rachelMiles

Dear HTV Staff of 2008-2009,

Throughout my time as a broadcast student at Hillcrest, I have had a certain view of HTV alumni. The way Coach refers to them and their involvement with the program elicited thoughts of, “Oh, those alumni! Stuck in the past. When I graduate, there’s no way I’ll associate myself with anything from high school. I’ll have bigger things to do.” Well, today is my last day of high school, and I must admit that my thinking has changed. I am officially an HTV alumnus, and I have never wanted to cling to “the past” as much as I do now. I honestly don’t think I’ll cry at graduation. I foresee myself going into the all-out ugly cry at the HTV banquet.

I am not exaggerating to say that being part of HTV has changed my life. Few people, let alone high school students, get the opportunities we have with Coach Davis and the amazing program he has developed. I beg you to make the most of those opportunities. Most of you, I know, already recognize this and fully intend to devote yourselves to HTV. Senior year in particular is difficult because you’ve set your sights on other things. I can’t tell you how much I wish I had just GOTTEN OVER BEING A SENIOR and done more for HTV this year. There were numerous projects, humorous and journalistic, I thought of but didn’t pursue because “I’m so busy” or “I’ve already done a lot this year.” Senior year is done now, and I’m not sitting here thinking, “Man, I’m glad I took it easy these last couple months.” I’m thinking, “I bet I could have done more, but now I don’t have the chance.” Because HTV truly is a once-in-a-lifetime experience.

From both my junior and senior years, I have learned that the turning point for the staff is after the STN Convention. My favorite memories of HTV come from those trips because that was when the friendships and meaningfulness of being a staff began. I always came home feeling as though we’d “wasted” the first half of the year by not becoming closer until then. Since you guys won’t be going to the STN Convention, and your first big trip isn’t until Spring Break, I strongly encourage you to make every effort to come together as a staff from the beginning. If you accomplish this, I promise the entire experience will be that much more meaningful.

My best high-school memories all involve HTV and the two incredible staffs I have been blessed enough to be a part of. I guarantee I wouldn’t be going to college and majoring in journalism/writing if I hadn’t had the experiences I’ve had over the past two years, and I definitely wouldn’t be going in as equipped as I am now. It’s weird to be one of those “HTV alumni”, but now that I understand the feeling, I hope you won’t hold it against me if I still want to be involved from time to time. This program holds a special place in my heart, as do Coach Davis and all the people I’ve been on staff with. I hope that every one of you finds as much meaning and joy out of the experience as I have.

Make us all proud,

Rachel Miles

I recognize that Mehleena has already written a blog similar to this, but the topic was one that I brought up in class last week, and Mehleena and I sought the truth to this age-old question together.

This heated debate originated during youth group long ago. Our youth pastor has created a tradition of forcing visitors to stand up and be asked an embarrassing question. You know, to break the ice and all. On that fateful Wednesday night, the question was posed, “Do you wad or fold your toilet paper?” I was astonished to find that so many people are going through life, each day unaware of the error of their folding ways. Fold? FOLD?! Who does that? One young man announced that he folds and REUSES. Yet another claimed to need only one wipe. When criticized for this practice (since every sane person knows that one wipe never does the trick), he simply said, “I trust my wipe.”

The question continued to penetrate my every thought. “Are the citizens of the world placing their trust in folding or wadding?” The journalist in me needed to know more. Mehleena and I began asking everyone we saw, “Fold or wad?” Blank stares were the most popular response, but, after a short explanation, the answers I so desperately needed in my life were given. I tell you, dear reader, the results are not promising.

96% of males either fold or utilize the four-finger-wrap-around. 98% of women either wad or fold-and-scrunch. I am deeply saddened that so many of my fellow men (literally men, since the females have gotten it right this time in history, unlike the feminists) live each day in the degradation of their folding. My goal is to bring light to all, showing everyone the joy and prosperity of a wadding world!

The 19th Annual Buzz-A-Thon has come and gone. Therefore, it is now time for the inevitable and equally inexplicable reflection assignment. This is no doubt a result of the small part in Coach which resembles a conventional teacher, left over from earlier days.

