Orbis Non Sufficit (The World is Not Enough)

In retrospect, I wish I hadn't used the title "Arm Yourself Because No One Else Here Will Save You" for an entry over the summer. That line is from the opening song to Casino Royale, referring to - you guessed it - the dangers in espionage. I used it as a metaphor for being knowledgable about lifestyle decisions and ethics.

So here's another James Bond title, and another question of ethics.

Tonight there was a lecture by a retired member of the CIA, Jim Olson. He's written a book called Fair Play on the ethics of espionage and the lengths the CIA will go to to provide for national security. He grew up in a small town in Iowa and had dreams of finishing law school, finding a nice Iowa girl, settling down, and having a family. But in his last year of law school, he was contacted and recruited by the CIA. He went through years of training - physical training, psychological tests, crash courses in language immersion, skill building. Everything we've ever dreamt or seen in the movies from jumping out of airplanes to using innocent looking gadgets as deadly weapons. Over the next 31 years, Jim would meet his wife Meredith, also a CIA officer, and have three children - all while on assignment overseas. They moved a lot, and took a different job every time they got a new assignment, and therefore a new cover. Jim noted how difficult life would have been if Meredith hadn't also been involved with the CIA and understood the sacrifices.

For the length of time that they served in the CIA, neither Jim nor Meredith told any of their friends or family members about their true work. Jim took various covers as everything from a banker to a fertilizer salesman - Meredith's father just thought he couldn't hold down a steady job. It wasn't until the Olsons were undercover in Vienna, Austria and had a terrorist issue a death threat against their family that Jim and Meredith were forced to tell their oldest son about the nature of their work, in hopes that he would help look out for his younger siblings. They finished their assignment in Vienna safely.

But it wasn't his exciting life, nor the extent of his clandestine career that Jim came to lecture about. He posed the question: how ethically correct are the decisions that the United States Government makes in terms of acquiring intelligence and protecting the country? He set up several real situations and had us vote "yay" or "nay" on whether or not the decision was morally correct. All of the situations presented really happened.

First: It is against CIA protocol to treat people inhumanely or to practice espionage within US borders. So, somewhere overseas, the CIA enlists the help of other foreign allies to kidnap the head of a dangerous terrorist group, place him in a windowless room of an abandoned building, and beat him until he reveals the identities of his group members. The CIA did not participate in harming the terrorist, but they organized and funded the kidnapping. Right or wrong?

Answer: We, as audience members voted by a show of hands. Roughly 80% of us voted no, this was not morally correct, while 20% voted yes. But what did the US think? Well, let's just say the terrorist revealed the other members who were subsequently arrested and executed. When Jim asked if anyone would like to comment on their decision, people expressed frustration. A man lamented that he felt uncomfortable voting without knowing exactly how dangerous and volatile these terrorists were. Another older man was enraged that the US would even have been involved in something as reprehensible as torture. This guy was pissed. But he couldn't deny the fact that the US, indeed, was involved.

Next: Another well known terrorist group leader is known to be in a certain place. It is not possible to kidnap him, or arrrest him. With the extent of his dangerous work in mind, is it okay to employ the use of explosives or other technology and assassinate him?
This is the one that kills me. I voted no, it's not okay to assassinate people. I was among the 25% of the auditorium that thought so.

Some situations dealt with faith, Notre Dame being what it is. Is it ethical to take a cover as a missionary, or a member of the clergy? You would still be spreading God's Word and doing good works - you just wouldn't really be a missionary. And you would be using the relationships that you form to gain information and access to terrorist religious sects. I was sitting next to a priest who lived on campus. He was very friendly, obviously glad to meet someone to talk to. He had spent time working overseas in Africa - as a legitimate clergy member. I watched him out of the corner of my eye as we voted - me for using religion as a cover, and him against. The rest of the auditorium was split 50/50.

There were also situations of a different sort: like, there's a female CIA officer. She's joined a local tennis club in hopes of recruiting future CIA members. However, a government official from another country frequents the club as well. They form a friendship, playing sets and having lunch. The female officer notices that he might want more than friendship - and is prepared to seduce him in order to recruit him to the US. Ethical?

