magazine - university of pennsylvania · 2009-11-26 · magazine of the. u. niversity of. p....

Volume 12, No. 5November 9, 2009

magazine

2 FIRST CALL NOVEMBER 9, 2009

FIRSTLOOK

CONTACTFIRST CALL, KeLLy WRITeR’S HouSe

3805 LoCuST WALK, PHILAdeLPHIA, PA 19104WWW.FIRSTCALLmAgAzIne.Com

[email protected]

CONTRIBUTORSEditor-in-ChiEf: Charlie isaaCs • ChiEf dEsign Editor: AveRy mILLeR

ChiEf Art Editor: Dan Markowitz • Artists: dAn mARKoWITz, nATALIe gRAvIeR, Aude BRooS

CommuniCAtions mAnAgEr: Valeria tsygankoVa • BusinEss mAnAgEr: anDrew Jones • AdvErtising mAnAgEr: ALySSA kaplan • distriBution mAnAgEr: syDney sCott • Editors: vALeRIA TSygAnKovA, ALySSA KAPLAn, Sydney SCoTT, RACHeL Fisher, MiChael FielD • Columnists: alyssa kaplan, syDney sCott, Charlie isaaC, Valeria tsygankoVa• WritErs: JAySon WeIngARTen, mIKAeLA PedLoW, gHALIA S., dAnIeL FeLSenTHAL

DESIGNER BABIES12

ON UMBRELLAS10

ALYSSA KAPLANAlyssa gives insight into the dangers of Preimplantaion Genetic Diagnosis.

Jayson discusses the many flaws in this seemingly practical invention.

COVER: UNTITLED, UNKNOWN

JAYSON WEINGARTEN

4 BORDER TOWNSA short storyDANIEL FELSENTHAL

9

VALERIA TSYGANKOVA

1413

87

15 POETRY: UNTITLED

POETRY: OPIUMGHALIA S.

POETRY: ROACHMIKAELA PEDLOW

WITHOUT A PLANCHARLIE ISAACSCharlie discusses his future.

16

HOW TO DEALSYDNEY SCOTTSydney discusses strategies for dealing with irritating peers.

PHOTO SPOTLIGHT: SAN FRANCISCOAUDE BROOS

COMIC: GLASS HALF EMPTY DAN MARKOWITZ

3FIRST CALL NOVEMBER 9, 2009

LETTER FROMTHE EDITORS

EDITORIALPOLICY

FIRST CALL IS ThE uNdERgRAduATE MAgAzINE OF ThE uNIVERSITy OF PENNSyLVANIA PuBLIShEd EVERy OThER MONdAy. OuR MISSION IS TO PROVIdE MEMBERS OF ThE COMMuNITy AN OPEN FORuM FOR ExPRESSINg IdEAS ANd OPINIONS. TO ThIS ENd, wE, ThE EdITORS OF FIRST CALL, ARE COMMITTEd TO A POLICy OF NOT CENSORINg OPIN-IONS. ARTICLES ARE PROVIdEd By REguLAR COLuMNISTS ANd wRIT-ERS. ThEy ARE ChOSEN FOR PuB-LICATION BASEd ON ThE quALITy OF wRITINg, ANd, IN ThE CASE OF COMMENTARIES, ThE quALITy OF ARguMENTATION. OuTSIdE OF ThE EdITORIAL ANd OThER EdITORIAL CONTENT, NO ARTICLE REPRESENTS ThE OPINION OF FIRST CALL, ITS EdITORIAL BOARd, OR INdIVIduAL MEMBERS OF FIRST CALL OThER ThAN ThE AuThOR. NO CONTENT IN FIRST CALL uNLESS OThERwISE STATEd REPRESENTS ThE OFFICIAL POSITION OF ThE AdMINISTRA-TION, FACuLTy, OR STudENT BOdy AT LARgE OF ThE uNIVERSITy OF PENNSyLVANIA. firstcal

lism

“I LOVE DAN and I HATE Charlie”

SuPPoRTed By thE kElly WritEr’s

housE

Hello Quakers!I don’t know how you guys are feel-

ing about the current change of climate, but I must say I am NOT PLEASED. I walked outside yesterday and I legiti-mately lost all feeling in my extremities in less than five seconds. The only posi-tive aspect of this frigid environment is that it gives me an excuse to drink even more coffee than usual since consuming a hot beverage is no longer a choice, but a necessity. In reality, this change in weath-er can only signify one thing: winter is almost here. This means that finals are al-most here, which means that the semes-ter is basically over. WHAT? Seriously…STOP. How did this happen? Does any-one else feel as though we JUST moved back in? We actually only have 5 weeks left of class. UTTER BLASPHEMY.

I’m trying to rationalize the startling fact that my college career is disappear-ing by fooling myself into thinking that I’ve just been busy. This is only a tempo-rary distraction - don’t let my composure fool you- I’m kind of flipping out. And when these moments strike me- I like to pick up the latest copy of First Call Mag-azine to unwind and divert my attention from reality.

In this issue, we have an excellent combination of photography, poetry, and prose.

First, Daniel tells a short story about a road trip to Mexico where the protago-nist must deal with an adventure gone awry.

Alyssa gives us insight into the world of designer babies. Has specifi-

cation gone too far? Alyssa shows that technological advancement can have very negative repercussions.

