article: statistics matter.

I'm going to start posting some of the articles that I have been busy writing for class/The Pendulum/University Relations. Below is an exercise in writing about statistics.

Elon competes with flagship public colleges

ELON—The number of students from North Carolina who attend Elon University has hovered around 30 percent for the past ten years. Now, higher standards for admission are threatening to reduce the number of students coming from the Tar Heel State.

“North Carolina enrollment is very important to us,” said Greg Zaiser, dean of admissions at Elon. “Students from the state receive the North Carolina Legislative Tuition Grant. That money can be channeled into the financial aid budget, which can then be allocated across the board.”

These financial incentives encourage Elon to admit a high number of in-state students, but Zaiser explains that there is difficulty getting high school students from North Carolina to consider Elon. North Carolina’s well-established public university system boasts such academic heavyweights as North Carolina State University and the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill.

“Coming from high school, Chapel Hill was my top choice,” said Sean Flynn, a junior at Elon from Raleigh, N.C. “Carolina just has a name in this state that Elon hasn’t established yet. I was nervous to tell my friends about attending Elon since they didn’t recognize the name.”

Other North Carolina high school students are turned away from Elon because of tuition disparities that make public schools more attractive. In-state tuition for UNC-Chapel Hill costs $5,300, while Elon’s in-state tuition rate is three and half times more at $20,200.

“It’s usually the North Carolina family who makes the comment about Elon being outrageously expensive because we do have the flagship public school system,” Zaiser said. “At this point we’re really looking at the same student.”

In a survey distributed to students that Elon accepted for admission but did not enroll, one out of 11 respondents indicated enrollment at UNC-Chapel Hill instead, making the school Elon’s top competitor.

In the past, Elon’s student “market” was comprised of students who would not be competitive candidates for admission at UNC-Chapel Hill or NC State. In the past five years the standards for admission to Elon have been rising beyond expectation, placing the university in closer competition with the top public schools.

In the demanding industry of higher education new admissions standards mean a new strategy. Elon’s is simple and direct: money.

Increased presidential and fellows scholarships are aimed to put Elon on equal footing with the less-expensive public schools, said Zaiser. The university is also in the middle of a capital campaign that is focused on raising money for the endowment, which should lessen the school’s dependence on tuition increases in the future.

Money, however, can only do so much. To remain a viable option for North Carolina students, Elon will need to keep standards for admission from competing directly with NC State and UNC-Chapel Hill. Though the admissions office has no plans for intentional degradation of standards, they are monitoring the situation with caution.

“We may reach a point at which we need to stop increasing the admissions standards,” said Zaiser. “We would be foolish to leave the market we’re in. We’re not trying to be a Duke or a Davidson. We know who our students are and which students we want.”

inspired by watergate.

On June 17, 1972 five men broke into the Democratic National Committee Headquarters in Washington, D.C. Two young reporters – Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein – with meager reputations who worked at the city desk of The Washington Post were assigned to the story, which was expected to be nothing more than a blip on the radar.

“I thought to myself … this is where they keep the yard signs! Why would anybody break into a campaign office,” said Bob Schieffer, as he reflected on his first impressions of the story.

Soon, however, opinions changed as the biggest known cover-up in Presidential History was revealed. Woodward and Bernstein were the driving force – able to get to the bottom of the truth by prodding sources for more and more information. As the dust settled, America learned that President Nixon and his staff had taken part in a slew of illegal activity that included campaign fraud, espionage, wire tapping, money laundering and break-ins.

Nixon, sensing his impending doom, resigned.

It’s stories like these that inspire journalists today to push boundaries, ask tough questions and be critical of our administration. While at the SPJ Convention this afternoon we listened in on a panel discussion between journalistic heavyweights Bob Schieffer, Ben Bradlee, Bob Woodward, Carl Bernstein, Daniel Shorr and Alicia Shepard.

The group reflected on their experiences during the Watergate Scandal with humor and nostalgia. They spoke in depth about from the first moments that they heard about the break-in at The Watergate to the making of All The Presidents Men years later. What was most interesting though, was the insight they shared about how the Watergate scandal has changed the face of journalism.

“Watergate taught us that there could be conspiracy in the government,” said Dan Shorr. “We don’t assume that a President, or vice president, or secretary are telling us the truth anymore.”