Then, there was the case of a terrorist who was secretly feeding information to the CIA. He demands that the US provide him with a prostitute, or he'll stop helping. Jimmy Carter was president at the time. He said okay.
Another was about sex and blackmail: There's a member of an Iranian sect who came to the US and frequented homosexual bars and engaged in homosexual activity. The FBI picks up on this and alerts the CIA to his presence. The strict Muslim policy of the terrorist group would be enraged if they found out the man was homosexual - he would be fired, to say the least. Should the CIA contact the man and threaten to tell his superiors about his sexuality unless he provides them with information?

You know, there was an article in TIME magazine last summer, back when my dad had that subscription. I remember topics of waterboarding. All kinds of ethical, controversial fun. Then there was one, which I have dug up for the sake of sharing the tenet of kindness. There was an Al-Qaeda operative that was captured and held in a Yemini prison for about a year. His name was Abu Jandal, and he was Osama bin Laden's chief bodyguard. The FBI came in to question him, unsuccessfully. He was uncooperative and difficult. And he didn't eat any of the cookies that were served at the meeting. One of the FBI officers learned that Jandal was diabetic, and couldn't eat sugar. So the next meeting, the officer brought him sugar-free cookies. The big bad bodyguard was touched. He softened. And started talking.

No form of physical or psychological torture was required.

Hoping For the Best - Just Hoping Nothing Happens

On Monday, I went to a soccer game on campus. It was weird without a section of screaming boys beating an African drum and heckling the other team.

Although there were vuvuzelas.

Blogger doesn't recognize "vuvuzela" as a word.

Anyway. I left a little after the second half started and walked around, trying to associate myself with campus before classes started the next day. It really is as beautiful as everyone says it is. Even to a girl who's used to humidity in 90 degree weather and thinks that anything below 70 is a bit chilly.

I went to the library. The giant building with the mural of "Touchdown Jesus" facing the reflection pool. I just wandered around - wanting at first to find copies of my favorite books, but settling for wandering when I failed to locate anything but reference books.

I found myself in the basement somehow, surrounded by tall shelves - some with mechanical handles that fold them like an accordion to conserve space. When I'd given up on finding anything entertaining, I started to head back. I don't even remember why I stopped, but I did. And, somehow, I found myself in the middle of the medical book section. I remembered seeing the section highlighted on a map somewhere, but I had actually decided against the idea of actively searching for it.

I flipped through a few books. One on the history of thoracic surgery, something on psychology, others on puberty, etc. But then I came across a book entitled Last Resort. And I picked it out. It had a subtitle: Psychosurgery and the Limits of Medicine. Intriguing.

It was about the practice of lobotomies - cutting out a portion of the brain in hopes of fixing something - anything. Katy, stop reading. I scanned the table of contents, then began to read a chapter on how the times have changed and lobotomies are no longer effective. I lost interest quickly. But for some reason, I really wanted to hold on to this book.

So I went back to the beginning, and I read the first chapter, the introduction. It was entitled "A Stab in the Dark". The chapter described a case in 1947 of a thirty-three year old woman who had undergone brain surgery. Any by "brain surgery", I mean the doctor drilled two holes, one on each side of her temples, into her skull. He removed the pieces of bone, and inserted a blunt scalpel into one of the holes. He swept it back and forth, severing some of the tissues that hold the lobes together. Then he repeated it on the other side. If he didn't screw up any major blood vessels, he sewed up the ends of the tissues and stuck the pieces of bone back in. Operation complete.

And do you know why Miss Jane Doe had her brain cut open and stitched back together?

Society deemed her a failure. Her marriage failed and ended in divorce - solid proof that she couldn't fulfill her role in society as a housewife. She, herself, began to believe that she could never function in society the way she was expected to. She grew depressed and developed mental disorders like anxiety and hallucinations. Oh, and she experimented with women a little. Another societal no-no. And so her family committed her to a mental institution. Where she was poked and prodded and treated, to no avail. Now, this is a direct quote from the book: "...these doctors believed that by destroying a portion of [her] brain they might make life for her more bearable as well as transform her into a better person" (Pressman).