Next Jayson analyzes the umbrella and shows how useless and impractical it is in application. After reading this arti-cle, you too will be questioning whether this instrument has any positive aspects at all.

Charlie explores and shares his in-ternal battles about searching for a career path. Is having a plan the best method for success?

Then, Sydney analyzes and attacks the stereotypical student who asks those unnecessary questions in class.

Finally, please enjoy poetry from Ghalia and Mikaela, as well as from fel-low Editor Valeria, who even incorpo-rates Russian into her words.

Check out Dan’s comic on the back page, as well as photography by Aude.

These exciting features will keep you relaxed and clear your head for the com-ing season. After all, now that Halloween is over, Thanksgiving/Chanukah/Christ-mas/Kwanzaa/New Years Eve is literally AROUND the corner. So grab a copy of First Call, dress in layers, and drink A LOT of coffee. HAPPY WINTER!

Sincerely,

Avery MillerChief Design Editor


BORDER TOWNSDANIEL FELSENTHAL

A SHORT STORY

The trunk was lined: two suitcases, Jim’s stuff, Kate’s stuff, a large sleep-

ing bag, some food. Easy-to-make food, canned food, even some Lunchables. Lit-erally Lunchables. Like they were nine years old. Lining the bottom of the suit-cases were twelve grams of weed and roll-ing papers. Kate was asleep in her bed. Jim’s dad was there with Jim, leaning on the trunk of the rust-colored Wrangler.

“Listen, I can pay for a train to Lar-edo, at least.”

Jim didn’t want support, economic or otherwise. Being born in the trust-fund generation is a burden, he thought. It’s a weight.

“No, it’s fine dad, I just wanna do this without help.”

“Yeah, I get it Jim. It’s just worri-some.”

“It’s fine, Kate’s with me.”Jim’s dad scoffed. Jim feigned of-

fense.“You think she can protect you?

Mexico is violent, Jim. It’s scary. I’ve been watching the news.”

Jim knew Kate wasn’t exactly the road-trip type, or the drive-around-the-desert-smoking-pot trip type. But it was fine, because they were no longer togeth-er and she wasn’t coming. They broke

up the previous night in a flurry of an-ger that turned to violence. He didn’t hit her, he wouldn’t have, but her nails left imprints in his tan Texas skin. He cut himself shaving, he told his dad. Bullshit.

Jim kept Kate’s stuff because they packed the car early the previous night. It was before things went sour, before they went to her house and he found out about the baby and she told him he needed to stay. And she had every-thing in there, all the canned food and supplies; she even had four grams of his weed in her bag, and he was too lazy and high to transfer it. He didn’t want his dad asking questions, anyway. And in a small way, he needed her suitcase, and he wasn’t thinking about the pot, although he probably needed that too. Really, he needed something to remind him. And that’s why his trip was doomed: he want-ed to be reminded.

But still, this was it, he was leaving, it was done. Rich, rah-rah Austin, Texas; a piece of personal history. Jim shut the trunk and turned back to his father. His dad looked old in that moment, melan-choly and lonesome. His face drooped like a sad clown’s, the unshaven gray hairs on his cheeks stark and lonely. His face seemed to plead safety, and Jim al-

most pocketed the keys and gave up. But he didn’t, because he had too much his-tory behind him, too many memories of his nine and ten-year-old self poring over maps in his childhood bedroom, dreaming of adventure. There wasn’t any turning back.

“Dad, don’t worry, I’m gonna be fine,” he said instead, and he and his fa-ther awkwardly embraced, as though their bodies didn’t exactly connect. It was a second too short, the hug, a physi-cal motion lacking in finality. Jim won-dered if his dad smelt any substance on him. And then it was done and Jim was gone, his father left in the dust, sonless and wifeless and utterly alone.

---Twenty minutes later and Jim was

cruising. I-35 was empty, the sun still a solid half-hour from rising. It was just Jim and Pink Floyd at seventy-five miles-per-hour, Dark Side of the Moon ser-enading the Dark Side of the Freeway. It was times like these that Jim was happy to be alone, happy to have his music and nothing else. He didn’t need Kate with him; if she was here she would want to talk, she would fiddle with the volume incessantly and eventually insist that he switch to KGSR radio, so they could lis-

Amy [email protected]


ten to Eric Clapton one second and Mar-vin Gaye the next. Jim didn’t understand radio, it was too sudden, filled to the brim with sound bites and lacking in real musical ideas. He thought life should be lived suddenly; music should be expe-rienced in broad strokes. Kate was the opposite. That’s why she wanted him to stay. That’s why she wanted him to wait the long nine months with her, and who knows how much longer.

There I go, he thought, thinking too much again, thinking about her. The darkness was beautiful, easy, just him and the music and the eighteen wheeler ahead. It was the daylight that was the problem, when the rush-hour traffic bloomed out of those tiny hot towns and sped toward San Antonio. When Jim got frustrated, when he got stuck in between those early morning commuters, that’s when he wanted someone there, some-one to occupy him. She should be here, he thought. She was supposed to. But she told me at the last second, the last damn second. Like he was just supposed to take the shit out of the car because she started throwing up and he found out. Because she couldn’t hide it from him anymore, because she wasn’t “fit for trav-el.” She had two months to tell him. Two goddamn months.

