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!/The Daily Tar Heel/Thursday, June 10, 1993
fp Established in 1893 Ifel
HHH A century of editorial freedom )
Kelly Ryan, Associate Editor
Leah Campbell, Arts and Features Editor
John C. Manuel, Sports Editor
Debbie Stengel, Photography Editor
JAY R. Davis, Copy Desk Editor
Just when a turbulent year is beginning to wind
down, another professor has fallen victim to the
University’s flawed tenure review process.
Assistant math Professor Idris Assani filed a law
suit May 21 against the University in U.S. District
Court. He charges he was discriminated against in
his tenure review process because of his race and
nationality. Assani, who is black and was bom in
Niger, says he was expected to meet a higher stan
dard to receive tenure than others in his department.
Assani is seeking $2.6 million and an injunction to
order the University to promote him to associate
professor, a position that comes with tenure.
Assam's complex battle with tenure began 2 1/2
years ago when he was denied promotion to associate
professor in the math department. All along, he has
avoided publicity and played within the rules of the
tenure game. First, he wrote a 13-page letter of
complaint to Stephen Birdsall, dean of the College of
Arts and Sciences, and waited patiently for a re
sponse. University policy requires that a professor
wait for a response from his dean before his case can
be heard by the Faculty Hearings Committee.
But Assani discovered that to file charges against
the University with the Equal Employment Opportu
nity Commission, he had do so within 180 days of the
date he was denied promotion. He received Birdsall’s
response about 10 days before the deadline.
It’s like building a better mousetrap. There are
always new ways to do it, but it always can be better.
Theories about how to improve student basket
ball-ticket distribution change every year, but there’s
never a solution to the problem it’s inefficient.
Carolina Athletic Association President Daniel
Thornton has come up with the newest solution to
long lines and drunken brawls.
Instead of having students wait in line all night to
get numbers at 4 a.m., the CAA will begin distribut
ing tickets at 9 a.m. That eliminates the 4 p.m. return
to the Smith Center to stand in another line with a
hangover as the CAA distributes tickets.
The plan might not be a great one, but it’s an
improvement.
Students will still must camp out on the freezing
Kudos to Southern Bell for answering the call of
duty.
About4,3oo of their customers in northeast Chapel
Hill lost phone service last week when workers
installing a sewer line severed two phone cables and
damaged another.
Southern Bell employees worked diligently for 70
straight hours reconnecting the lines to bring service
back to their customers. By noon Friday, the work
was done, and Southern Bell began assessing its
losses. While the phones were down, Southern Bell
set up phone banks at Eastgate Shopping Center and
Village Plaza so that customers could make free,
non-emergency calls. Customers will not be billed
for the time they did not receive phone service.
Southern Bell did all it could as quickly as possible
to restore phone service to its customers. The phone
outage occurred through no fault of the phone com
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Yi-Hsin Chang, Editor
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Erin Lyon, Layout Editor
Game over
Assani went ahead and filed a charge with the
EEOC, but the commission found insufficient evi
dence to conclude he was discriminated against
because of race. Assani was left with another short
deadline. He had 90 days to file a case in federal
court. So he did.
Whether Assani deserves tenure or not, one thing
is certain: the system has failed him. And, like the
many other tenure cases this past year, Birdsall is at
the heart of the problem.
Why did it take Birdsall 170 days almost half a
year—simply to respond to Assam's complaint? As
dean of the College of Arts and Sciences, it is
Birdsall’s responsibility to look into such matters
expediently and seriously.
Assani is but another casualty in the University
tenure game. Five other professors, including four
who have won University teaching awards, have
contested their tenure denials in the past year. Two
have had their denials overturned, and two still are
appealing their cases.
Enough is enough.
The University’s tenure review process has been
long overdue for a complete overhaul. It is a flawed
process, and it needs to be changed yesterday.
Let’s stop playing games and come up with a
process that is more fair. Let’s do it before any more
professors join the growing-list of casualties.