Because she didn't already fit into everyone else's idea of what was normal.

Roman Cavalry Choirs Are Singing

Move-in day. Of course I thought it would be awful. And naturally, it was. With a shaky night of sleep, I woke up bright and early to be shuffled around parking lots and finally into a tiny room. In retrospect, the day wasn't particularly horrible - as in no one was injured, broken up with, or anything. But tons of little things went wrong, which of course only put me into a pretty terrible mood. The last thing I wanted to do was go to Frosh-O (freshman orientation activities for dorms/whatever). I'd actually been dreading awkward "break the ice" games for weeks. But before I get into that, I'll make a running list of things that I've noticed/things that have happened so far. Not particularly in order.

1) Things are easier when my parents aren't around.
2) South Dining Hall is better than North. Sadly, my dorm is in the northern part of campus.
3) Books are horribly expensive. Like ridiculously. It isn't even funny. Mine were about $831 and some change. I had calculated about half of that, but because I needed to buy them in person to use my student account, all of the used books were gone and I had to get them all new.
4) Free food is a nice gesture. As are free things in general.
5) The squirrels in the north are weird. They're huge and an orange/gray color. And they randomly sit in the middle of sidewalks even when you need to get past.
6) The veggie burgers were pretty terrible. Mine cracked - literally - into two pieces when I put it on the plate.
7) Private schools are overrated.
8) The to-go coffee in the campus mini-mart is fair trade!
9) If anyone follows the trends of links I "share" on facebook, there's a top few things that I really love: awesome cover songs, things related to blog topics (money, credit, college, random statistics), and acapella.
10) I really like boys.

So, it would be the perfect end to my perfectly horrible day to be sat in a chair in front of my dorm's Frosh-O girls and staff and be serenaded by the fabulous male acapella extension of the Glee Club. They needed a girl who had "Tiffany" in their name, because they were going to sing Breakfast at Tiffany's by Deep Blue Something. Have I mentioned how fabulous these boys are?

Apparently, Notre Dame takes advantage of the fact that the dorms are single-sex. So it's tradition for each dorm to learn songs to hit on the other gender's dorms with. It sounded horrific to me on paper, but it's actually pretty fabulous. Everyone's doing it at the same time, so no one feels stupid. And then the guys reciprocate. And they really try to take advantage of the whole "Prince Charming" thing and are all so...charming. I wish I could be more eloquent and interesting, but it's almost 2am here in South Bend. I know, I've written really good stuff in the middle of the night before, but tonight it's more about...well, actually I do have a point.

STOP SCROLLING THROUGH MY STUPID GIRLY STORY AND READ MY POINT: Things can be really awful in every way for a really long time. But somehow, things will get better. When I went to Mass for the first time with Sara a few months ago, the guest speaker was Father Guy from Haiti. For a non-Catholic, this was probably the best sermon to be my first. He talked about the earthquake that devastated his community - and how they were recovering. In times of mass destruction - situations when large amounts of innocent, undeserving people are struck with utter chaos - people generally, in my uneducated opinion, turn towards or away from religion. Some question what kind of a God would allow such destruction to occur. Others have faith in a plan or a purpose and do their best to cope. While I'm wary of the idea of a "master plan", I do value the good things that come after the bad. It's that age-old principle that bad things happen because you need them to - even grand destruction can spur wonderful things - although you might have to wait for them. But when they do come - they'll matter all that much more because they have value. And they have value because they're rare - because they're not guaranteed. And because they don't last forever.,

Now Where's Your Picket Fence, Love?