By mid-morning, he was nervously drumming along to the stereo and think-ing about calling her. She would prob-ably be up by now; it was already ten. He took his phone out and had already

scrolled down to the “K’s” before he real-ized there was nothing he could say. Sor-ry just doesn’t cut it sometimes. He had left her at home with a long three months before she would start at UT and a huge mess growing in her stomach. His huge mess.

Five minutes later and Jim was arched over the front seat, pulling Kate’s bag from the back into the passenger seat. I’ll use the stuff in her suitcase first, he thought. He had a couple joints pre-rolled in each bag, an old habit from when he would drive around downtown Austin every night with Kate, laugh-ing and hot-boxing his car. This traffic, though, was barely driving. He could roll one up before the cars even moved.

The weed made him feel better, made him think about the music again. He was already at track seven of The Freewhee-lin’ Bob Dylan. It was one of his parents’ favorites, a remnant of his mother’s ado-lescence and Jim’s childhood, an album that evoked the same feeling every time: an intense need to travel. Aimlessly usu-ally. Or at least to some place aimless.

It was adventure, something grand and distinctly American that brought back Jim’s nostalgic childhood memo-ries of atlases and road maps picked up at local gas stations. I was so smart when I was younger, Jim thought. He didn’t think it in a self-adulating way; if any-thing he was disappointed in himself. But still, he always knew his path led him here, to this highway, to this soundtrack.

He wasn’t exactly academic, just smart, smart enough not to go to college, he always thought. His dad thought oth-erwise, but who the hell was he? Some big shot doctor who’ll practice medicine until he’s seventy, pay his taxes, move to a nursing home when his brain goes at eighty-five, and die a few years later. It’s all so predictable, so boring and stupid, Jim thought. His mom knew, the crazy, wild-haired hippy who somehow ended up with his father. She knew how to run; she did it when Jim was nine. She knew how to disappear, how to live with the land, and eventually how to die: frozen to death in some northern Canadian province.

By early afternoon he had switched from pot to Lunchables. Pepperoni pizza Lunchables – the best kind. The land was becoming more and more barren, filled with thin, yellowing shrubbery and pale sand. The ground looked scorch-ing, foreboding. His original plan to take the scenic route with Kate around the desert, smoking and sleeping in the car for a of couple days, didn’t seem all that appealing after all. But maybe it would look different if he was with her, if he wasn’t angry and obsessed with the idea of speeding to Mexico as fast as pos-sible. A direct trip was necessary now; if he didn’t put as many obstacles between him and Kate as possible, he might de-cide to abandon his trip and go back to her. He knew it; he wouldn’t admit it, but he knew it. Some things are more pow-

Amy [email protected]


erful than dreams. An hour later, and Jim saw the let-

ters. Huge, red, white, and green, they spelled out “Mexico” like some poor imi-tation Hollywood sign. Still, Jim didn’t need grandeur, he knew what Mexico was, what lay ahead. Was Mexico really where he wanted to go, given a choice? No. He had dreamt more of hidden Am-azonian tribes and the Northern Lights as a kid. But still, it was there, five and a half hours without traffic. And people were afraid. So afraid that they wouldn’t go anywhere near the border. Jim was always intrigued by the border towns. It was weird, how much spilled over, the culture, the people, even the violence. It’s a rarity, he thought, a permeation of the American bubble. A wake-up call to the privileged.

Crossing the border only took a few minutes; no one was going into Mexico now, only trying to come out. He put Kate’s bag in the back, made sure any-thing incriminating was hidden and entered the “Nada que declarar” line. The search was painless. The man who checked his passport looked him over, spending several seconds on his facial features, as if this little white boy had a fake passport. The man spoke in broken English.

“You really wanna go Nuevo Laredo señor? Solo?”

“Estaré bien.”The man smiled mirthlessly at

something. Maybe it was Jim’s Spanish, maybe it was the thought of a pinprick American teenager getting mutilated by Mexican gangs. Jim thought his Spanish was fine; he didn’t worry about language, or any of the more dire possibilities.

And then the desert stretched out once again, hugging the gray dullness of the highway. This time, the burning sand was Spanish tinged; it was Mexican. It was where no one in his high school, none of his friends, none of them would go. It was what he wanted. He had made it.

By the time he was prowling Nuevo Laredo, he was fascinated, encapsulated in his new environment. It was strange. The streets of Nuevo Laredo were noth-ing like the Streets of Laredo. There were no glorified cowboys, the storefronts were mostly abandoned. People walking on the sidewalks wouldn’t look at him, wouldn’t acknowledge his existence. They were all in their own spheres; they

walked quickly and avoided connection with anyone.

And then Jim passed the police sta-tion. It was empty, the windows bro-ken, the sign covered in blood-red spray paint. The walls were pockmarked with holes. Suddenly, Jim was scared.

It was probably the packed back of the open-air Wrangler that set them off. It was an attractive nuisance, you could say, filled to the brim with brands not sold anywhere on that side of the Río Grande. And so they attacked. They broke the glass of the passenger window first, smashing it to smithereens with their Remington, jabbing it against Jim’s head, yelling “¡Salte del carro!”