Speaking of conventional teaching, the United States could take a lesson from the Finnish. A recent article in the Wall Street Journal featured the education system in Finland and the enormous success it has experienced. Finnish children are brilliant but do not begin school until they are seven years old. Only 53% continue on to college preparatory, or high school, based on an entrance exam. The rest enter into vocational training. (Oh, and did I mention that college is free for those fifty-three percent?) Finnish schools do not have athletic or musical groups, and the culture values knowledge and reading. (Strange, isn’t it, that a culture which values knowledge and reading would produce intelligent, eager-to-learn young persons.) Despite the seemingly exigent environment, Finnish students are known to be quite laidback.

How much more pleasant would high school be if the kids who didn’t want to be there were weeded out early on! They’ve already determined they aren’t going to college, so why not let them move on instead of eating up the time and energy of educators? Four years of high school is far too long for some people. Vocational training with some business math and basic English is sufficient for many. And, of course, the Finnish don’t have a Buzz-A-Thon, one of the most destructive programs known to man.

Speaking of the Buzz-A-Thon, as we all know, the true success of it is not determined by how many sponsors we raked in or how funny the anchors were. It is based solely on the food available to those who stayed for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. And, I’m happy to report that it was excellent this year. Thank you to all who helped feed HTVers, Static members, and those Broadcast One moochers alike!

When I am sitting in class and find myself bored, I often ask to use the restroom. Pinned to this little fieldtrip is the hope that class will transform into something tremendously exciting in my absence, or at least something tremendously exciting will happen during my walk to and fro the girls’ bathroom. On this particular day, I was fortunate enough to be in class near my favorite bathroom of Hillcrest. What luck!, I thought to myself upon being handed the green, all-systems-go pass.

I often end up actually needing to use the restroom when employing my sanity-saving tactic, as was the case this day. I began my routine as usual: a few minutes at the drinking fountain in the hall, a few minutes at the wall-to-wall mirror in the “lounge area” of the bathroom, to be topped off with a short visit to my stall of choice. Pushing open door number one, I noted the lack of toilet paper, requiring me to move on down the line. Door number two produced a similar result, as did three and four. How strange. Perhaps our dear janitorial staff left some fresh rolls atop the paper towel dispenser.

They didn’t.

At this point, I am fully flustered. What is a girl to do in such a situation? My confusion turns to fear, fear to anger, anger to bitterness. Matters only worsen as I sit on the radiator, taking in the sight of my once-beloved bathroom. Through my tears, I see that another key factor is missing: stall graffiti. Those wonderful words of undying love, unadulterated hate, and scratches and scribbles no one can cipher but were obviously written with a great amount of passion. All of this was gone, obliterated by a fresh coat of paint which could only be described as rhinoceros gray.

I am so dumbfounded by the ridiculousness of it all, I am sure I cannot move. Instead of replenishing my toilet paper supply, the janitors have rewarded the miscreants who write on the stalls with the worst grammar, spelling, and profanity known to man with a clean canvas! Is that supposed to be helpful? A newly-painted stall is enough to make me want to write something!

With full depression setting in, I turned to go back to class. Nothing good could come from the world now if janitors were giving in to Sharpie-wielding freshmen brats. Just before I left, I considered stooping to their level and leaving my own message on the stall: Need more toilet paper. But I said to myself, No, Rachel! You can’t! You didn’t bring anything to write with!

One year from now I will be in Ohio, beginning my second semester as a freshman at Cedarville University. I will not have settled on a major, I will not have a boyfriend, and it will probably be very cold. So, life will not have changed one whit for me.

Now, one could easily misinterpret that statement as a grim, pessimistic prediction. One would be wrong.

Not having settled on a major is a lovely place to be! All the world is just one, big opportunity. Why should I condemn myself to growing up and planning my life until absolutely necessary? Why not spend a couple years of higher education merely enjoying the experience? Those people who insist that every decision about the future must be made by junior year of high school need to relax. I prefer to coast for a while, complete those prerequisites, and explore my options.

Concerning the boyfriend, my lack of one has never been a problem in the past. Who needs ‘em, right? I’m sure I’ll be too busy with academics….

Finally, cold weather is splendid. Tell me, what is better than bundling up to go outside and play in the snow? Honestly, who doesn’t enjoy cute little hats and mittens and scarves?

Many of my peers are acting as though high-school graduation represents the end of the world as we know it. I cannot say how many times I have heard the phrases “High school is the best time of our lives!” or “It’s all downhill from here.” Why someone would choose to have that mentality is beyond me. I’d like to think that life is only going to get better! I’m sure college will be a change, but not a change which disrupts and destroys. Rather, college will be a change which develops and delights!