No traveling
cold asphalt of the Smith Center parking lot to be able
to see the Magic Trio —otherwise known as the best
recruiting class of the year. But at least it’s not a
weekend commitment, and Thornton promises to try
not to schedule ticket distributions at the same time
as major concerts at the Smith Center.
The CAA is trying its best to serve the students, but
it’s up to the students to help make the system work.
Ticket distribution always is marked by obnox
ious, drunken wisecracks who cut in line or complain
to the CAA all night.
Following the CAA’s rules and making construc
tive comments will make the process smoother and
more pleasant for everybody.
True, there should be a more civilized way to
distribute tickets, but at least we’re not Dook.
Thanks,
Ma Bell
pany. The company has determined that workers of
Bryant Electrical Cos., the private company hired by
the Orange Water and Sewer Authority to install a
sewer line, was responsible for cutting the cables.
Bryant will be charged for the damages.
Others also came to the rescue. Orange County
Emergency Management set up emergency access
points where residents without phone service could
reach fire, police and ambulatory services if neces
sary. Chapel Hill police and fire departments in
creased patrol in areas that lost service.
Because the cause of the phone outage was well
publicized, most Southern Bell customers were able
to cope without their phone service.
The phone outage was a reminder of how much
modem society has come to depend on technological
services. Thanks to Southern Bell’s hard work it was
only a short reminder.
P OFFICER PONALD BOULTON MAINTAINS
THE UNIVERSITY POLICE, TRADITION JEfff
OF UPHOLp/fSJCr TPSTICg _— —
-
Evolution of college student: waif to veteran
Well, kids, the first wave of C
TOPS has hit us like the Allies
storming the beaches of
Normandy, destroying our way of life
and just being a major nuisance. As I
stare in disbelief at a pack of fraternity
embryos looking blankly like mental
patients on a Thorazine fun-ride, gap
ing open-mouthed at the hairstyles of
the Pepper’s crowd, it causes me to
pause and reflect upon the evolution of
the college student, from a wide-eyed
waif stumbling around campus with a
tablecloth-sized map to a jaded and
battle-scarred veteran of the Hill.
Freshman Year: As freshmen get
their feet wet in the collegiate deep-end
of academia, trying to negotiate the
labyrinth that is Venable Hall and ac
custom their stomachs to the Lenoir
Dining Hall “cuisine,” they explore the
unlimited freedom of life away from the
folks. This normally consists of pack
ing themselves into the Ellis Island
crowds of a Granville Towers crawl and
consuming enough grain alcohol to kill
a middle-aged man.
Because they’re usually denied ac
cess to the bar scene, the liquoring of
these kids mainly comes from bribing
upperclassmen to get them a fifth of
distilled beverage and then holing up in
a dorm room with a few friends, flub
bing the rules to three-man and keeping
an eye out for the resident assistant.
Those with the yearning always can
cruise the frat scene during Rush, where
they’d find enough liquid to float the
Titanic. I myself pushed the outer limits
of the envelope at a “War on Brain
Cells” held by one of these fine institu
tions. That little skirmish with sobriety
resulted in a new-found familiarity with
rny porcelain pal as well as a nagging
three-day hangover. The joys of youth.
Sophomore Year: “Sophomore” lit
erally means “wise fool.” The adjective
“sophomoric” means “intellectually pre
tentious and conceited but immature
and ill-informed.” Sad but frighteningly
Eighth-grade pencil incident scars kid for life
A sif I didn’tknow it already,people
love controversy. I’ve gotten
more congratulations on being
blasted in a letter to the editor than on
any of the three columns I’ve written so
far. I’m not too sure what that says
about my columns, but if I’ve got people
talking then I’m doing something right.
Judging from the response, my words
have drawn sour blood from some of
my readers, so I think it’s time I get this
off my chest. My cynicism is not just a
bad attitude or narrow-mindedness. My
anger and opinions are rooted much
deeper in my childhood. Back when I
found for the first time that a pencil
could be a powerful weapon. Literally.