Within seconds Jim was on the ground, pleading. He saw a woman across the street, just standing, watch-ing in fear, like she couldn’t move. He tried to yell “¡Ayúdame!” but she just ran, dropping her plastic purse on the way, never looking back. And within seconds, the gang grunts had bashed him over the head with the Remington. He was so scared he didn’t even feel it. He tried to lift his head, but it was heavier than usual. And then they hit him again. And this time he didn’t move. Everything went black.

---And then he was broken. On the

floor, legs against the wall, teeth in the back of his throat, in some dingy base-ment. His hair was matted down, bloody. He had been punched, kicked, beaten, yelled at. They threw his weed at him, told him they would come back and kill him. And he screamed, he kept on screaming, “please, I have a child!”

Jim was worried now, his brain sput-tering, overloaded. A peaceful death wasn’t waiting for him.,. He wondered what his mom felt, stranded in that Ca-nadian winter, when frostbite kicked in and her movements became slow. He wondered if it was like this, this certainty of death. If she thought about anything. Did she think of him? Did she wish she had been with him that last year of her life? Was she able to think about anything besides survival? Did she even want to survive? He wanted her to. That year she was gone, that was the only year he ever prayed. He was about nine years old, and every night before bed he kneeled at his bedside and prayed that she would be okay. He would pray to anything, bibles, atlases, even his Spider-Man Comics.

Anything substantive, anything he could appeal to, anything that might absorb his incomprehensible grief. He really be-lieved it would help. It was the last time he believed in much of anything; the rest of his life had been one long opposition, one long rebellion. Not even his mom went that far. She was just flaky, crazy, untrustworthy, and ultimately, complete-ly irresponsible. Like a repressed mem-ory, he suddenly understood something for the first time in years.

She hurt him.This trip was doomed. He knew it

since Kate told him he would be a father. It was all too perfect, too similar to be coincidence. He knew, somewhere deep down, that his life-long idolization of his mother had led somewhere, to some par-allel existence, and ultimately, to death. He just didn’t know what that meant.

Now he did. Death can’t be worse than this; this physical pain washed over with gallons of regret. Re-gret for the child that will pray every night for his father, the single mother who will inevitably drop out of college, the old man rotting away over TV din-ners and a dead family.

Jim started rolling over, de-taching his frail body from that cold wall. But before he could do anything, there was a bang. Then a second. Then some yelling in Spanish and then some more. Jim couldn’t look down, he didn’t want to think about what he would find, what they did to him. They say it takes a minute to feel the bullet. He couldn’t imagine it. The last thing he would see is this gray fucking ceiling, this broken light. His whole life, it came down to one room. A broken light and some bad de-cisions.

And then someone lifted his chair and he was surrounded by men with guns. Tons of them, everywhere, ev-eryone with a blue jacket on, like some dumb gang insignia. The Mexicans were on the floor. It took him a second, but then he understood.

“Geez,” the DEA agent said, “you’re some kinda stupid pot dealer, aren’t you, kid?”

“No, sir.” Jim replied, wheezing in relief. “My dad’s a doctor.” FC

Daniel Felsenthal is a freshman in the College. You can write to him at fdan@sas.


OpiumSweet and pure on my tongueDelicate and endless in my headI breathe youAnd you are my opiumMy very own hallucination

I wished for your presenceYesterday, or beforeMaybe it was during slumberOr during a life I never knewAnd stillI only see youWhen my eyes are blindedAnd I only feel youWhen my senses Are lost to ether

Recurring symphonies of youSeep into my heartAnd allow my breath to escalateI breathe you againI breathe you till eternityMy sweet Ephemeral Opium

OPIUMGHALIA S.

FC

If you would like to contact this writer please e-mail fcpaper@gmail.


HOW TO DEAL

SYDNEY SCOTT: NOTES FROM DOWN UNDER

REFLECTIONS ON IRRELEVANT QUESTIONS AND COMMENTS IN CLASS

My freshman year was a bit shock-ing. I came from a very nurturing

private school, the kind that wants you to be “whatever you want to be” and every-body thinks the students are unique and above-average individuals who will go on to do great things. The teachers weave subliminal messages like “You’re amaz-ing!” into their curricula. Okay, maybe there weren’t any subliminal messages, but you get the idea.

As far as I knew, all my comments, questions, and concerns were as unique, wonderful, and special as I was. I was still in this mindset during my first mi-cro-economics recitation. I sat in the front of the class off to the right (because front and cen-ter would be su ck i ng - up ) and scribbled down every-thing the TA said. She be-gan going over the homework and asked a question about the material. I promptly pointed out s o m e t h i n g minor about the unrealistic set-up of the problem. Ap-parently, it was irrelevant. “No, that’s stupid, it doesn’t matter,” the TA said. I was quiet for the rest of class, and I never went back to that recitation again.

Now part of the reason this response was so harsh may have been the lan-guage barrier. (My teaching assistant was from Taiwan, I believe.) But just because other professors can soften the language doesn’t mean that they don’t share the same thoughts occasionally. Officious students with irrelevant questions or comments are just plain irritating. I am convinced that my TA just said what most professors only wish they could say.

