PAGE TWO
THE BENNETT BANNER
Friday, February 22, 1991
Is our blood a fair trade for oil?
WAR! The war most people feared has now begun. On Jan. 16, 1991, the day
after the birthday of Martin Luther King Jr., a man who fought for peace
and equality, America declared war. What an appropriate time to declare death
and destruction. America is unbelievable.
Not only has America sent her sons and daughters to a hot foreign land,
she has ordered them to fight for the sake of her greed.
America has tried to claim that her reasons for fighting Iraq were to com
bat aggression and to end the mistreatment of a people. Give us a break,
America! If aggression and mistreatment of a people were America’s main con
cern, she would have invaded South Africa during the ’80s in order to stop the
oppression of the African people.
At this stage America’s reasons for war are not the main focus. Unfortu
nately, the focus has shifted to the war in the Persian Gulf.
In the beginning of this war, the American people were given the impres
sion that America was on top. America was teaching Saddam Hussein a lesson.
We were told that the war would be over soon. However, this is not the whole
story. True, America is on top overall, but all does not happen to be all.
America has destroyed SCUD missile sites and Iraqi planes and has taken
Iraqi prisoners and lives. But America has problems. It has lost planes and lives
and has realized that some of the SCUD missile sites were decoys. The realities
of war have begun to set in and the confidence of the American people is slowly
deteriorating.
The effects of war are being felt not only all over the Middle East, but
America herself is being affected. Military bases across the United States are
being placed under heavy security, America is being threatened by terrorists,
young children are wondering where Mommy and Daddy are and the majority
of the Americans fear for the lives of their loved ones. America, is oil really
worth all of this?
Men and women, some of who have not been fully trained, have left their
families, their friends and their homeland to fight for a cause that they are
not even sure of.
America must take the time to look at the predicament she has placed her
self in, and ask her leaders and herself is life worth more or less than material
gain. (Kimberly Buck)
Stop! without I.D., you don’t eat
This may sound harsh or even hyperbolic, but the glass doors in the cafe
are beginning to resemble the Berline Wall that once separated East and West
Germany.
On one side, there are students who want to satisfy their hunger or con
verse with friends during this time while on the other side there are guards
called TWM workers who decide more often than not to send us away without
our meal. . .
I understand that only so much food is prepared for the students, but is it
really necessary to deny entrance because a student forgets her I.D. card one
day? And is the food really so delicious that people pour into the cafe off the
street to feast upon the leftover leftovers?
Everyday I observe students trying to get in the cafe, but after a brief “You
can’t get in without an I.D.” statement from the TWM worker, they leave.
Students offer many legitimate excuses as to why they may not have an
I.D., but most of the time, all we get are “try to be more responsible” lectures
and a swift verbal kick out the door.
A few weeks ago, a student tried to enter the cafe, but was told to leave
because she did not have an I.D. She stayed and the hassle began. Ms. Frankie
Howell was called, then Dean Phyllis Ethridge and finally security. Why? Be
cause a student whose bill is paid did not have her I.D. and was trying to eat a
meal that she paid for.
To my sui’prise, security arrived within minutes. I wish they could do this
when a real crime has been committed. The next thing we know security will start
monitoring the doors.
Just as the wall in Berlin came tumbling down, so must this glass barrier.
(Erica Salter)
War: no longer a figment of imagination
opinion
by Rehan Overton
The image of war is not a
figment of the imagination
anymore, but a horrifying
reality. No more does a sliver
of “hope beyond hope” over
shadow our anxieties about
guns, chemicals and im
minent death. Now, it has
become a daily ritual for
many Americans to sit mes
merized in front of their TV
sets for hours to devour any
morsel of fresh news that has
seeped out of the Middle East.
Those of us who have
formed our personal opinions
on the war in the Gulf as
sume that if our feet could
fit in the shoes of our law
makers, we would have had
Saddam Hussein packing his
bags of defeat and wearing
a cloak of obscurity before
this thing got out of hand.
According to political ana
lysts, this is not so. The Iraqi
military is definitely a force
to be reckoned with. President
Bush and his aides have come
to the realization that Hussein
is not another Kadafi or
Noriega. American soldiers
cannot shoot a few rounds of
ammunition and make Hus
sein surrender. The propa
gandists cannot lie to the
American people about the
overwhelming victories our
military is having compared
to that of the Iraqis; we are
not living in the naive ’50s
... or are we?
If one were to conduct an
objective poll, concerning the
war, on any college campus,
a cacophony of patriotic
rhetoric and outcries of pas
sionate dissent would be
heard. Although most Gallup
polls suggest that the major
ity of America is behind the
president, college students
and other pacifists still have
a lot of questions to be answ
ered by the White House. For
instance, what are we really
over there for? Oil or im
perialistic humanitarianism?
If the latter is the case, why
are we not in South Africa
liberating the true South
Africans from their obvious
oppressors ?
Why is there a large dis
proportionate figure of black
and other minority soldiers
of low-income households to
that of white? Doesn’t that
say something about the
crisis situation here in the
states where young minorities
must enlist in the armed
forces in order to pay for
college, only to die on foreign
soil at such a tender age?
