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82nd Year of Editorial Freedom
All unsigned editorials sre the opinion of the editors. Letters end cclcmns represent the opinions of
Founded February 23, U93
Tuesday, February 18, 1975
During the next two weeks students will have their
second annual opportunity to use their $8,500 prod to
encourage better teaching at the university. Now that the
balloting has been democratically opened to all the
students, and the awards committee proved courageous
enough last year to approve some professionally
unpopular recipients, this spring's annual teaching
awards ceremony could well be a potent student weapon
for academic reform.
As students, we are, quite frankly, lucky to have the
Amoco and the Salgo Foundations' money to use for
our own purposes. But we must be careful to coordinate
our efforts so that not a penny is wasted. To this end,
all students should pick up ballots at the YMCA, the
Union, Chase Cafeteria, the South Building information
desk, and the House and the Health Services libraries,
vote for their eight most challenging and stimulating
professors, not the easiest, funniest, or most personally
likable of the teachers they have had at UNC,
make sure that the ballot contains several specific
and accurate observations supporting your choice, and
that none of the teachers has already won the award in
the last five years, thus automatically disqualifying him,
get together with friends to make sure they are also
supporting a qualified and deserving academic ticket,
at the end of the ballot, include the three worst
teachers you have had at UNC so that we may
discourage inferior teaching as well as encourage the
This "election" could well be more important for your
future happiness at UNC than any student government
election, and students should vote accordingly. The
teaching awards should not just be a popularity contest,
but rather a direct and concerted student effort to
improve all the teaching at Carolina.
Too often students have abused their responsibility in
the past and the awards have sometimes been more a
'kiss of death than an achievement. Last year four of the
eight recipients were not rehired, one had died, and
another had already received the award once before.
This year students should carefully choose their most
enlightening teachers and fight for their retention.
The teaching awards are one of the student body's
only ways to challenge the "publish or perish" mentality
which has recently taken even stronger hold in the
departments at UNC. We must make Rank and Tenure
committees realize how important teaching skills really
are to students by making plain our wishes. However we
vote, our faculty choices will be very revealing, but
hopefully they will only show our good judgment,
common sense and intelligence, not our more selfish
'OK, THAT'S FAR ENOUGH THAT'S FAR ENOUGH THAT'S FAR ENOUGH THAT'S FAR
No-fault insurance needed
John Roper was exhausted. He had
been driving a tractor-lawnmower
through acre after acre of grassland with
the temperature exceeding 1 00 degrees
most of the afternoon. When the time
finally came to quit for the day, he
wrapped a towel around his neck,,
hopped into the sturdy old Chevy and
headed straight for the local swimming
As he approached a narrow curve
leading to a bridge, John took one hand
off the wheel to roll down his window.
The power of the ventillation caught
him unexpectedly and blew the towel
into his face, blinding his vision of the
road. The car veered left off the bridge
and into the water. John escaped with
vs. Southern fun
Thanks for your hospitality. Your
home is just lovely and Franklin Street,
an unusual conglomeration of crazy
" Wfiaf I'm trying to say is... Weil
Uncle, I'm not really sure. I had hoped
my visit to Chapel Hill would make
decision-making easier. However, I fear
my visit added only confusion to my
existing inability to structure future
The South? Well maybe. But New
England? Gosh, you know how I love
that place. Old New England, homey
little towns. Countryside, bright sunny
green in summer. Dark hard earth in fall
with a toughness and dignity that makes
me weep. And the snow-covered cities at
twilight mixed with red, green and white
lights makes fairyland and fantasy come
Uncle, if you don't mind my honesty,
you yourself would never have left
Maine if it hadn't been for Aunt Matilda
the way she dragged you down South
so she could accept that professorship.
The New England coast! Every
summer morning those dear fishermen
bring to shore the smells and tastes from
sea. And how proudly I watch my
townspeople gather along the wobbly,
splintered piers in Connecticut. The
harbortown fills with anticipated
hunger as the baskets of ice await the
purchase of shrimp, lobster, flounder
and blues. New England clam chowder
so creamy-white and thick. Cherry
stones on the half shell, chewy and cold.
I can't leave this Uncle, the place I
love; my home where people and land
are solid and secure. Smiles are cold yet
Can I leave my snowmen with carrot
mouths and raisin eyes; my forts of ice,
my mittens and sleigh? Can I leave the
white smooth laws and the all-but-white
slushy roads? Those bitter winters which
freeze my fingers and turn my thighs
into red numbness?
Then the anticipation of spring. All
winter I dream of the mountain laurel
that will soon surround my home. The
smell is lovelier than mother's finest
perfume. I sit by the window and wait
for our robins to return North.
Late March blizzard, the snowfall
finale, spreads new inches on ton of old.
Shovelling at midnight with neighbors.