Let’s face it. Sometimes, students need to be reminded that they are not special and their comments are not al-ways wonderful. My TA took this role to the extreme. Everyone, though, has been in a class where the professor allows a student to pontificate about a tangent or something unrelated. It’s infuriating.

My point, though, is actually a ques-tion. What is the right approach to the problem of a student who wastes pre-cious class time? Too harsh, a teacher is humiliating, and too lax, a teacher is frustrating to everyone else.

First, the professor needs to decide how irrelevant the student’s input is. If itthe input could be useful, then the pro-

fessor or TA should just internalize their frustration concerning how “stupid” the question is. In other words, brilliant professors, just suck it up. It’s tough to remember, but most of the students here are actually just beginning to learn the subject. On top of being novices, they may not be quick learners. We can’t all be brilliant.

But some questions, comments, and concerns are clearly a waste of time. If I am sitting in a 200-person lecture, I re-ally do not care that you already know the physics of meta-physio-economical whatever. Really. It can go the other way

too, but the opposite phenomenon oc-curs less often (at least at Penn). Some-times students are very behind on the material, and they ask questions that they would probably already know the answers to if they had done the reading, or, my favorite, not scrolling on face-book/digg/textsfromlastnight when the professor explained it the first time.

Either way, the professor is faced with a problem, or more specifically a student who has not learned when his or her special and unique thoughts might be best kept to themselves. The profes-sor has to respond to the student, even if that means not responding at all. By responding or ignoring the comment, he

or she is inevitably going to make a statement. As much as he or she may desire to be neutral, it re-ally just isn’t possible.

Given that a profes-sor cannot react neutrally to the obnoxious student in the front of lecture, he should try to deter these questions and future ones like them.

Now, on the other hand, some professors are very nice. They do not want to discourage ques-tions or comments. They politely listen to a stu-dent, rarely if ever cutting the student off (although

the student may often cut the professor off, ironically). They try to cultivate cu-riosity and encourage exploration. Ul-timately, though, they should either go teach at my old high school or grow a more iron-like fist.

Think about it. As much as we want to encourage curiosity, letting students frequently discourse about their own brilliance, or letting them ask questions that have clearly been covered already, merely inhibits this growth of intellec-tual vivacity. Most of the other students can be seen giving each other looks of positive irritation, shaking their heads,


Sydney Scott is a sophomore in the College.You can write to her at sydscott@sas.

PHOTOSPOTLIGHT: UNTITLEDBY AUDE BROOS

Aude Broos is a freshman in the College. You can write to her at aude_broos@hotmail.

FC

and pulling out their crackberrys to pass the time. Allowing these questions is ac-tually detrimental to the goal of educa-tion.

Obviously, more deterrence of time-wasting does not imply that the profes-sor should call students stupid. There is no need to publicly humiliate the student. Usually, subtlety works bet-ter. Just cue the student that his or her question might be inappropriate for the venue. Perhaps mention that you will answer that question after class (but do not then continue to listen to it/address it in class), or maybe you can refrain from calling on a particularly unproductive student as often. It is only in the rarest of cases that these types of nudges, when applied consistently, do not work.

Of course, sometimes they won’t. There will inevitably be a student who just doesn’t get it. These are the most in-

teresting of cases, besides all the psycho-logical questions they trigger. (Did the girl in the front have a rough childhood? A chemical imbalance? A particularly scarring incident with a clown?) Still, the answer is along the same lines. If you want to foster intellectual curiosity, you must sacrifice answering the questions of one person so that you may engage the interest of many. Although some pro-fessors might be on a little power trip from humiliating students, it is just cruel usually. If it has reached the point where there seems to be no alternatives—the student has ignored the polite nudges, pushes and shoves—then it is probably best to talk to the student privately. A few words about how irrelevant ques-tions (or only tenuously relevant ques-tions) often infringe on the productivity of the class is probably all the student needs, because getting a talk like that is

embarrassing enough anyways. Everyone asks an impertinent ques-

tion once in a while. All these questions cannot, and should not, be encouraged as wonderful, unique, and individual. Doing this undermines the goal of cre-ating an intellectually intriguing atmo-sphere. Yet as much as some professors may admire the Puritan-style enforce-ment method of outright public humilia-tion, this is obviously not the correct ap-proach either. Polite, slight, but powerful nudges should be employed. This is not only the best method, but the only ap-propriate method to creating the type of class environment for which we all strive.


It’s a very stereotypical ques-tion: “What is the greatest

invention of all time?” Is it the printing press, the inter-net, the cooler, TV? Maybe even the wheel? There are great arguments for all of these objects, but a better question to ask is “What is the worst invention of all time?” Many prod-ucts come to mind (snuggie, anyone?), but I think the answer must be the umbrella.

To start, the um-brella simply does not do what it is supposed to do. No matter what, you always get wet. Rain always seems to find a way to pass through the umbrella “bar-rier” to the point where you aren’t really dry anymore. Maybe if there was no wind, and water was

lightly falling straight down, you would be protected, but we all know that just doesn’t happen. Here at Penn, we’ve all walked through the dueling tampons, the so-called ‘wind tunnel,’ in the middle of a storm. You get bombarded with water; it splashes every-where and it seems to run sideways.