Sometimes, I feel like it's a little bit ridiculous to expect someone to decide what they want to do with their lives over the course of 19 years - the majority of which is spent learning basic cognitive and social skills. But the pressure starts early on. Can you remember how old you were the first time an adult asked you "So, what do you want to be when you grow up?" And have you ever noticed how children seem to have the most tenacious dreams? Whether it's wanting to grow up to be a ballerina, or a veterinarian, or a singer, or whatever else their impressionable minds can get a hold of. I think it gets more difficult as you get older because it gets scary - it gets real. Every decision is second-guessed because you're always wondering if it's the right choice: the right choice for you, or the right choice for people around you. Is it more important to do what makes you happy, or to do what pays the bills? But before you know it, you're a sophomore in college and the registrar is demanding that you place a label on your diploma. And somehow, you pick something - anything - and start your life. A few years later, there's still another question to ask yourself: Are you happy?

So, we've got the child who dreams outrageous things, and the adult who's wondering if it's too late to be a ballerina. But they're actually in similar situations. When you ask a four year old what they want to spend the rest of their life doing, they'll tell you what they know - and usually it's what makes them happy. For example, if she wants to be a ballerina, it's because she loves going to lessons. If she wants to be a scientist, it's because she follows her parents to work sometimes. If he wants to be a baseball player, it's because his dad helps him practice for rec league. You get it.

Now, when you ask an eighteen year old what they want to spend the rest of their life doing, you probably didn't notice the slight change in their facial expression when they saw it coming. You see, when a four year old tells you what they want to be, it probably isn't taken seriously - it's just so adults can fawn over how adorable he or she is. But when you ask a teenager, you're expecting a serious answer. A solid answer. Even though they're still trying to figure out if writing will pay the bills, or if they're good enough at math to be an engineer. Usually, they've got a premeditated answer. Something along the lines of "I'm thinking about majoring in [insert major]". Something noncommittal, yet sufficient. Something believable, and maybe even impressive. Or maybe they're audacious enough to tell you the truth: "I don't know yet".

But usually, the major that said teenager decides on is something that they know - whether it's because they've taken a class in high school or their freshman year of college, or it's what their parents or family friends do. But there's always some kind of background - and it's understandable. You wouldn't just close your eyes and pick a major off of a page, or choose whichever one sounds the coolest. And despite how convenient it would be, it simply isn't possible to let you test drive all fifty-something majors before you choose. You pick the one you know about. And if you find that you're miserable, you've got to start all over if happiness is your goal.

But why does it have to come down to that?

So, for everyone who's starting college these next few weeks and have no idea what the hell you want to do for the next 40 or 50 years: I'm not judging you.

But it's Sad and it's Sweet and I Knew it Complete

In 1998, I couldn't skip or kick a ball to a target. But I did however, speak in complete sentences, know my home address, appear emotionally stable, and use scissors 'effectively' (whatever that means). I was deemed ready for grade school.

And tonight (or, yesterday, really), I graduated from high school. It wasn't what I expected, somehow - maybe it's one of those things that you hold impossibly high expectations for and end up disappointed in the end. But 'disappointed' doesn't seem quite right - and I'm not sure what is. I have earned something. I'm just trying to figure out what.

Today, I flipped through an old issue of Vogue at Dimensions while Katy got her hair trimmed. I used to read things like Seventeen and Elle for various reasons, like fashion or beauty tips, etc. But today, after passing over a ridiculous number of advertisements, I settled on an article about facelifts. When I was about fourteen or so, I went to Dr. Rona Beth Holmes, a dermatologist here in Auburn, to have a mole under my collarbone removed. (Side note: Dr. Holmes actually ended up being my Duke University Alumni interviewer this spring). One of the first things I noticed was that her private practice office was nothing like the pediatrician's office. Instead of picture books and building blocks, there were fashion magazines and fitness guides. There were lotion samples and skin care regimens displayed as if it was a store. The next thing I noticed was that Dr. Holmes was very pretty, and rather young - another alternative to the pediatricians I've had. As an impressionable teenager, I found it fascinating that it was possible for someone to have their career based on both beauty and medicine.