And the morning sun melts the
snowmounds. Icicles shrink and
disappear. Roads flood and my
snowman leaves. One lonely carrot rots
on the soggy grass.
Uncle, my stay in Chapel Hill made
me realize New England's grandness,
and Chapel Hill, not so grand. Chapel
Hill is too special, too unordinary to
grand. There in January, people outside
together sharing their fun in shorts and
barefeet. Smiles and laughter, dogs and
friends, all together with frisbees,
books, bicycles and cigarettes. So happy
together in January with sun and spring,
with damp air of a. summer's day, with
breeze of early fall. Then tomorrow,
midwinter season of frost and snow, ice
and rain, clouds and cold. People curse.
Umbrellas snap. Bicycles stay home. In
January. In Chapel Hill.
The joy of such craziness stays within
me. The absurdity of Chapel Hill is too
Uncle, please send advice. I just don't
Send my love to Aunt Matilda.
Barbara Ruzansky is
journalism major from Hartford, Conn
The Moscow bluejean connection
In Pendleton overcoat and without a hat, looking
very unRussian, I spent my last morning in Moscow
browsing among her seedier streets and alleys where
heavy people in heavy coats busied themselves
shopping and walking quickly. At a street corner an
unsmiling woman sold ice cream for 20 Kopecks. I
bought one and waited to cross the street when I was
tapped on the shoulder. .
"American?" A young Russian about my age stood
close behind me, his back against the wind. 4You are
"Yes, er...da." The light turned red and I crossed the
street, He followed and waited for the crowd to pass.
"You maybe interested in gold icons and bid coins?"
A black marketer, a petty swindler or perhaps an
undercover agent of the grim KGB, waiting to ambush
a semi-innocent tourist! Even so this siren sang my
"Coins you day?" (I have a passion for old coins.)
"And gold icons!"
Icons were out of the question. They would either be
cheap fakes or expensivemitations, and besides there
would be problems at the border. But coins were small
and eminently smuggleable.
"And what do you want in exchange?" a dumb
"You have maybe Levis?" Of course.
We arranged to meet that afternoon before an
abandoned church; he with the coins, I with the
I arrived at the church with a shopping bag. The
street was busy. Cooly I passed the minutes playing
tourist, fiddling with my camera in front of that
church. It was an ancient ruin of ornately carved stone
and shattered windows. Grass and twisted bushes grew
atop the broken bell tower. As I focused the lens, a
familiar tap on the shoulder. My business associate
stood nervously behind me.
"You have the jeans?"
"Yes," and I held up the shopping bag.
A bearded shopkeeper with cloth and window
cleaner stared at us nastily from his doorstep. "We
cannot talk here. Please follow me, please."
He lead me into the courtyard of an old palace which
had been converted into crumbling apartments.
Children were playing on a tireswing. I had begun to
snow. We went through a cellar door and down some
steps, along a dim, earthy corridor with a single bare
light bulb swinging in the window drafts. Through
another door we stopped on the landing of a dark
stairwell. There we bargained.
I pulled out my barter. Starchy-new American Levis
a la J. C. Penny.
"Do you have the coins?" But then someone sneezed
behind one of the doors. My friend turned to me and
"Please, please talk soft. It will be very bad if we are
heard, Coins? Yes, I have them," and he rummaged
through his coat pockets and produced a handful of
tarnished silver and copper coins: "A ruble of. King
Nikolai the Second, and a Aleksandre half ruble, and
here a Kopec of Queen Anna..."
A door opened above and the stairs began to creak.
My friend quickly and very calmly pocketed the coins
and commenced small talking as an old woman
hobbled down the steps with a battered bucket and
waddled slowly to the basement door. The door closed
and we resumed negotiations. As we haggled over the
number of coins he would trade for my Levis, the
basement door slowly inched open. "Please put the
coins in your pocket, please," and he again chatted in
Russian and laughed and I laughed too, for
apperances. The old woman, her pail filled with coal,
climbed back up the stair and her door shut softly.
By now we were cold and impatiently settled the deal
50 dollars worth of old coins for a pair of bluejeans.
After shaking hands we departed by a different street
and caught myself more than once looking over my
shoulder. But there was no one. The street was
deserted, except for an old babushka, wrapped in a
heavy wool shawl. She hunched over her apron filled
with sand and every few steps would toss a handful
onto the icy pavement. I passed her cautiously, but she
was too absorbed in her work to even notice me, or the '
illegal jingle in my pocket.