To make matters worse, umbrellas al-ways seem to break; the fabric has dis-connected from the rod, the rods are crooked, the um-brella doesn’t stay open all the way, the umbrella won’t open, or you are stuck with the ever so popular umbrella bowl. The bowl-brel-

la is my person-

JAYSON WEINGARTEN ON THE CONS OF


al favorite. It is so funny to see people’s reaction to having their umbrella blow inside out. The best ones are the times people don’t notice their umbrella has blown out. They just continue walking, catching the rain over their heads.

For a seemingly simple invention, things just never go right when it comes to me and umbrellas. Maybe we just don’t get along.The first day it rained here at Penn, I brought my nice new umbrella with me to class. As I walked out of the Quad, the dome blew off the stick, and I was standing on 37th street with what could only be used as a walking cane. It was an embarrassing moment for a young freshmen!

People always seem to keep these broken umbrellas like souvenirs from a vacation. You wouldn’t dare throw out that perfect sea-shell from the beach and I have found that people tend to cling to umbrellas with the same sentimental val-ue. They are not irreplaceable. They are pieces of junk. I will never understand umbrella hoarders. They are worse than coupon clippers, at least coupons have some value (1/100th of a cent).

How much would you pay for an umbrella? For something that doesn’t work, $25 seems like too much. And $50 for a golf umbrella? I’d rather enjoy a nice steak dinner than buy an expo-nentially degraded piece of garbage. You can always buy one from a street vendor, $5 or $10 cash, but how could you trust that umbrella? You might as well buy a poncho that says “I love wasting money” than a street-brella.

As bad as they are for one person, umbrellas are never good for two. I love when someone rushes to get under my

umbrella. They are simply too small to share, and we are both bound to get wet. Since you have to walk so close to some-one to share the device, there is no doubt that one of you will trip or stumble. Do-ing the grapevine, crabwalk, or three-legged race is easier than the umbrella share walk.

The other day I saw a frog-brella: a green umbrella with two eyes and tongue sticking out of the dome. Who wants that? Now you’re not just getting wet, but you look like an idiot in the process. And to the people with huge umbrellas that are big enough to hold a small con-vention underneath: please get a smaller one. It is just a matter of time before you poke someone’s eye out. You look as strange as the girl with the frog-brella.

Companies love giving out logo umbrellas to customers, clients, and po-tential buyers. There was a company that came to Penn last year and gave away some free umbrellas to potential intern-ship applicants. I saw one of the umbrel-las in the trashcan a day later, two rods broken off from the fabric. I don’t get why a company would give you a ticking time bomb. Is that really good advertis-ing, a broken umbrella? Maybe they want people to think that the company is bro-ken and no good just like their public-ity instrument. Hopefully the company is better than their broken umbrella. What’s wrong with just giving out a nice pen, a pad of paper, or a water bottle?

My favorite unbearable umbrella moment is when you need to get into the car. Instead of just jumping into the car, you fiddle around with a wet um-brella, and then bring it into the car. The inside of your car gets wet, and nothing

stays dry. And it takes longer to get into the car, so now more raindrops fall into your interior. Instead of making one less wet, the umbrella has just made matters worse.

Watching people using a newspaper or briefcase to stay dry is very amusing. The point is to stay dry, but now people are sacrificing one of their belongings to stay dry themselves. I’d much rather be wet and have my work stay dry than ruin a book or bag. I sometimes even see peo-ple using a computer to stay dry. Some-one ought to tell them that electronics and water don’t mix before they write another check to Computer Connection.

Umbrellas still maintain the same structure as when they were first in-vented in Ancient China. Have we not evolved since then? We have the printing press, the Internet, the cooler, the TV, and the wheel. These great inventions have all been improved and changed since their creations, and we are all bet-ter for it. Umbrellas are different. They are still the same bad wood and cloth in-vention. Why do we still use umbrellas? Jackets keep us warm and our clothes dry, and ponchos, while not as stylish, surely do the same. I will never get why people continue to use inherently flawed items.

Amongst these numerous flaws, there is one good thing about umbrellas; sometimes they come with drinks at a pool bar. That is the only time umbrellas are an acceptable accessory.

Jayson Weingarten is a sophomore in the College.

You can write to him at jaysonw@sas.

FC


DESIGNER BABIESALYSSA KAPLAN: A LEASE ON LIFETHE TRUTH BEHIND THE SCIENCE

One of the biggest upcoming issues in the world of genetics is the idea

of “designer babies.” It’s safe to say al-most everyone has heard this term being thrown around, but do we really under-stand the science and meaning behind it?

The actual term is preimplantation genetic diagnosis, or PGD. Through this process, geneticists use in-vitro fertiliza-tion to combine eggs and sperm to make a number of embryos. The doctor can then inspect the embryos for signs of genetic diseases and specifically not im-

plant those into the woman, discarding the defective ones. It seems like a simple enough process, but this topic actually raises a multitude of ethical questions that could have a serious impact on ev-

eryone. First of all, how do we decide when to

use this technology? Who gets to decide what diseases are bad enough to warrant PGD; which lives are worth fixing ahead of time? It’s not an easy decision to make, but the line has to be drawn somewhere. It seems logical to say, however, that this technology should only be used for those illnesses and conditions that hinder a normal life, those that kill before the age of 10, or those that cause more pain than happiness.