In the fragile days of eighth grade
gym class, students can be classified in
four groups. There are the girls who
screamed when the ball came at them,
who also happened to be the ones the
boys liked. There were the girls who
actually played volleyball, who frankly
never were talked to by any of the boys.
There were the athletic types like
myself, who arrogantly basked in our
overzealous mediocrity, and finally,
there was Dirk’s type.
Everyone knows a Dirk.
Dirk was always too cool to dress
out, so every day he would take off his
Members Only jacket, roll up the sleeves
on his Motley Cru‘ T-shirt and fake it in
order to keep up his image.
Needless to say, Dirk and I didn’t get
along so well.
Guys don’t grow chest hair until they
are 16 or so, but eighth grade gym class
is when the women get separated from
the girls, and in my class there was the
No evidence shows that
Saunders was in KKK
To the editor:
There were several statements in the
June 3 column by Charles Jones (“BCC
an equitable reparation for slaveiy past”)
that I found interesting. One in particu
lar, however, is of urgent concern to me.
As editor of the “Dictionary of North
Carolina Biography,” to be published
by the University Press, I am in the
midst of reading proofs for volume five,
Kevin ■
Kruse gj
Public I
Embarrassment
true.
Sophomores
feel like old
pros. They’ve
discovered that
the fry cook in
Lenoir cares as
much about
their academic
records as their
General Col
lege “advisers”
do; that if the
Student Health
Service can’t nail it down to strep or
mono, they never will cure what you’ve
got; and that the average student inevi
tably will owe rights to his or her first
born to the University Cashier.
In reality, they haven’t learned squat.
Academically, they’ve exhausted the
realm of “Introduction to ... “ courses
and finally have whittled that choice of
major down to six or seven. Socially,
they’ve abandoned the notion of dating
Miss Right and latched onto the idea of
hooking up with Miss Right Now.
Though they may seem knowledge
able, they still are going through the
motions of the freshman alcohol
mindset, target-vomiting from the eighth
floor of Hinton James after shot-gun
ning a 12-pack of “The Beast” or trying
to funnel their body weight in
Budweiser. Sure, they think they’ve got
this college thing down pat because
they have realized finally that a case of
Olympia is a lot better bang-for-your
buck than six shiny bottles of Miller
Lite. Oh, if they only knew.
Junior Year: Suddenly college is
half-over. Half of their favorite hang
outs have closed, moved or gone up in
an inferno like the flames of hell. (And
don’t try to tell me that the neon night
mare of Miami Subs has replaced the
beauty of Hector’s in any way or that a
crappy Pizza Inn is going to make up for
losing The Parlor, either.)
Juniors wind up roaming around East
61
Buddy
Harris 1
Eclectic Drip
love of my life.
But just to re
spect her ano
nymity, I’ll call
her Luscious
Linda. Dirk is
his actual name,
but I hate the
bastard.
Luscious
Linda wasn’t
very good at
volleyball, but
we all wanted
her on our team anyway, and the louder
she squealed, the harder we tried to
make her think we were good. She just
happened to be wearing my sweet gold
chain that faithful day when my life was
changed forever. That day when my
disposition was shaken, and fate’s cruel
whisper told me to forget about control
ling my own destiny ‘cause it ain’t
happenin’.
It was a typical game. Dirk and I
pounded each other a few times, des
perately trying to get to the ball. Ladies,
if you remember that guy who would
knock you down just to get the ball,
well, that was me.
Anyway, after Dirk and I had hit each
other a few times, it happened. Dirk
always kept a few pencils in his back
pocket just in case he had to forge a
permission slip or hall pass or some
thing, and in one faithful leap, he wrote
my reputation a one-way pass to uncool
guy detention.
As I came down, a sharp pain shot
through my left side like a bullet. My
eyes teared up, my mouth pasted up,
READERS' FORUM
which includes the letters P through S.