Though this may seem a sad regression, I think it is probably good that a case like this alerted journalists to the darker side of politics. Think of all that we might have missed if we hadn’t been watching the government closely. I can’t even imagine what they might have gotten away with.

The mood lightened when Woodward reflected on the making of the movie All The Presidents Men. He explained how actor Jason Robards was being considered for Ben Bradlee’s part in the movie. They gave him a script and had him look over it.

He returned the next day saying “I can’t play this part! This guy only says one thing – “Where’s the fucking story!”

“Well,” the movie exec’s replied, “That’s what an executive editor does! We need you to find 15 interesting, creative ways to say ‘Where’s the fucking story?”

Sure enough, Robards played the part and ended up winning and Oscar.

I think I may have found a new catchphrase for myself at The Pendulum.

tax appreciation.

So far this year, I have paid $834 in income taxes. Yes, to many adults this number is probably laughable next to the thousands they pay – but if you put it into perspective for a moment $834 seems no small fare. To a college student, $834 can be three months of food. Two and a half car payments. Enough beer money to last years (perhaps for others only months…). It’s couple month’s rent. A semester worth of books. Two speeding tickets. Or – my favorite – a carefully planned five-day trip to California, London, Southern France or Spain.

However, after two hours in my economics class today, I have begun to think about that $834 a little bit differently. We’ve been discussing personal gain versus social cost. Though I’ve always found myself to be liberal leaning, when it came to taxes I’ve been stumped. It’s hard not to think of all the things I could have if I were allowed to keep the money that Uncle Sam takes from me each month. But after thinking on it for a bit, I’ve found a new way to appreciate taxes. Instead of thinking what I am losing, I am going to now think of what I am gaining…

Roads to carry me all across the country. 13 years of free primary and secondary school. Police officers that keep me safe. Electricity at the DMV, city hall and in the schools. Lawyers to represent the poor in court. The military that continues a disheartening war that is less supported by the hour… My $834 goes towards most of the things that I take for granted.

I’ve wished my cynicism away for the day. For once in a long while, the glass is half full. If having a life of order and society that is – relatively – peaceful costs merely $834. Then I guess I’m getting my money’s worth.

audio pilgrimage.

Squinting my eyes to make out the monochrome shape of the car in front of me is not usually my idea of an ideal way to spend a Thursday afternoon. In fact, spending a half-hour in a torrential downpour on I-95 (oh it gets worse…) through Northern Virginia sounds like an episode worthy of an anxiety attack. And in most cases it probably would have been but yesterday was clearly an oddity. Somehow I found a sense of peace among the large drops of water that pelted my car, breaking their round form on my windshield with a loud “snap.”

The thunderstorm was vibrant, providing spectacular bolts of lighting that would work their way through the sky like delicate winding capillaries. Every bright flash warned me for the deafening cracking sound which was always soon to follow.

I was driving home from visiting my family in Bethlehem, Penn., a conflicted city that is trying to find community among rich college students, underpaid Puerto Ricans and unemployed steel workers. To be honest, it's a lot like Burlington, only with Hispanics and mill workers respectively. The trip was short, but since it marked my first long-distance solo road trip, it was one to remember.

One thing that I reconnected with during my trip was my music collection. To be honest, I am often times ashamed out out of touch I am with music. I never devote time to finding new artists or even given my good ole stand-bys a listen. I mostly tune into NPR in hopes they will make sense of the chaotic news cycle. But on this trip I was armed with something that I have never had before -- proper car speakers.

In my last car, affectionately know as Miss Noxzema (or Noxie for short), had blown speakers that would buzz if a single decimal of bass was in the audio. It isn't until you lose the ability to have bass that you realize how much all music depends on it. :/ So my options were always NPR or James Taylor. Now I love James, don't get me wrong, but hours and hours and hours of James just gets old (As do the repeating news segments on NPR.) BUT on this trip, in my new car, I was free to explore the more soulful parts of my music collection -- Bob Dylan, Etta James, Miles Davis, Just Jack, Justice... mmm ... really anything that skewed from beach music was a relief.

I think that 7 hours of music was enough to pull me out of my dry spell. As soon as I got home I began searching for something new ... something jazzy ... something with some bass! I'm already excited about the musical experience during my next road trip.

internal nesting.

I start this new chapter of my life just like I started my last one -- moving boxes. As I sift through old letters, forgotten books and tattered clothing I am constantly reminded of the life I left behind to cross the Atlantic just six months ago. It's odd how easily things can be forgotten when you don't see them on a daily basis.