But the decision to use PGD can’t be

just one doctor’s opinion; there have to be national regulations in place. If not, this could lead to serious debates and legal is-sues. Furthermore, the issue of money plays a huge role. In-vitro fertilization is

expensive, and not everyone has insur-ance or can afford it. Some people worry that if the trend continues where the middle and upper classes are able to use PGD to avoid deadly diseases, those ill-nesses could come to be associated with being in the lower class. Potential for more discrimination exists.

What most people are scared of are the familiar undertones of eugenics and the possibility of this science being taken to a frightening level. The fear that ge-neticists could have the power to create a world of blue-eyed blonde-haired babies

is real. What if parents can breed super-babies that are professional-level athletes or musicians by the time they are ten? There are, however, still two sides to the debate. Some say that once we can select


Alyssa Kaplan is a junior in Nursing. You can write to her at kaplanal@nursing.

FC

or deselect certain genes in order to pre-vent disease, we will be able to code for certain traits and physical appearances. Others argue that there is no one spe-cific gene that causes a person to be kind, for example. But the truth is, science is advancing rapidly, and there is the pos-sibility that we could discover those gene combinations.

This debate leads into another clas-sic – the nature versus nurture argu-ment (that is, assuming that we achieve the science necessary to code for certain characteristics). Even if we do discover that certain genes will cause a person to be brave, what role will the environment play in actually causing that to come about?

Let’s say one person grows up in a household as an abused child, constant-ly put down and bullied. Most people would say that in this type of situation, being brave would not be a likely trait for this child; more likely, he will be scared and meek after years of behaving that way. Of course, this is not an absolute; there will be exceptions. But overall, environment does play a certain role in behavior. Genetics can only cause pre-dispositions for traits; it doesn’t mean the person will definitely possess them.

The relationship between parents and their child also could potentially be severely impacted through the use of PGD. The term “selection drift” has been used to describe how what parents

consider attractive traits in their chil-dren has been slowly rising over the past few years. The more technology we are able to use to manipulate the genetics, the greedier people will become. This, of course, portrays a very negative view of humanity with which optimists might not agree. The truth is, though, that par-ents could start wanting better and bet-ter children. Moreover, once a parent is able to choose any aspect of their child, the entire idea of loving your children for who they are will disappear. Parents won’t just accept their children’s flaws; they will remove them entirely.

Likewise, some researchers have compared the process of PGD to dating rather than conceiving a child. Parents will be searching for good qualities in their children in the same manner they do in a mate. The entire relationship could be altered.

One of the most instigative and touchy issues that PGD brings up is abortion. Everyone has the right to his or her own opinion on this issue, but this technology complicates the ques-tion. Because geneticists pair multiple eggs and sperm, those that are not used for implantation are destroyed. Some people consider this abortion, so this as-pect of PGD must be considered in the arguments for and against it.

Many people believe PGD is an es-sential technology not only because it can prevent lives with serious dis-

eases. The body also naturally aborts many defective fetuses in what is called a spontaneous abortion, or miscarriage. Often, embryos with severe genetic ab-normalities that would not be able to survive outside the womb are terminated before ever reaching the second trimes-ter. Some argue that because the body does this naturally, it is no different to perform the procedure in a laboratory ahead of time. Some researchers have also made an interesting comparison be-tween organ transplant and PGD. They claim replacing an organ is the same concept as replacing a gene, except with a gene it also affects future generations. Essentially, the defective part is removed, but it means that the person’s children and grandchildren will most likely never have the same condition.

The topic of preimplantation genetic diagnosis is complicated and raises many questions and arguments about what it should be used for and the potential complications it could cause. There are so many possibilities both for help and for harm that we as a country need more research to truly determine what the reg-ulations should be. Before we can utilize this technology full-time, more studies should be performed.

Sporadically rocking on its brittle brown back,Antennae and legs sprawling this way and that,It was shrouded alive by a square one-ply piece,Which muted its movements of fierce frenzied flee –A premature pall for a fiend and a foeEncroaching on freshman at UPenn this fall.

ROACHMIKAELA PEDLOW

FC

Mikaela Pedlow is a freshman in the College. You can write to her at mpedlow@sas.


WITHOUT A PLANCHARLIE ISAACS: CHARLEMAGNE IN CHARGE

HOPES, FEARS, AND A LACK OF KNOWLEDGE

I remember listening to my older broth-er in complete disbelief as he described

a day without recess. I remember watch-ing him do his homework, and thinking, I’ll never learn how to read or write. I remember there being hope, fear, and a complete lack of knowledge about where I was headed. To some extent, I still feel that way.

Picture me now, burning holes in all these various blueprints for the future. I am a man that cannot make music. I am a man that once blinked my eyes and said, “I was born to make movies.” My dad is a doctor, so I can’t do that. Might as well go to law school. Try to run this country someday. Right?

In college, one of the things I learned to do was to rip paper with words. I used words that were destructive to construct vivid images. I said my child-self would “kick my ass if I disappoint.” Well, kid, am I letting you down?

I’m a philosophy major searching for inspiration. I’m itching to prove a theory that continues to accommodate the ideas of greater predecessors. I try not to observe time. I try not to observe decisions. I focus on choices. I focus on the moment at hand. Forward-thinking with a whole new meaning.

