College Acceptances (or the contrary)

You kinda need to have ice water in your veins.

The college application process, for lack of a better metaphor, truly seems to resemble a battlefield, and a bloody one at that. All around me, people charge forward, only to be barraged with rejection letters from their top schools. All around me, the greatest aspirations of my friends are dashed by mere print on paper. I feel odd, watching calmly as the hopes of my classmates drop like flies.

I know exactly what they are feeling: the pain, the hopelessness, the absolute, irrational but nonetheless present feeling that the end of the world has truly come. The only difference is that I experienced it four years ago. The lines of mixed sorrow, embarrassment and self pity mar the faces of the fallen. The same defeated expression is worn by all who experience it, a subtle mark of shame and exile, a banishment from one's own future.

Even those far beyond qualified for the best schools in the country are brought to their knees, seemingly on a whim, with neither explanation nor consolation. Those far smarter, more athletic and more talented than I find themselves with nowhere to go but a dreaded safety school, yet I find myself looking upon the battlefield with immunity. I am shielded by the folder perched meticulously on my desk, marked only by a picture of a golden dome and the words WELCOME HOME.

It is odd, then, to look around, feeling sympathy but not empathy for my fallen friends. As the death toll rises, I find myself feeling more and more detached from the matter. Perhaps I try to distance myself from the pain of rejection that I know only too well. Regardless of the cause, my dismissive demeanor increases as I am approached by more people injured by college acceptances. My once-significant well of compassion seems to have all but run dry. As those closest to me express their senses of loss, I give nothing but good wishes and mild consolations. Perhaps I am not able to give anything more. Perhaps I don't care enough to try. It brings to mind a statement which I have heard on numerous occasions, regarding the only way one can move themselves forward in whatever field they choose to pursue. It is a disquieting statement, but one that seems to grow more valid every day.

You kinda need to have ice water in your veins.

Reader, have you the slightest notion as to the quantities of semi-frozen precipitation that have been experienced over the past month? The preceding interrogative was, as I am sure you guessed, rhetorical. The seriousness of this occurrence, however, is by no means diminished. Why so serious an outlook on some more-than-mild weather patterns and a few days off from school you ask? I think the answer is quite obvious. Regions in the United States whose temperatures have never fallen below 40^oF received snow this season. These dramatic shifts in weather patterns and climate changes can have only one possible cause, and it is more sinister than any other on the face of the planet today. I am, of course, referring to the evils of affirmative action.

Affirmative action, for those who are unfamiliar with it, is the practice of changing standards of acceptance or admission for certain ethnic or minority groups. In essence, it gives jobs, promotions, and, most importantly, college acceptances, to applicants who simply do not deserve them. This despicable practice does not further equality or civil rights, as some may argue. It succeeds only in stifling the progression of truly hardworking and deserving people. Why does one deserve to be punished simply because he is not a minority? Another rhetorical question, to which there is no good answer. It is not a white male’s fault that he is so much smarter and generally better qualified than his minority competitors.

One may still ask how affirmative action relates to the odd weather patterns of late. This answer, again, is rather obvious. God has made it clear that he in no way supports our nation’s affirmatively acting ways. I submit that these weather storms will continue until some remedy is made. There is only one solution. Affirmative action practices must be halted with all possible haste, lest America encounter a swift and relentless destruction at the hands of an angry God.

A Dedication

Quite an overwhelming scent, that of burning machine oil. Indeed, pleasure of any one particular sensory organ is rarely found in the basement of the Pope John rectory during the first two months of the New Year. Dust, shavings, discarded motors, and other odd findings can be seen lying about on tables and chairs. A cacophony of grinding, shearing, screeching and whining can be heard from behind the two-inch-thick triple bolted door with the fogged window. To touch any conceivable object in sight invariably results in a heavy coating of oil, muck, and other unlabeled lubricants, pastes and fluxes. It is the smell, however, that truly pervades one’s mind. Burnt sulfur and phosphorus flood the room. Thick enough to taste, the pungency is often met with swiftly wrought retribution onto the poor, unsuspecting freshman inexperienced enough to overuse cutting oil on a heated mill bit.
The repulsiveness of the basement during the months of January and February is unmatched by any place on Pope John grounds, yet there is no place in the world I would prefer to find myself during this period. Somehow, amid the sensory discomfort, I find wonder and excitement. The aforementioned door is black not by nature but by the quantity of oil coatings it has encountered over the past seven years. Initially something to be avoided, gingerly touched only when something inside is absolutely required, much more can be seen on this door. If one takes the time to look, it is not difficult to make out the letters on the door that read “Coco.” They are written in a combination of axel grease and the blood, sweat and tears of a devoted team member. The machine shop has come under the control of many, but none who treated so reverently as one Edward Yu. Looking closer, one can see other names on the door: Mike, Chris, Tom and Adam, to list a few. Names unforgotten in Team Lionheart history. In these names, one begins to see the passion and dedication inherent to the team.
Of course, the words Team Lionheart would often fall on deaf ears and blank stares nowadays. The legendary days of Sabrina Varanelli and dreaded scissor lifts have passed to allow a new generation. Revolution Robotics, we call ourselves now.
The bonds of work and accomplishment will exist on any team, however. Robotics involves taking the mundane and creating the extraordinary. Nowhere else can a simple conveyor system combined with a pneumatic controlled drop-gate emblazoned with the motto “We’re Fine ‘09” bring the sixth-ranked team in the nation to its knees. Nowhere else can a high powered torque system built to elevate 240 lbs be constructed from some metal and the ideas of ten high school kids.
The real prize, of course, lies in Atlanta, Georgia and the FIRST Championships. Early mornings walking to the football dome and late nights of poker on the balcony of the Marriot Marquis’s 57th floor define time spent there. Fireworks shows designed by the most knowledgeable engineers on the planet and trips to the Coca-Cola Factory make Atlanta the holy grail of the robotics season.
Not even this, however, truly embodies the robotics program. Waves of nostalgia wash over me as I open an old document: the room arrangements drawn up that we insisted were randomized, in order to avoid confrontation. A simple list of names draws back the epic adventures we shared as a team: Mike’s squeaks of terror at the clanging of a fallen piece of metal, the wonder of Josh’s precise ball handling (until he throws it at you), and the shouts of another Mike, “There’s so much poultry!” These moments are why we do what we do, and this is why I am proud to be a part of it.