John Coffey is a junior history fart histroy major
from Raleigh. He was a member of the UNC Russian
tour during semester break.
minor cuts and bruises but the car was a
To compound his guilt and horror,
John could not collect anything from
insurance. The standard automobile
insurance covers only innocent victims
of another driver's carelessness. The
family had not been able to afford much
accident insurance. John's father had
been incapacitated several years earlier
by a stroke and was still receiving
expensive but necessary treatment. The
Ropers were left to grin and bear their
Unfortunately, , their case is not
atypical. With today's automobile
"liability" insurance, a person actually
purchases coverage for the person with
whom he has an automobile accident. If
he wants to recover compensation for
his won injuries, his insurance company
must hire a lawyer and prove in court
that the other driver was the sole cause
of the accident. If the lawyer is
successful, the policy holder recovers
form the other driver's insurance
company. If, however, he was slightly at
fault "contributing negligence" in
legal jargon he can legally collect
Senator Frank Moss of Utah
estimates that if an insurance purchaser
himself is injured in an accident there is
less than a 50-50 chance he will be able
to recover losses from liability insurance
carried by someone else. Nationally, as
many as 20 per cent of drivers in some
places carry no insurance whatever and
have no attachable assets. (North
Carolina law states that all car owners
must purchase liablity insurance.) Also,
a person might be injured in a single car
accident, as in John Roper's case, and it
does "no good to sue the tree.
Time Magazine reported recently that
one fourth of all automobile victims
never collect a dime. Each year 100
million Americans pay more than Sl6
billion in automobile insurance
premiums and receive only $8 million in
benefits for injury and loss, according to
a Department of Transportation
study about 15 per cent of their total
economic loss of $5. 1 billion a year. This
is clearly an outrageous injustice.
Where does the rest of the money go?
To insurance administrators and trial
lawyers; the latter grossing $1.5 billion
annually alone. .
Under the present system there is
usually more than a year delay in
payment from the insurance company
for those relatively few individuals who
do collect. By then, of course, you may
have gone into debt or sold prized
possessions or have been forced to settle
with a grasping insurance adjustor for
an amount less than what you deserve. If
you are not willing to settle for less than
loss, the crowded court dockets and
insurance "processing" will gripe you
enough to give you second thoughts
about your stubborness.
After more than five years of debate,
hearings and studies, it appears that the
Congress is finally going to do
something about the unacceptable
automobile insurance system that
Americans are up against: The Senate
passed a reasonably good no-fault bill
last year and the two houses are
expected to work out their differences
within the coming months, provided
that citizen concern is constant.
The 94th Congress should act
expeditiously in passing a national no
fault bill that will, in the very least,
prevent people like the Ropers from
suffering undue hardship.
Jim Buie is a junior journalism major
from Wagram, N.C.
Letters to the editors
Old West Dorm
needs loading zone
To the editors:
This a formal expression of objection by
the residents of Old West Residence Hall to a
recent policy enacted by the University via
the campus police. This policy is the
strengthening of enforcement of the driving
on sidewalk rule for the sidewalks directly
adjacent to Old West. Old West is situated in
an area that is near no parking lots or other
possible unloading zones and therefore in
the past residents have pulled their cars up
on sidewalks for brief unloading. In the past
week posts have been implanted blocking
access to sidewalks and for those going
around the posts, $10 fines have been given.
We realize the importance of enforcing
stated rules but also realize the bind we are
placed in for loading and unloading
(groceries, belongings at end of year, etc.).
To relieve this bind we ask that the
University establish an unloading zone near
Old West, possibly on the driveway between
.Gerrard and Memorial Halls. We feel that it
is necessary for prompt and decisive action
on the part of the campus police concerning
this area of possible future conflict.
and 59 residents of Old West
To the editors:
In her Wednesday DTH column, Laura
Toler indicated that modern technology has
.rendered homemaking a relatively simple
and brief task, consequently making it a
secondary and non-fulfilling concern. My
experience has been rather that effective
homemaking is almost always a full-time
carrer. It should be undertaken only by those '
women and men.who realize that much time
for creative and thoughtful effort is required
to produce the pleasant, as well as
. interesting, home atmosphere requisite for
development of profitable family
relationships and persons prepared for
Consequently, I conjecture that when
homemakers "cannot respect themselves
solely for the work they perform in the
home" and society succeeds in convincing
them that theirs is a second-rate career, then
soon we shall find ourselves surrounded by
more and more unhappy persons having not
benefited from or learned the indispensable
nature of committed love. When that
happens, perhaps children maintained in day
care centers, neglected husbands and wives,
and parents pursuing prestigious goals will
be convinced (possibly too late to profit from
it) that "self-fulfillment" involves far more
than jobs, talents and money.
613-D Hibbard Drive
Jlfn Cooper, Greg Turo:
David Ennis, Associate Editor
Lu Ann Jonss, Associate Editor
David Klinger, News Editor
Aisn Murray, Features Editor
uuzzn Shseksiferd, Sports Editor
Gene Johnson, Wire Editor"
Martha Stevens, Head Photographer
Jim Grimsby, Night Editor