The pleasant, amorous feelings of my first date were robbed from me. A memory which should have been treasured in my heart is instead hidden in the deep, dark places of my mind, places of humiliation and discomfort. And who, you might ask, had the audacity to ruin such an important event? Some ruddy little, rock-sized, pea-brained bird. I will never forgive that bird. If I could, I would kill it.
I had had “boyfriends” before that fateful day. And by “boyfriend” I mean the kind when you’re in fifth grade and you receive a tattered corner of a piece of paper with the message “Will you go out with me?” scribbled on it and nothing else. After finding out who sent the note, you of course say ‘yes’ because having a boyfriend is thrilling! Naturally, you never talk to the fortunate boy (that just isn’t part of the arrangement), and then one day at recess you and your gang of pony-tail-wielding friends approach said boy and tell him that you are, in fact, not going out anymore. It is all very dramatic and emotionally stimulating.
Well, time passes, and you become of an age when the term “boyfriend” actually means something. It was the summer before my junior year when this kind of boyfriend made his way into my life. Our first real date took place at the playground of the elementary school near my house. It was summertime, and we sought out the shade of a large oak tree. Lying down in the cool grass, my boyfriend looked over at me and said something to the effect of, “You’re beautiful.” (His exact words have long since been lost, blotted out by the travesty to follow.)
It was at this time that that evil bird acted out his malevolent ways and pooped on my face. My humiliation was made complete by the subsequent laughter of my boyfriend. (In his defense, he never commented on the grotesqueness of crap being on my face, but tried to keep the mood light.) I immediately hopped off the ground and stalked towards my house. Once there, I felt an overwhelming need to scrub my face with hot water and then rubbing alcohol. I also made sure that my boyfriend was watching this thorough process, so as to assure him of my cleanliness.
On the upside, no date will ever go worse. I will always be pleased with the outcome of future dates. The story of my first date is a wonderful conversation starter and always makes for a good laugh, but I have been forced to look elsewhere for those lovely feelings of young romance. I have also acquired an unhealthy distrust in birds, for they are filthy, hateful, traitorous creatures. Lastly, I have made an important decision: on my wedding day, the birds will not be given the chance to botch it up, and my revenge will be fulfilled—everyone shall throw rice.

People these days tend to put everything off until “tomorrow.” Our worlds are filled with responsibilities and obligations, leaving little time to participate in the activities we truly want to; time is taken up with all those things we HAVE to do. Current holidays provide no escape for this because there are decorations, family, food, and gifts to think about. New Year’s Resolutions are quickly forgotten as the hubbub of daily life takes over. The fact that suicide rates are the highest during the holidays is reason enough to reconsider our celebratory traditions.

Therefore, I propose a holiday during which people are encouraged to do the things they have always wanted to, but never had the time, resources, or drive to accomplish them. Whether it’s learning to play guitar, diving into a pile of books on your reading list, taking a dream vacation, playing golf all day every day, or simply lounging about, everyone is entitled to “me-time.” My holiday is designed to give people the chance they have always wanted to take—to do exactly what they want! No expenses spared, no guilt, no worries, no second thoughts.

Oh, and this holiday should take place in September and last for seven full days. Also, there should be a day when everyone has to speak in an accent other than their own, and another day when everyone must sing everything that exits their mouth. (Dancing is encouraged to make the “living in a musical” feeling more realistic.)

Since I have already met my blog quota, I opted to take a nap this afternoon instead of writing a blog for you.

Apparently, Coach thinks he’s doing us a favor by assigning us blog topics. HTVers were complaining that the blogs were too broad and no one knew what to write about. In theory, assigned blog topics would be extremely helpful, except that Coach wants us to write about an embarassing moment. That’s supposed to narrow down the possibilities? Luckily, I have already written a second blog for the year, so I was exempt from this assignment. But, simply for the inner satisfaction it will bring, I am writing a short entry.
After thinking long and hard, at least a full three seconds, I was able to pull out from the deepest and farthest realms of my memory an event which took place during the Super Bowl last year. My entire youth group had come together to watch the game at one of our youth leaders’ houses. The evening was filled with merriment and good, clean, innocent fun, but the time came for it to end. Before leaving, I felt a trip to the bathroom was necessary.
In this bathroom, there was a beautiful glass dish sitting on the back of the toilet. Inside of this dish were many small, light-pink mints. How quaint. They looked like the kind you serve at baby showers. Naturally, I felt an overwhelming need to eat one. And why wouldn’t I?
Well, long story short, they weren’t mints. I had been deceived. The “mints” were, in fact, bath beads, designed to turn into massive bubbles and suds when in contact with moisture. I caught on rather quickly after popping one into my mouth, and my fellow youth-groupers found it simply hilarious when I walked into the living room salivating like a rabid dog.
So, kids, the moral of the story is never to take candy from a strange bathroom.