And also, no meaning.Recently, and by recently I mean a

year and a half ago, I started believing in government for the first time since soph-omore year of high school. I figure, these people can actually make differences. These people can, in fact, make progress, even if nothing is perfect or ideal. I used to think it was bullshit. But there is noth-ing bullshit about feeding people.

Law school means politics. Politics mean a harsh existence with the pos-sible payoff of standing far away from the world and saying, “wow, nice job.” But would it really be me moving the world? I could help. Okay, that might be good enough. But what does that mean?

My dad was a doctor. He had pa-tients. I can’t imagine having patients. I can’t imagine doing things on a person-by-person basis. But is there really a way

to help all the people at once? Not with-out the gamble of long hours in a lab coat in a room without windows, conducting experiments the results of which you will never know and the meaning of which you may never find. Maybe there are other ways. Maybe it’s on a chalkboard, cracking solutions. But I’m afraid that if I were given a chalkboard, I would start drawing pictures.

Someday that’s going to happen. It’s inevitable. I will revert back to my youth-ful spirit of sitting on my knees in front of the television drawing dragon after dragon after dragon and naming them. And then building after building, plane after plane, city plan after city plan, plan-et after planet, shark after shark, and so forth and so forth .

I’m a philosophy major. Really? I step into a room at age 12, an academic summer camp, because everyone did summer sleepover camp and I wanted to be like them, so here I am, in this room, taking a class called “Philosophy” and I don’t even know what that means. Mom says it will help me improve my vocabulary. So what does the teacher do? He yells at me. He yells at me for looking up the definition of “justice” in a mini dictionary. And that’s when I realized there are no easy answers. Not even when the crazy old guy with a white beard asks, “what is just?” and you look it up in a dictionary.

Philosophy means love of wisdom. More than that, phi-losophy means treating ideas like women: I get turned on when they play hard-to-get, when a chase is involved, when I get rejected but welcomed back in and then treated strangely and then sent home empty-handed. The only difference is that I soon enough realize there is no answer to the question. But hey, there is a wom-an in front of me. I’m not lying about that.

A lifetime, eh? A lifetime of chasing

down the meanings of words, trying to pin them up on a billboard and tie them to other points until I get some strange constellation. And then I’ll take a few feet back and realize everything. That moment will happen. It will, as they say, “hit me in the face.” None of these points matter.

Perhaps that’s it. Maybe it’s a cycle I’m bound to undergo, returning again and again to the same systematic elimi-nation of concepts from my belief sys-tem. I don’t believe in time. I don’t believe in meaning. I don’t believe in purpose. Good. Right. Knowledge. I am a person that does not know anything, and yet, anything can happen. Thank you, quan-tum physics.

The obliteration of my future. So now, whatever I do, it won’t be out of

any affair with an ideal way

of life. It will be


FC

Charlie Isaacs is a senior in the College. You can write to him at isaacscj@sas.

something stupid and practical. Nice go-ing. From moderate nihilism to heavy-metal pragmatism. Let the music bleed into my skull and I will like it. And I will have a wife and kids and the rest will be history.

I don’t know what I want to do. Maybe my true, true calling is not yet something apparent to me. Maybe my real shot at life is something nobody else has ever done before. Or maybe I’ll just settle for something ordinary. And then, people can always say, he’s smarter than he looks.

So it’s back to helping people, with a special emphasis on gaining credit for things. But what’s that?

Okay, how about movie-making? But everybody tells me, if I can imagine myself doing anything else, I should do that instead. But I can always imagine myself doing anything. That’s been the problem. And I never fail. I failed miser-ably only at two things: making a movie

I thought I could make, and finding the secret to life that I thought I could find. And the music thing. I could never make music.

So where to now? I have no idea. I don’t know anything. Like I say at cock-tail hours and Thanksgiving and dinner parties, “I’m taking suggestions.” Mom says architecture. She’ll say something else if I start doing that. Dad says that whatever I do, do it the best way possible and in the most prestigious place possi-ble and not in California. Unless it’s San Francisco.

A weight trainer told me to combine what I love with what makes money. My brothers don’t know. My sister says I’m special. My philosophy teachers say, “be-come a professional philosopher” and then they laugh. Hahaha.

My friends say “Don’t do law school.”My advisor in high school said “eco-

nomics.”Someone else said “psychology.”

I once said I would dance for a liv-ing.

Hahaha.I guess I do not know, but I will al-

ways write, and I will always love writ-ing, and I will always analyze the hell out of something until I confirm that it, too, does not matter.

And most importantly, I think I’ll take three pieces of advice with me.

First, an old friend told me to grow and stay afloat and never let the water get over my head.

Second, my grandfather said I should just make choices and do what I want.

And finally, one of the last things he ever said to me, “Fear not.”

I am a man without a plan.

Back in the old liminalplaces we made this bread

we made a stick-stacked домик when

we were дети when we

imagined each-other's faces as

from the деревня we walkedto the orchard.

Valeria Tsygankova

FC


Dan Markowitz is a junior in Engineering. You can write to him at idaniel@seas and visit his website at http://www.defectivity.com.

magazine - university of pennsylvania · 2009-11-26 · magazine of the. u. niversity of. p....

Documents