are the banes of his existence. He spoke with nostalgia of the people he left behind, and likely will never see again. He doesn't feel as if he has roots anywhere, and expressed that all those years in different places were just wasted time in the end, as professional contacts in one place don't mean a professional life somewhere else.
I remembered Tom when I was thinking of this: What if your dreams are really blind alleys? What if you trust your instincts, but it turns out that your instincts are dead wrong? What if happiness eludes you while you're busy chasing happiness? These thoughts came to mind as I headed to my practical day job, having given up who knows what sorts of destinies.
Truthfully though, these melancholy thoughts seem less relevant to me right now. It is deep winter, and bone-chilling cold has finally joined us. Valentine's Day in Boston literally looked like Hell frozen over. But there's a warmth that's thawing out my stubborn anxieties, and I think I'm ready to give my intellect a rest, and let my instincts lead me. At least for matters of the heart......
Ages ago I heard a radio interview with a woman who had had an extraordinary career in publishing, but did not fulfill her original dream of having a family. "I sometimes think that if I had made other choices I could have gone on to have a family and children and all that," she concluded. "But if I could do it all again I would do it the same way and even make the same mistakes. I would do it knowing what those mistakes were and what the consequences would be, because I believe in following your heart."
Enough with the morality, just check out this guy. He has a way of making T stations look the Baths of Caracalla.....
One day, while passing on my daily trot to work, I had a thought. It's worth mentioning that the trot itself is not too shabby.......
.........and almost looks like a city. And brings me to the historic Fort Point neighborhood, which hosts Boston's artist community.
Anyway, something made me think of a conducting student I once knew named Tom Whatshisface. He was a large Welshman with all the joviality of Jove: a fair round belly, hands like bear claws, and a doughy face that was always ready for a laugh. One day over a cuppa in the caf (or, more likely, a pint in the pub), he told some of us youngsters about his path. It started with a stipend to study composition in Poland. From there, he made his way to a teaching position in Greece, which he gave up to follow a girl to Norway, where he continued his music studies and cultivated an interest in Arabic liturature (!). He picked up and went to the Sudan for a while, studying and travelling, eventually going back and forth between Wales and Holland (was it for another girl?), and then Wales and the States, where his conducting studies had finally taken him.
I listened with greed. My semester abroad had given me a hunger to not only see the world, but live in as many places as possible. I wanted to know his secrets- how did he manage to accomplish so much, live in so many places, have so many lives?
We met over lunch and he gave me more of the details. But he told the story without joy, and with a distant look. The cosmopolitan life is not as easy as it sounds, apparently, and there were bumps in the path: one of the girls got pregnant along the way, and the subsequent marriage and divorce and leftover child are the banes of his existence. He spoke with nostalgia of the people he left behind, and likely will never see again. He doesn't feel as if he has roots anywhere, and expressed that all those years in different places were just wasted time in the end, as professional contacts in one place don't mean a professional life somewhere else.
I remembered Tom when I was thinking of this: What if your dreams are really blind alleys? What if you trust your instincts, but it turns out that your instincts are dead wrong? What if happiness eludes you while you're busy chasing happiness? These thoughts came to mind as I headed to my practical day job, having given up who knows what sorts of destinies.
Truthfully though, these melancholy thoughts seem less relevant to me right now. It is deep winter, and bone-chilling cold has finally joined us. Valentine's Day in Boston literally looked like Hell frozen over. But there's a warmth that's thawing out my stubborn anxieties, and I think I'm ready to give my intellect a rest, and let my instincts lead me. At least for matters of the heart......
Ages ago I heard a radio interview with a woman who had had an extraordinary career in publishing, but did not fulfill her original dream of having a family. "I sometimes think that if I had made other choices I could have gone on to have a family and children and all that," she concluded. "But if I could do it all again I would do it the same way and even make the same mistakes. I would do it knowing what those mistakes were and what the consequences would be, because I believe in following your heart."
Enough with the morality, just check out this guy. He has a way of making T stations look the Baths of Caracalla.....
Monday, February 12, 2007
Procrastination
Ay! Translating to do, emails to write, schoolwork to finish, concerts to organize.... but why worry about all that? I went a bit nuts tonight: instead of working, I went grocery shopping and came home and cooked. Why am I feeling so homespun right when I should be an aggressive, go-getter, ambitious musician?