My summer has been consumed with finding places for things. Moving into a new house has given me the ongoing challenge at interior decoratioin -- where does this lamp belong? Does the bookshelf look better next to the bed or the closet? However, I have also been busy finding places in my life for things that I've let myself exclude. Familiar friends, spirituality, family and work were all things that I snuck onto the back burner while in London. As I come back to my life here, I admit that I am struggle to make these things a part of my daily routine again.

What is most interesting, is that part of me doesn't want to bring these things into the forefront of my life once again. Being in London gave me an opportunity to reinvent myself, or rather discover who I really might be. Instead of keeping up appearences and meeting expectations I had the freedom to be entirely who I wanted to be from moment to moment.

That is a freedom that will be hard to give up.

But then again, maybe I don't have to...

that bitter burning feeling.

The eight hour flight back from London cannot be described with any other word than buzzing. I was determined not to be sad and spend my flight fueling my breaking heart with thoughts or sad music. Somehow I knew if I stopped for too long I would drain myself emotionally, mentally and physically, and I just wasn't ready for that. Instead I gorged myself on mindless movies, celebrity gossip and cheery music (things I normally loathe, do mind.) When I found myself watching a Will Farrell movie, I knew I had truly hit a low point in my desperation to avoid facing the truth. I was going home.

As I made my way toward U.S. Customs I broke. Feeling the early signs of a cry coming on, I headed for the handicapped bathroom where I sat on the floor of the stall and tried to collect myself.

Everything will be okay. This has been a wonderful experience. There is so much for you here in America. You are glad to be back.

It didn't really matter what I told myself, or even what I may have felt because the bitter reality that my journey is over cannot be changed. The first feeling that comes to me -- sadly -- is regret. Leaving a place and a life that I loved, yet will never be able to recapture has me feeling a tremendous sense of loss. Having felt so vibrant in London, I fear what awaits me in my little life in North Carolina. Good friends and family, is for certain, but beyond that I am not coming home to very much.

So here is where the challenge begins. I must turn myself around, grow myself more opportunities, and face new challenges. Life is not about where you are, but what you create around you.

Happiness is not an island in the rain. (Though wouldn't it be nice if it was that simple.)

t-shirts and memories.

I remember sitting on the floor not too long ago, resting my chin on my hands as I stared at the most enormous collection of matter known to man. A massive collage of clothing, shoes, toiletries and computer parts that I deemed necessary for survival were lumped into a pile that would make Olympic hurdlers quiver. How would I ever cram all of these things into my megar duffel bag and get it a quarter of a way around the globe? People suggested rolling my t-shirts and sweaters, vacume sealing everything in space-age looking bags and (my favorite) "just cramming things in carelessly." I eventually conceeded, packing a quarter of the things in my pile and sending the rest off to live in a stuffy storage unit in East Burlington.

My bags were tight, zipper-bulging nuggets of packing perfection. Socks were stuffed into shoes. Computer wires were wound tight. Textbooks nessled in the core of the bag to ensure a zen-like sense of balance. In short, my bag was sheer parcel bliss.

This morning, I began my journey home by packing all of my bags. With every item placed into my bag, I felt a bit of closure with leaving.

Somewhere along the way, I realized that making my return trip to the United States, I was packing a lot more--and I'm not just talking about the excess amounts of Swiss Chocolate and shoes from Chockers that I will probably fail to mention to U.S. Customs. With every item I tucked deep into my red suitcase went a memory from my time in London.

My black dress pants reminded me of my first day at my internship with the Liberal Democrats, nervous yet eager to get acclimated quickly. A battered pair of running shoes were my afternoon runs through Regents Park which often degenerated into sitting under a willow tree watching the ducks race the paddle boats. A festive tank top took me to evenings at the pub, enjoying glasses of red wine over conversations with the locals.

The list goes on and on, with practically everything I own having a story attached. Though it was sad to be packing these things, it was refreshing to realize how many experiences I will be taking back with me. I go home a different person than I was when I came. I go home having lived a different life, if only for a few months. I go home with thousands of stories, thousands of lessons learned. I go home with the weight of a thousand memories.

Now, I am glad to have gained all this, but I do have one concern. However will I fit it all into my checked luggage?

Perhaps rolling ... or vacume sealing.