Are we wrong for interfering
in matters that some say are
no concern of ours, in a land
where the ideals of Ameri
canism are shunned and de
nounced by practically every
one?
Let’s face it: our govern
ment has made the decision
for our soldiers to be chris
tened the intemational peace
makers. Our brave young
women and men are the free
dom fighters, the avengers
of the underdogs, the global
cops, able to leap tall armies
in a single bound!
We all know war is not a
euphoric experience for either
side. Hopefully, when the
smoke clears, all the world
will look upon the treacher
ous situation in the Gulf as
a stepping-stone towards
world understanding. Let’s
not forget that Operation
Desert Shield became Opera
tion Desert Storm on the
birthday of the peaceful Dr.
Martin Luther King Jr. Many
of us, so wrapped up in the
rumors of war, let Jan. 15
pass by without a single
thought about the man who
died for what Bush has been
trying to accomplish since
August 1990 and has failed
to do yet.
Mom, daughter end awful silence
an essay
by DaMica L. Wilson
I don’t even know why I
was scared of my mother
when she got like that, but,
even at the age of twenty, it
made me feel like I was two
years old again. Maybe it was
the innate silence.
But, if she came home mad,
or upset, or depressed, or dis
gusted, or however it was that
she felt (I never knew be
cause she never told me, even
if I asked). I would lower my
head, my hands would start
to sweat and shake, my eyes
would swell with anxiety or
maybe just tears, my voice
would start to quiver, and I
would make myself physically
ill — sick to the stomach, or
something, anything to take
her mind off of whatever was
troubling her. And maybe I
went deaf or something, be
cause all I could hear was
that little girl inside of me
purging that age-old question
that all children, young and
old, ask themselves, “What
did I do to make Mommy
mad?” And I was all alone,
and I was scared.
It never really occurred to
Bennett
Editor
Associate editor Rehan Overton
Reporters Gloria Carr, Dawn Collins, Kimberly Dargan,
Jacqueline K. Davis, Monica Hawkins, Lacy Pugh, Elizabeth Richardson,
Olivia Rowe, Candra Ruffin, Monica Surida, Tamara Williams
Production staff Brooke Walker, Dionne Walker
Adviser Michael Gaspeny
Opinions expressed in essays, columns and letters to the editor belong
to their authors, not to the staff of the Banner, whose ideas appear in the
editorials at the top of this page.
Send letters to the editor to Box 2, campus post office. All corres
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me in those days of “bowed
head, and lowered eyes” that
my mother was not upset with
me or anything that even con
cerned me. Maybe in some
egocentric sense I thought
that her life was centered
around mine, and that her
state of being was dependent
solely upon me. Maybe I was
just so concerned about her
happiness that mine no longer
mattered. Or maybe I had
been living my life for my
mother, and for her praise,
and when I wasn’t getting
that praise, it hurt like a
sickness or maybe death.
Whatever it was, it made
me forget how to think. I
reverted to that two-year-old
mentality. I could feel myself
swallowing all of my strength,
pride, and confidence and self
esteem and there was nothing
I could say or do to stop it.
I had never realized that I
didn’t have to allow that little
girl inside of me to take over
my life, until the day I con
quered my fear. It had never
dawned on me that I could
gain control. It wasn’t until
Christmas break of my junior
year in college that I was
able to regain myself.
It was the last Friday of
Christmas vacation and my
mother had come home from
work a little later than usual.
Actually, it was much later
because I had begun to worry
about her. I had even called
her job to see if she had left
yet. When my mother finally
did an'ive, I ran to the door
to greet her. She grunted a
brief hello, and with her atti
tude, she dismissed me. I
don’t know what made me
think I was in the wrong, but
I immediately started to
clean up the house. I even
decided to wash the dishes,
which was far from my favo
rite chore.
My mother had dropped
down on the living room sofa,
and looked at me with pure
disgust as I entered the room
to collect the dirty dishes.
That look had frightened me
so much that I couldn’t even
summon enough nerve to ask,
“What’s wrong, Mommy,” the
question that usually received
a reverberating “Nothing!”
I merely tucked my head like
a good little girl and took my
leave toward the kitchen.
The journey from the living
room to the kitchen seemed
to take an eternity. I could
feel my stomach pulling into
knots. My hands were so wet
that the glasses I had been
carrying began to slip, and
with every step I felt the
weight of 500 pounds come
crashing down on me. Maybe
the crashing was only my
mother mechanically switch
ing the television from chan
nel to channel, but I cried
long silent tears.
When I finally reached the
sink, I turned on the cold
water and splashed my burn
ing face. I wanted to put my
whole head under the faucet
and drown my sorrows. And
all I could hear from the
other room was my mother’s
sighing and grunting, and
moving around on the couch,
and the silence, the damned
silence. Why did she have to
turn the stereo off while my
favorite song was playing?
Why was the television stuck
on that stupid channel that
showed nothing but a big blue
screen from 8 a.m. to 8 p.m.?
Why did she even refuse to
acknowledge that I was speak
ing to her when I asked, “How
was your day?” And when
I walked into the living room,
why did she look me in the
eyes, shake her head, rise
from the couch, turn her back
to me and start moving
toward the stairs?
(see page 3)