No matter. Now, mushroom barley soup is cooling in the fridge, along with wheat berry and butternut squash salad, blood oranges, fresh blueberries, rainbow kale, roasted sweet potato, and miso soup with soba noodles.
I guess I'm into comfortable, pleasurable things right now, which also explains my great joy in seeing this on a bumber sticker tonight:
No matter. Now, mushroom barley soup is cooling in the fridge, along with wheat berry and butternut squash salad, blood oranges, fresh blueberries, rainbow kale, roasted sweet potato, and miso soup with soba noodles.
I guess I'm into comfortable, pleasurable things right now, which also explains my great joy in seeing this on a bumber sticker tonight:
You can also order this on a T-shirt or thong. Harry Potter fans will instantly recognize the Dark Lord's name; but do they know that even he has his own fans: http://lord-voldemort.org/
Ha! (now off to work....)
Wednesday, February 07, 2007
I O U A Post
Meanwhile, it is all too amazing just how funny this is:
SHEEPISH
by Paul Rudnick
The New Yorker, Shouts and Murmurs
Issue of 2007-02-12 Posted 2007-02-05
Charles Roselli set out to discover what makes some sheep gay. Then the news media and the blogosphere got hold of the story. —The Times.
Enough already. I’m Troy, a gay sheep, and I’ll tell you the truth. Although I’m conflicted about calling myself a gay sheep, because I don’t like to think that my sexuality defines me; let’s just say that I’m a sheep who happens to be gay. Being gay is just a simple biological fact, like having a fleecy undercoat or bleating while you’re being shorn, or getting aroused whenever you see a bulky turtleneck sweater.
When I was growing up, I assumed that I’d be just like everybody else, and that someday I’d be bred with a ewe and slaughtered. But, of course, those other feelings were always there; even when I was only a few years old I would gaze at another male lamb and think about sharing a stall, with just enough hay and maybe a nice mid-century trough. I tried not to focus on my urges, and whenever my mom caught me rubbing up against the fence post that I called Skipper I’d pretend I had lice. But as the years went by I started to act on my desires, first with Ed, who was a ram, if you know what I mean. Later, I became involved with Rick, a sheep my own age, although after our encounters Rick would always claim that he was drunk on compost, and he’d butt me with his head and insist, “Dude, let’s go get us some mutton.”
Finally, my dad found me with Rick, and he flew into a blind rage, yelling that he had no son, and that if I was lucky I’d end up as a cheap Peruvian cardigan worn by a truck-stop hooker in Alaska. And so I ran away, and I went wild. I experimented with everyone and everything. Bulls. Mules. Duck, duck, goose. I found out exactly why they’re called the Three Little Pigs. Call me Old McDonald, because I had the farm. I even made some adult films, and maybe you’ve heard of them: “Wet Wool,” “Lassie, Come Here,” and the mega-selling “Hoof and Mouth.” Then, one morning, I woke up next to a horse, a hen, and an ear of corn—that’s right, all the food groups. And I was disgusted with myself. What was I, livestock?
And so I re-joined my flock, up on Brokeback. I didn’t expect to be accepted; I just needed some time to graze and grow. I had some terrific long talks with a wise old mountain goat, who told me, “Look, you can be anything you want to be—gay, straight, pashmina, whatever.” And I found my faith again, when I realized that, hey, there were sheep on the ark. There were sheep in the manger. And at the Last Supper there was stew.
At long last, I found the strength to come out to my family, my friends, and even my co-workers, to say right out loud, I’m Troy and I’m gay, but I hope that isn’t the most interesting thing about me. I’m just like you: I like to stand around in the rain and get caught in barbed wire and defecate while I’m asleep. And the amazing thing was—it was no big deal. Everyone nuzzled me, and my mom said that deep down she’d always known, and that she’d hoped that I’d grow up to be an artist or a performer or a cashmere crewneck. Of course, Little Bo Peep, my shepherdess, got a little teary at first. “Are you sure?” she wondered. “I mean, you’re so masculine.” And I informed her that being gay doesn’t mean you have to act like a hummingbird or a Chihuahua. And then she asked, very confidentially, “Is it true about Elsie the cow? And Ellen?” And I just rolled my eyes and said, “Darling.”