The facelift article in Vogue was about a woman, now 68 years old, who, over the course of sixteen years, went through two invasive procedures (i.e. facelifts done by surgically cutting the skin and pulling it tighter) as well as newer, alternative procedures (i.e. laser treatment). I think when I first expressed my interest in the article to Katy, it came off as something along the lines of "Look, this woman looks great after the surgeries - I might consider this when I'm her age". Which isn't true - I have a weird aversion to surgeries that are designed to make you look younger. It's like you're lying to people without saying anything. What I really meant was: Look, this is what people are capable of doing to themselves. The article was about how technology has changed over the time between the woman's first face lift and now. When she had her first procedure at age 52, it involved a scalpel and common sense: if you don't want wrinkles, let's cut off the extra skin. (Katy, I'm trying not to be too graphic). But today, new technologies are available, like laser treatment and autologous fat transfer (using liposuction to take fat from the patient's abdomen or thighs and injecting it into parts of the face that appear "sunken in"). And the impressive part about the new technologies is that they're innovative - they utilize common knowledge in a way that requires less work to be done. For example, the skin is made up of several layers and sub-layers, the outermost of which is dead and will be shed quickly. Then, the subsequent layers grow until they die as well, and the body continues in this cycle. (Coincidentally, I was reading up on this stuff yesterday for no reason). With the knowledge that the body will continue to regenerate healthy skin cells, one of the ideas of using laser treatment is to destroy the top, "old" layer of skin, knowing that new, "young" cells will grow in their place.

I'm sure that entire spiel was pretty boring to most people who actually read it. I am quite aware that I find entertainment in things that others don't. But my point is that things change. When I first went to Dr. Holmes, I left considering a career in dermatology, simply because it supported healthy physical beauty. But now I realize that it's more than something as superficial as that - you have no idea how excited I was to get those two stitches below my clavicle.

Twelve years ago, I couldn't kick a ball to a target, or skip across a room. And today, I graduated from high school, reaffirmed my belief in science, and am one step closer to finding what makes me happy. Oh, and I kicked Neal's butt playing darts at Project Graduation. I guess I learned to aim at a target at some point as well.

You're Not That Bright Now...But You Will Be, Someday Soon

I think I should start a running tally of all the things that make me genuinely happy no matter what:

1) Disney movies. For a variety of reasons (some of which are more cynical than light-hearted. But we'll have this talk some other time). SIDE NOTE: The Princess and the Frog was the very best thing ever. And I mean that. No cynicism involved.

2) Weddings. I'm not even kidding.

In all honesty, the past ten months or so have been pretty rough. Maybe even a little bit before that. It's just been a nonstop stress-filled trip, basically. Almost like the future decided to rush me to see if I could take it.

Like I said before, going away to college has always been part of the grand plan - and it's always felt like if the plan didn't work out, it must mean that I failed at something, somewhere along the way. Well, four or five rejection letters in a row are staring that plan down at this moment. Anyway, let's just say this past week or so hasn't been the greatest.

However, today, we received the highly anticipated wedding invitation from Sharon, the second oldest daughter of our longtime family friend. I read every word, and broke into an uncontrollable smile (yes, I do realize this makes me unreasonably sentimental).

Later, I realized: That invitation meant more to me than any college acceptance letter could have. Because it means something more than getting into a designer label school, or appeasing my parents - or meeting someone else's requirements for happiness.

I think William Faulkner had it all figured out.


In other college news, (which is mainly why I started this blog - to talk about college stuff):
My financial aid offer came in from Tulane today (about an hour before we got Sharon's wedding invitation, actually). Basically, they'll give me about $39,100 total. $8,500 in loans from the school, $3,000 in exchange for me taking a part-time job there, $20,000 as my original scholarship offer upon acceptance, and an extra $7,600 thrown in as a gift for good measure. In the end, my family would have to come up with about $15,000 a year, not including paying back the loans (you can do the math).

Basically, college doesn't come cheap. Although my dad so eloquently described it yesterday, "All the scholarships and discounts and numbers - it's not real money". Which makes sense when you think about it.
Sadly, however, the less fake money you're offered, the more real money you've got to hand over.