Last weekend I ventured to Cedarville, Ohio to look at a college. The town of Cedarville is home to approximately 3,100 students and only 400 permanent citizens. Needless to say, when it came to hotel accommodations, there were slim pickings. So my father and I found our way to Xenia, a slightly larger town only 12 minutes down the road from Cedarville University.
One would assume that a successful, national chain such as Holiday Inn would be a safe choice. Well, one would be wrong.
The hotel itself was decent. Sure, it lacked some of the more modern luxuries most hotels offer, but I was content. I had hot water, television, free Wi-fi, and a satisfactory bed. The first night went swimmingly, but the following night, Friday, disaster struck.
Lying in our beds that night at 10:00, my father and I notice an onslaught of obnoxious music making its way into our room, coming from directly below. Dad makes a casual call down to the front desk and explains the problem. We are assured that it will be taken care of within the next few minutes. Meanwhile, Dad does some reading on his reservation receipt, which states that if anything during your stay is unsatisfactory, Holiday Inn promises to make the situation right or your money back.
So 10:30 rolls around, and the music, amazingly, has become louder and more awful. Dad makes another call and is informed of the following: It is karaoke night in the bar, and the desk clerk is trying, oh so desperately, to contact his manager in hopes of discovering what to do. In the meantime, he will ask the DJ to turn it down some.
Isn’t that special?
Well, Dad simply installs some earplugs and is good to go (none are offered to me). However, I rarely have trouble falling asleep, so I wasn’t concerned. At 12:30, when I was still awake, listening to tremendously drunk people butcher some of mankind’s most beloved songs, I still wasn’t concerned. Just really, really angry. (There are few things in this world that aggravate me more than being deprived of my sleep and being forced to listen to truly heinous singing.)
It was at this point that I got out of bed and made my way to the front desk. After a few minutes, a frail, timid, young man approached, asking if there was anything he could help me with. He acted as though he himself couldn’t really believe he was in a management position.Poor, unfortunate soul. This might just finish you off.
“Is this going to stop anytime soon?” I asked, gesturing towards the bar.
“Are you in room 225?” Good, he knows who I am.
“Yeah, I’ve been trying to fall asleep for the past two hours now. My dad called down earlier, but nothing’s changed. He finally fell asleep, but I haven’t been able to,” I say with the most agitated tone of voice I can muster and playing up the fact that I look like death. I’m in my red flannel pajama pants, a large gray hoodie, and Medusa curls are growing from my head.
“I know, I’m really sorry about that,” he says. (Just for the record, let’s call this desk clerk Doug. He looked like a Doug.) “I told them to turn it down, but since your room is right above the bar I guess it’s still coming through,” says Doug.
“Yes, it is. Now, explain something to me, please: Why is it that you can’t just have them turn the karaoke off?” Riddle me THAT, Doug!
Doug looks like a child whose teacher just asked him what 6 x 6 is, and he’s only learned his times tables up to five. “Well, it’s something we’ve been offering every Friday night for the past four weeks now. It ends at 1:00.” Did that even answer the question, Doug?
“So, are they paying for karaoke? Because I’m paying for a room to sleep in.” So what if it’s actually my dad who’s paying for the room? It’s much more impacting this way.
“I understand that, Miss.” Doug called me Miss! Can you imagine? “Let me see what I can do about getting you a free breakfast.” In a smooth defensive move, Doug proceeds to type furiously on his computer.
What an insult to my intelligence! We both know perfectly well that all Holiday Inn breakfasts are complimentary, Doug!
In one last, dramatic flare, I turn towards the elevator. “We can deal with this later. Thank you.” Despite my exhaustion and irritation, I was quite proud of myself. Only a little while ago, I never would have had the gumption to do something like that. So, I’m either becoming more mature and competent to handle myself in the adult world, or I’m becoming more spiteful and mean-spirited. I like to think it’s the former.
In the morning, I received news that Doug was giving us a refund. Success.