Right about then is when I met Doug. I saw him across the pasture, and I just knew. I assumed there’d be talk—he’s a black sheep. And, I’ll confess, I used the oldest line in the barn. I sidled right up to him and I said, “Baa baa, black sheep, have you any wool?” And he looked me right in the eye and murmured, “Yes, sir, yes, sir, three bags full.” And I replied, “I can see that.” We’ve been together ever since, and we don’t care what anyone thinks. Because, baby, at the end of the day we’re all just animals.
SHEEPISH
by Paul Rudnick
The New Yorker, Shouts and Murmurs
Issue of 2007-02-12 Posted 2007-02-05
Charles Roselli set out to discover what makes some sheep gay. Then the news media and the blogosphere got hold of the story. —The Times.
Enough already. I’m Troy, a gay sheep, and I’ll tell you the truth. Although I’m conflicted about calling myself a gay sheep, because I don’t like to think that my sexuality defines me; let’s just say that I’m a sheep who happens to be gay. Being gay is just a simple biological fact, like having a fleecy undercoat or bleating while you’re being shorn, or getting aroused whenever you see a bulky turtleneck sweater.
When I was growing up, I assumed that I’d be just like everybody else, and that someday I’d be bred with a ewe and slaughtered. But, of course, those other feelings were always there; even when I was only a few years old I would gaze at another male lamb and think about sharing a stall, with just enough hay and maybe a nice mid-century trough. I tried not to focus on my urges, and whenever my mom caught me rubbing up against the fence post that I called Skipper I’d pretend I had lice. But as the years went by I started to act on my desires, first with Ed, who was a ram, if you know what I mean. Later, I became involved with Rick, a sheep my own age, although after our encounters Rick would always claim that he was drunk on compost, and he’d butt me with his head and insist, “Dude, let’s go get us some mutton.”
Finally, my dad found me with Rick, and he flew into a blind rage, yelling that he had no son, and that if I was lucky I’d end up as a cheap Peruvian cardigan worn by a truck-stop hooker in Alaska. And so I ran away, and I went wild. I experimented with everyone and everything. Bulls. Mules. Duck, duck, goose. I found out exactly why they’re called the Three Little Pigs. Call me Old McDonald, because I had the farm. I even made some adult films, and maybe you’ve heard of them: “Wet Wool,” “Lassie, Come Here,” and the mega-selling “Hoof and Mouth.” Then, one morning, I woke up next to a horse, a hen, and an ear of corn—that’s right, all the food groups. And I was disgusted with myself. What was I, livestock?
And so I re-joined my flock, up on Brokeback. I didn’t expect to be accepted; I just needed some time to graze and grow. I had some terrific long talks with a wise old mountain goat, who told me, “Look, you can be anything you want to be—gay, straight, pashmina, whatever.” And I found my faith again, when I realized that, hey, there were sheep on the ark. There were sheep in the manger. And at the Last Supper there was stew.
At long last, I found the strength to come out to my family, my friends, and even my co-workers, to say right out loud, I’m Troy and I’m gay, but I hope that isn’t the most interesting thing about me. I’m just like you: I like to stand around in the rain and get caught in barbed wire and defecate while I’m asleep. And the amazing thing was—it was no big deal. Everyone nuzzled me, and my mom said that deep down she’d always known, and that she’d hoped that I’d grow up to be an artist or a performer or a cashmere crewneck. Of course, Little Bo Peep, my shepherdess, got a little teary at first. “Are you sure?” she wondered. “I mean, you’re so masculine.” And I informed her that being gay doesn’t mean you have to act like a hummingbird or a Chihuahua. And then she asked, very confidentially, “Is it true about Elsie the cow? And Ellen?” And I just rolled my eyes and said, “Darling.”
Right about then is when I met Doug. I saw him across the pasture, and I just knew. I assumed there’d be talk—he’s a black sheep. And, I’ll confess, I used the oldest line in the barn. I sidled right up to him and I said, “Baa baa, black sheep, have you any wool?” And he looked me right in the eye and murmured, “Yes, sir, yes, sir, three bags full.” And I replied, “I can see that.” We’ve been together ever since, and we don’t care what anyone thinks. Because, baby, at the end of the day we’re all just animals.
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