Jones appears to have access to infor
mation that historians of the state have
been seeking for nearly a century, and if
he can share his primary source with me
I would like to include it in the sketch of
William L. Saunders.
Historians and biographers have long
written that Saunders may have been a
member of the Ku Klux Klan. He said
that he was not a member, and a con
gressional investigation could not prove
that he was.
So far as I know, evidence that he
Franklin Street, cursing under their
breath like reminiscent alumni tailgat
ing by the rabble that once was home to
Top of the Hill’s 40-ounce Budweisers,
paying their last respects to the ma
tronly memory of Big Bertha, buried
deep under the mini-mall eyesore that
now occupies Fowler’s rightful throne.
This is the year when the “I’m mad as
hell, and I’m not gonna take it any
more” attitude kicks into high gear.
They’re sick of the know-it-all sopho
mores ridiculing the freshmen because
both groups look the same to them.
They eye the seniors with the same look
they give their Barcolounging fathers
“Someday, that’s gonna be me.”
Senior Year: In this whole year of
alcohol legality, seniors no longer have
time for it. The joys of blurry late-nights
are overshadowed by the looming
weight of internships, LSATs or GREs
and (shudder) life on their own. (Well,
not completely overshadowed, but, hey,
run with me on this one.) Those who
spent their academic career knee-deep
in a Blue Cup make a last-ditch effort to
pull up that GPA like they’re the hero in
a disaster flick attempting to yank that
plummeting 747 out of its nose dive
into the Great Plains.
Suddenly, “career” and “future” are
words that paralyze them like toddlers
wetting their Underoos over a “Night
mare on Elm Street” promo. Sure, a
knowledge of beers from around the
globe is handy for party chit-chat, but
not many people will pay you six fig
ures for that. Unless you’re a U.S. sena
tor, of course.
That’s where I’m at now. Because I
just turned 21 on June 8, I’ve still got a
little alcohol experimentation to work
out. Other than that, my life seems to be
devoted to paychecks and a looming
senior thesis. It’s gonna be a real hoot of
a summer. Yeehah.
Kevin Kruse is a senior history major
from Nashville, Tenn.
and I tried to get the courage to touch
my wound. My hand reluctantly fol
lowed the back of my leg until, sure
enough, it found a pencil lodged about
an inch into my left cheek.
Could no one help. “I knew you
should’ve dressed out,” I screamed at
Dirk. I looked around helplessly, fu
tilely for sympathy. We all know that in
eighth grade, the amount of sympathy
you get is conversely proportionate to
the amount of acne on your face, so I
can’t say that I actually expected any.
“Buddy got a pencil in his asshole.
Buddy got a pencil in his asshole,” Dirk
yelled as he fell to the ground laughing.
“It’s not in my asshole,” I cried.
“Shut up. I’m gonna kill you as soon as
I pull this pencil out of my ass.” I’m
sorry if I’m rambling, it’s taken me
eight years to muster up the strength to
talk about this.
I walked into the locker room with
my only true friend in the class, Rick.
“Rick,” I said, “you’ve got to do me a
favor. You’ve got to pull this pencil out
of my butt.”
“Hell no.” Rick answered loudly.
In my pitiful state, I looked at Rick
passionately. “OK, OK, but you’ve got
to do me one favor. Tell Luscious Linda
that it didn’t go in my butthole.”
Whether that No. 2 went in my
butthole or not —and it didn’t —as I
lay in the backseat of my Dad’s Impala,
I realized I was destined to be on fate’s
bad side. And to be honest, I’m still
pissed.
Buddy Harris is a senior journalism
and psychology major from Charlotte.
was an actual member still has not been
found.
Nevertheless, Jones describes
Saunders as “a militant leader of the Ku
Klux Klan during Reconstruction.”
If he can share with me contempo
rary evidence to that effect I would
certainly like to include it in the biogra
phy of Saunders and settle the question
permanently.
WILLIAM S. POWELL
Professor Emeritus
History